Christmas, for Dr. Eze's family, began at 5:42 a.m., inside a Lagos traffic jam that smelled of exhaust, impatience, harmattan, and banter from the back seat.
Behind the wheel of his navy-blue Highlander was Dr. Eze, fingers tight, eyes forward. Lagos seemed still indecisive whether to wake up fully or wait a bit. Shops were still locked up but the roads were already awake and angry. Roaring of blaring horns. On the side of the road, trailers were parked. A man selling bread tapped their window as they owed him patronage.
Nkiru flinched in the back seat. Then she sighed loudly.
“I still don’t understand why we didn’t fly,” she muttered. “We always fly for Christmas.”
Nkiru was the eldest of Dr Eze's children. She was seventeen, with long legs and filled with juvenile tantrums. She folded her legs awkwardly. Her pink Dr Dre earphones hang uselessly around her neck. She hated being on the roads of Lagos. It always offended her sense of order.
Beside her was her younger brother, Obinna. He was twelve and always curious. He leaned towards her and replied
“Daddy said we need to experience Christmas, the adventure, and all that," he said, making air quotes he had learned online.
Nkiru cut him an angry stare before shoving him angrily.
The youngest and baby of the house, Amaka, sat in the last seat. Already bored with all the traffic noise, kicked the back of the seat lightly and yelled. “Mummy, are we in Aba now?”
Mrs. Eze laughed, short and dry. She turned from the passenger seat. “No, baby, we're still in Lagos.”
Dr. Eze smiled, hands still glued to the wheels and eyes scanning from one side mirror to the rear mirror looking for an open spot to squeeze in. “Please, everybody relax. We just left the house.”
“Exactly my point,” Nkiru concurred. “We just left the house and I already regret this journey.”
No one replied to her tantrum. It was beginning to get boring.
Dr Eze reached for the radio and turned it on, crackling it to life.
At first, it was just a faint static that soon turned to a faint rhythm, like it was trying to remember the song till the sound of "jingle bells, jingle bells" came alive.
“Oh no,” Nkiru immediately groaned. “Please do not do this.”
Dr. Eze stared at her through the rearview mirror and smiled.
"Oh yeah! You've got to loosen up love" He reached for the volume again and turned it up
Gently, Amaka began to sway, her legs swinging. Obinna tapped the door with his fingers, slightly off-beat. Mrs. Eze hummed without realizing it. Even Nkiru, after pretending resistance, found her foot tapping against her will. And before they knew it, the car was turned into a symphony of Christmas jingles.
Inch by inch, they crawled out of Lagos onto the highway. Until finally the city loosened its grip on them. And as they drove their voices rose to the heavens.
“Dashing through the road…” Amaka sang.
“It’s snow, Amaka,” Nkiru corrected automatically. “Snow.”
“But Nigeria doesn't have snow" Amaka shot back. “All I see is the road.”
In unison, their laughter filled the car. The tension between them at first was gradually beginning to crack.
They got to Ore and Dr Eze pulled over for them to stretch their legs. The air smelled of fried plantain and fuel and a host of other roadside food. Mrs Eze bought some chips for everyone.
“Daddy, it says Ore. Is that close to Aba?” Obinna asked as he read a signboard on the road, as if he had a clue to some treasures.
Dr. Eze wiped his hands clean with his handkerchief. “No, professor. We are still very far away.”
“How far?” Nkiru asked, already tired again.
“Far enough to eat twice more,” Mrs. Eze said.
"Mummy, can I have some ice cream next time?" Amaka asked, tugging her mother's blouse.
"Sure, maybe when we get to Enugu."
They ate their chips and drank warm soft drinks. When they returned to the car, this time it was Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas on the radio. Dr Eze hit the road again, speeding with moderation at the same time, trying to catch up with the time they wasted already.
As they moved deeper south, the scenery changed. Thick trees. Red earth. Small towns blinking past. The children asked questions that had no end.
“What is that river called?” Obinna asked.
“Why is that market only selling yams?” It was Nkiru.
“Is this where Grandpa used to walk to school?” Amaka added.
Dr. Eze answered patiently, making sure to point out and explain landmarks to them. Although he was sure they wouldn't remember most of them he was just proud to teach his kids. He even talked about his childhood days in Aba. The Christmas mornings that began with church bells and ended with laughter and full stomachs.
They all listened quietly now.
Dr Eze made a second stop at a restaurant in Enugu. This time he made sure they didn't waste much time. Mrs Eze bought some food and ice cream specifically for Amaka. By now, the sun was setting behind the mountains in Enugu. It made Enugu look beautiful.
The last stretch felt shorter, even though it wasn’t. The road narrowed. The radio stations played more and more Christmas songs.
Hours later, they were in Aba,
Nkiru smiled as she read the signboard, "Welcome to Abia State, God's own state." She smiled. “Okay, maybe the road wasn’t such a bad idea.”
Dr. Eze looked over his mirror at her and smiled. "I told you."
Finally, they parked in front of the family's house just as dusk settled. And Dr Eze turned the engine off putting them into quietness.
For a moment, nobody moved. They just sat inside the car listening to each other's heartbeat.
Then Dr Eze got out and walked over to his wife. He opened her door first announcing. "Welcome home."
She smiled. "Thank you hun."
He walked over to the kids and opened their door welcoming them with a smile.
Soon, laughter spilled out. Like they had officially welcomed Christmas.
A loud music filled the air suddenly. It was jingle bells again.
"Dad, where's that song coming from?" Amaka asked.
"From your grandpa's house. He must have seen us drive in and he's welcoming us."
"Can we go see him?" Obinna asked.
"Yes, but after we've moved our bags in." Mrs Eze replied.
Together, they began unpacking their bags from the car as a family.