The Price of Christmas

Every year, I travel home believing Christmas will feel like the Christmas of my childhood.

Every year, the village reminds me why I return.

And every year, somewhere between the final hymn and the last offering basket passed around the church, I leave wondering what happened to the holiday we came to celebrate.

The journey home begins weeks before Christmas itself.

For many Igbos, Christmas is more than a holiday. It is a homecoming. By the second week of December, my mother had already started making lists.

1.  Rice.
2. Tomatoes
3.  Groundnut oil
4.  Two live chickens (that is, if my dad hasn't already bought them)

Not to forget clothes and shoe shopping for the family. As soon as school closes for the Christmas holiday, my family travels to one of the largest markets in West Africa, the Ariaria International Market in Aba, a city in Southeast Nigeria. 

Nicknamed "China of Africa" because of its versatility, I always looked forward to going shopping in the market, as Christmas was the only time of the year I owned something that had never belonged to someone else.

Every December, Ariaria Market became my runway. I would spend hours deciding between a pair of black sandals and white sneakers, trying on shirts I knew my mother would eventually bargain down to half the asking price. For a few days, I forgot the oversized hand-me-downs waiting for me the rest of the year.

On the 22nd or 23rd, we unfailingly begin our journey home, and just before the time my parents had previously agreed to leave for our hometown, there was always one last errand my dad remembers only after the car has been loaded. 

"I'll be back," my father says, already reaching for his car keys.

My mother's expression hardens.

"We agreed to leave at six."

"I just need to stop at the bank."

He says it every year.

He insists on collecting crisp bank notes as the Christmas holiday is long and banks won’t open. When they do, the lines are ridiculously long with angry staff wishing they were in their homes celebrating with their families. 

He reminds my mother how he needs mint and cash for the church offering and spraying on newlyweds during the traditional marriage ceremonies we were yet to attend. 

Money for the offering basket. Money to spray over newlyweds dancing through their traditional marriage ceremonies. Money folded neatly into his wallet, as though generosity itself should arrive well-dressed.

By the time he returns, my mother has checked the time at least a dozen times. The traffic to the East has already begun to build, and she reminds him of this every few minutes.

He starts the engine as if nothing had happened.

No one dares to argue or complain about this too has become part of our Christmas tradition.

Another tradition is the yearly debate over whether to buy a live goat in the city or wait until we get close to the village to avoid the pungent smell that can ruin the journey home.

Meanwhile, the city outside the walls of my home is already awake as early as four o’clock in the morning. 

Bus parks overflow with people dragging oversized bags behind them. Conductors squeeze one more passenger into buses that already seem impossibly full. Mothers count their children before boarding.

Drivers shout destinations above the noise of families making their way home to the east. Those hawking are not left out of the chaos. 

They weave effortlessly through the crowd, balancing loaves of bread, bottles of water, roasted groundnuts, and soft drinks on their heads, hoping to make one more sale before the buses pull away. 

For as long as I can remember, I have made the same journey every December. Some years, the roads are kinder than others. The journey that should take a few hours stretches into a full day’s drive because of endless police checkpoints every 50 meters and long lines of cars and buses trying to make it home before the sun goes down.

Yet somehow, the journey still feels familiar.

 The travel home formally ushers in the Christmas season, which means lots of parties, entertainment, and family bonding, and these are the experiences Nigerians abroad long for. 

The aroma of jollof rice and chicken fills the air; the communal living and the endless gathering of friends and family are what make Nigerian families, particularly the Igbos, make the annual pilgrimage back to their villages.

It’s often a return to villages that exist as much in memory as they do on a map. At least, that’s what it has always been for me. Many of my cousins have become strangers because we don’t make the effort to communicate all year long, yet during the Christmas holiday, we somehow pick up conversations as though no time has passed at all. 

We smile at each other, hug one another, and joke about how much taller the children have grown. But of course, here comes the familiar accusation that I don't visit or call often. I smile and make an excuse about how busy the year has been as I try to make my way inside our dusty family home in the village.

Time moves relentlessly forward, and yet, somehow, the village still knows how to welcome you home. Christmas has a way of convincing you that time can wait. 

For a few precious days, cousins become children again, neighbours leave their doors open, and strangers are fed before they are questioned. It is this version of Christmas that keeps bringing me back.

Some years, I return to find the relatives who once welcomed us at the gate are no longer there. Familiar faces have grown older. Children's voices have deepened into adulthood. Cousins now arrive carrying children of their own. 

Grandparents who once narrated the history of our ancestors have become photographs hanging on living room walls, leaving empty chairs that everyone notices but nobody mentions, and new houses spring up where old compounds once stood.

