Childhood Christmas Memories
Written on 24th September, 2025.
Placed first in the poetry contest
"December Days" by Karen Jones.
Placed eighth in the 2025 Poetry Marathon
Mile 19 by Mark Toney.
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Christmas is coming again
I'm already dreaming of my village,
Once a year for a month
Yet the feelings last decades long
that adulthood struggles to erase.
The excitement of swimming in a pond,
With our nakedness brushed by fishes
we dare not kill.
And our mouths gulping water with roots of water lilies
that taste like bitter leaf.
Yet we never fall sick.
Then we go back home with pots of water
with our laughter echoing our goodbyes,
through the dark night that cut short our fun.
Leaving what was robbed from us to linger as dreams.
Surely it's not the pond that brings the fun,
but the innocence of our childhood that the water conveys.
We talk the language of conviviality
that our swimming pool at home never teaches.
Not that the village pond can teach—
but it brings together true friends,
sharing the same colours, language, and culture.
In its depth we learn the language
our parents once spoke.
As they built the camaraderie
they wove into our laughter.
And the farms too.
Otherwise we would have believed that:
yams and cassavas grow on tall trees
like mangoes and oranges.
But the farms teach us at harvest time
that goodness is nurtured in the ground
before the fruits of its happiness
shine for our eyes to appreciate.
And the grandmas especially,
they make us believe we are small gods:
who have to be placated with whatever they desire,
so we feign illness to get more of the care.
Trust our grandmas
they never got bothered
by our indulgence.
They loved us deeply, until their final breath.
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