By Noel Ihebuzor
December is here. It caught me in a hotel room in Monrovia. It sent me on a time travel to those dry cold days when naked trees stood mournfully by haze draped roads & tall grass cackled and swayed all the way from Abaji to Okene to Ewu as bushmeat raiders commenced their hunt
Why do the trees not run away after sacrificing their leaves to the gods of time. Why wait for the yearly cremation when hot flames will lick their thighs and arms and frightened rabbits and bushmeat become easy meat for lovers of lean meat? I still can hear December sing.
December’s songs still sing slowly and soulful but not like before. They sing and sound different. I hear them with my eyes, I hear them with my nose and I feel their painful taps on my tympanum. The laughter of children has now been stolen by our toothy Grinches full of grouses
December, a time of plenty is now a time of penury. Mr Grinch has stolen the jingle bells, child suffering soars, hunger hooks children’s necks like tight bow tie, tummies are naked as the naked trees that used to announce harmattan….and I sit in Monrovia mourning incompetence
The road to Abaji is in mourning, the Ewu junction wails, the road past Uromi is red with grief and the bridgehead has lost its swag…I hear it singing that there was a Christmas but not any more.