For a few precious days, the village becomes exactly as I remember it, or at least, I convince myself that it does.

It is only on Christmas morning, sitting inside a church filled with familiar faces and unfamiliar visitors, that I begin to realise that the most important day of the season, 25 December, is often the most unpleasant day during the celebration.

Despite the day of the week, the 25th day of December is a day of worship and thanksgiving.

By six o'clock on Christmas Day, you can hear the church bells ring, a reminder that you have survived yet another year and you should have a lot to be grateful for.

Families who rarely attend church together squeeze onto the same wooden benches. Visitors arrive dressed as though Christmas morning were the year's biggest fashion parade. 

Wide-brimmed hats brush against neighbouring shoulders, ankara and lace clothings are worn despite the tropical heat, and shoes polished to a mirror shine sink gently into the red mud inside the unpaved church.

The choir begins the first hymn, and for a while, everything feels exactly as I remember. 

The priest smiles warmly and thanks everyone for making the journey home. I settle deeper into the pew, expecting the announcements before the sermon begins. 

Instead, an usher walks slowly down the aisle carrying polished brass offering baskets. It is the first collection of the morning.

The first collection comes so quietly that, if you are visiting for the first time, you almost miss its significance.

Various ushers neatly place the collection boxes at the front of the church as the choir continues singing various Igbo songs that we haven’t heard the whole year. Then, the usher beckons the worshippers to come forward. One row after another, people reach into their handbags, wallets, and carefully folded handkerchiefs and the edge of their wrappers where crisp naira notes had been tucked away before leaving home.

I stand like everyone else, dancing to the beat of a song whose lyrics I cannot sing and whose meaning I cannot fully understand.

It is finally my turn to step forward in the queue. I shyly rearrange my dress and begin marching forward for fear of stepping on someone’s clothing or showing off my lack of dancing skills. 

I smile and mutter greetings to familiar aunties and uncles as I walk towards the collection box. 

Finally, I’m directly in front of the collection box, and I drop in the note my father withdrew from the bank some days before.

After all, Christmas has always been a season of giving, and offering thanks after surviving another year seems only natural.

The priest spoke for nearly thirty minutes in Igbo, and I realised I understood less of my mother tongue than the foreign visitors sitting behind me probably understood of the service.

 “How wonderful,” I mutter under my breath. 

It occurs to me that I hardly understand more than five sentences each time I attend Christmas service in my hometown.

The priest speaks with the ease of someone addressing people who have never left home. As I listen, I realise the language I inherited is one I never truly learned. I sit there like a visitor, trying to piece together words that should have felt like home.

My cousin, sitting beside me on the right, taps me, and my mind returns to the four walls of the church. She quietly leans over to translate enough for me to follow the sermon.

She tells me the Reverend is talking about the birth of Christ, about the wise men who travelled from afar bearing gifts, about generosity, sacrifice, and the blessings that come from giving with a cheerful heart.

Around me, heads nod in agreement. Every now and then, someone responds with a loud 

"Amen."

When the sermon ends, I expect the service to move towards its conclusion.

Instead, another announcement is made.

"This collection is for the church building project."

Another usher steps forward.

Another bowl begins its journey through the pews.

People smile politely and reach into their pockets again.

A few minutes later comes another appeal.

This one is for parish development.

Then another.

The Christmas celebration.

The choir.

The youth fellowship.

The women's guild.

The cutting of the Christmas cake.

The baskets keep returning with remarkable persistence, as though each one has unfinished business with every worshipper in the room.

By the fourth collection, something inside the church changes.

Hands no longer move automatically towards wallets. They pause for a second, hovering over handbags as though calculating what remains. Some people unfold larger notes into smaller ones before placing them in the bowl. Others quietly search every pocket they have.

The woman sitting on my left-hand side opens her handbag with the careful concentration of someone balancing a household budget in her head. She counts the notes once, then again, before slipping one into the offering bowl. 

By the time the next collection reaches her, she no longer opens her purse immediately. She stares ahead for a moment before reaching inside.

A little boy across the aisle stops following the hymnbook and begins counting instead.

"One," he whispers as the first bowl passes.

Then another.

"Two."

By the time the choir rises to sing again, he has lost count.

Behind me, someone leans towards a friend and mutters quietly enough to avoid being heard beyond their pew.

"Another one?"

His friend smiles without looking up.

"I told you to bring change."

The remark is almost funny because it is true.

Long before Christmas morning, experienced worshippers have already prepared for this ritual.

Some deliberately exchange one ₦1,000 note (0.55 pound sterling) for ten ₦100 notes before coming to church. Not because they intend to give more, but because experience has taught them that one offering rarely remains just one offering. 

Smaller notes make it easier to survive multiple collections without emptying an entire wallet at once.

No one is forced to give. 

Yet, another call to give follows. 

One appeal follows another until I can no longer ignore the uncomfortable feeling that the blessings of the Lord are being auctioned. The amount changes to accommodate every worshipper. There is always one more opportunity to give, and each collection carries the promise that another blessing awaits those willing to give.

The pressure is never spoken aloud. Somewhere between the fourth collection and the seventh announcement, giving begins to feel less like worship and more like performance.

No one says it aloud, and no one points accusing fingers at those who keep their wallets closed. Yet the silence carries its own expectations.

I have watched people smile apologetically before dropping their last small note into the basket.

I have watched others avoid eye contact altogether. Then I look around the church, and what I remember as the reason for the season no longer seems to be what it is. Instead, I’m overcome by a strange feeling I never experienced growing up.

I came expecting to leave the church thinking about the birth of Christ.

Instead, I find myself thinking about money.

As a child who grew up in a Christian home where morning devotions are compulsory, I was taught that one of the acts of being a good Christian is showing love to your neighbour and sharing what little you have with those in need.

I grew up with the notion that giving was one of the simplest acts of faith.

My grandparents and parents never waited for Christmas to share what little they had. 

Although neither I nor my parents and grandparents lived in the village, I was often told stories of life in the village during the Nigerian Civil War in the 1960’s. My father told stories of how people grew up caring and sharing, particularly during the Christmas holidays. 

If someone lost a loved one, pots of soup appeared at their doorstep before anyone asked who had prepared them. 

I remember when I was much younger, and visitors arrived unexpectedly; nobody questioned whether there was enough food. My mother always ensured their bellies were full, and some even took home food for their loved ones. 

We always cooked large pots of food each day as though we were catering for a traditional wedding ceremony. 

And somehow, before the day ended, the food was finished, and I and my siblings are left with piles of plates to wash.

That was the kind of generosity I grew up believing Christmas celebrated.

Not abundance. 

Not wealth.

Simply the willingness to make room for someone else.

Perhaps that is why the repeated collections unsettle me. The church had become a place people were no longer planning for the blessing the sermon would deliver and the thanksgiving associated with the end-of-year celebrations. 

They were planning how much to give. In fact, they were planning how to survive giving.

That subtle difference changes everything. The church, however, is not alone.

Long before the church bells summon worshippers on Christmas morning, Christmas has already announced itself in other ways.

You see it the moment my mother steps into the market. The woman who sold us tomatoes just a month earlier suddenly insists the price has doubled.

"Madam, it's Christmas," she says with a smile that somehow makes the increase sound reasonable.

My mother bargains anyway. So does every other shopper.

My mother returns from the market complaining that the prices of tomatoes, rice, and other goods cost twice what they did only weeks before. My father laughs and reminds her that Christmas has its own economy. Somehow, every December, Christmas finds a way of becoming just a little more expensive than we remembered.

As a child, I never thought Christmas was expensive. I only counted the days until Christmas because I associated it with new clothes. As an adult, I now count the cost.

I have begun to notice the calculations hidden beneath the celebration. The bargaining, the rising prices, and the careful decisions about what can wait until January.

Perhaps that is what growing up really means. The magic remains, but you begin to notice the price attached to it.

Outside the church, I understand why everyone is trying to earn a little more. The trader has children to feed. The tailor has bills to pay. The bus driver has probably made this journey three times already today.

Perhaps that is why I had always hoped the church would feel different. That is why what happens inside the church unsettles me more than it once did. 

When did fundraising become so inseparable from worship that one is difficult to distinguish from the other?

I still believe in giving. I still place money into the offering basket. Even so, I cannot help noticing that the conversations during and after church have changed. 

My younger cousins race ahead, arguing over who gets the biggest piece of chicken before lunch. The conversations return to weddings and family gossip. The village slowly becomes the Christmas I remember.

Perhaps that is why I keep coming home.

Not because Christmas has remained the same, but somewhere between the smell of jollof rice drifting from my mother's kitchen and the laughter echoing through our compound, I find enough of the Christmas I grew up loving to make the journey again the following year.

Every year, I travel home believing Christmas will feel like the Christmas of my childhood.

Every year, I discover that it cannot.

Perhaps that is the true price of Christmas — not the money we spend getting home, but the quiet acceptance that home itself changes while we are away.

And still, every year, I return anyway.