Them December blues…

December comes mainly to annoy me: it reminds me that I have failed once again, just like Nigeria, to realise my year’s dreams

Reader, we are in that part of the year when the air around me is dry, dusty and crackly; and I’m getting that sinking feeling again that perhaps, the year might be ending. Oh yes, I’ve confirmed it; my bones tell me it’s the year’s end all right. It is also the time to get Them December blues.

These seasonal blues are a little like the jitters that brides and grooms experience. They come mainly from failed dreams. For instance, most brides and groom usually hope that by two weeks to their set day, everything is in place. Miraculously, all their relatives turn into rich and reasonable human beings, all their friends turn into generous gremlins and Father Christmas visits early to grant the remaining wishes. In reality though, relatives remain who they are, friends grin through it all with you and trust me, provisions remain as miraculous as roses in January. So, December comes mainly to annoy me: it reminds me that I have failed once again, just like Nigeria, to realise my year’s dreams. Did Nigeria not promise to make life better for me this year? Now it’s worse…

You would have the blues too if you had to deal with the things I am contending with. Why, there are all these news reports that are so terrible they are enough to make the blood curdle. I read about the incident of the little girl who died of VVF because she was allegedly raped again and again by her Uncle-guardian and his son. Ugh, some uncle! If the report is true, that defenseless little girl was played with like a supposedly useless ball by that ‘priceless’ guardian-son duo because their combined brains were no bigger than one single pea and they knew no better.

Then there is the ASUU strike that the government is just so reluctant to end because it says it has no money. Yet, reports have it that the government ever readily settles INEC’s rather monstrous bills, sharp, sharp; even though no increased profit is really anticipated from that spending, except for someone or other being ‘elected’ to milk the country dry again. For this tardiness, our young ones have to stay at home, idling, instead of learning some good stuff about innovative thinking.

There is also the fact that the political situation is not getting any better. In fact, it appears to be getting more and more roiled because of Nigerians’ unconscionable behaviour. I mean, you can imagine how bad it has got when the first lady begins to ask very pertinent questions: is there any man left in this house of a country to rescue it? Now, what is one to take from that? One, there are no men in Nigeria. All of them are women. Two, there are no men in Nigeria. All of them are women. Oh, I said that before? Sorry.

Seriously, the fact that there are ‘no more men’ in Nigeria is enough to give one some serious, heavy blues. I’m getting the blues because the people who people the leadership male-hood of this country are turning out to be some empty, self-absorbed, power hungry and visionless men of wood. No wonder the woman’s frustrations burst their banks. Clearly, we have a serious blues-giving and blues-fueling situation.

The one that gives me the blues most of all is this complete disregard for the laws of the land exhibited by nearly everyone in this country. Take an example. It used to be before that the law said do not steal. Somehow, Nigerians changed it to ‘Do not steal; but if you do, don’t get caught.’ Again, Nigerians have gone one further. Now it’s ‘Do not steal; if you do, don’t get caught. In the event you are caught, get eighty lawyers. They will get you out.’ Yet, we are all expecting the country to work!

Then of course, when you consider that December usually ushers in the Christmas season, I have some jitters. No, don’t get me wrong; I love Christmas. It’s just that when the season begins to approach, I am reminded once again of the stress I pass through. The stress begins when I remember the things I require: a good sized, friendly turkey, a nice dress to complement my nice round shape (now a football and I are in a fierce competition), nice shoes that complement my now flattening feet, and a house full of the joie de vivre. You think I’m asking for the moon? Why, naaaaaaay!

To start with though, turkeys are not exactly friendly. You might ask, am I wanting to eat it or shake hands with it? Eat it, I guess, but we could be friends first at least. Call me paranoid, but when you begin to hear cackles behind you when you pass by some cages full of hissing turkeys, you would get suspicious too. Anyway, I am a bit wary of them; all I have to do is dream up some scheme to convince them to get over their animosity towards me and kindly get into my pot.

The stress of the turkey is however nothing compared to the stress of getting a dress that would fit nicely on me. Like many people, I have reduced my dress-buying habit to once a year, courtesy of the current Buharinomics. That is a special brand of economics that says very plainly ‘put your money only on things that matter, you know, like life and death.’ So, I have learnt to save what I have for food (to keep life), drugs (to prevent death), and one dress a year (to prevent death of my social image). This means, of course, that many luxury items have had to bite the dust – new glasses, new Christmas decorations even though the old ones are super tangled, and a new carpet for the floor.

The only problem is that my figure has refused to sit still but persists in shifting the fat around like a barrel of oil each month, like the moon, hence my dress-need. This month, the fat is at the top, next month in the middle or it just rolls like some blob. Unfortunately, though, the dresses I see and like are made for the ultra slim, my dream figure, literally. They are for the kind of people I hate and should poke in the eye for being so… so… so beautiful. Are you still wondering why I’m getting the blues?

With no luck on the dress, I try for some shoes. Bad economy or not, I got to walk like a duck, at least once a year, what with social image an’ all. Again, I am astounded by the unending range of footwear for the, you guessed it, slim feet, the kind I poke in the eye…. The ones that can accommodate my flat feet are priced out of my pocket range. Obviously, going by these facts, it seems that the duck walk has been put well beyond my gait. I must settle instead for the roman soldier walk shoes – aka marching shoes. It is the kind of shoes you wear when you have been sent to arrest someone for thinking too much. Let me just see what I can do about the price.

Now, you understand my December blues. How can I get the house filled with that joie de vivre when nothing is drying up them December blues? There are just too many springs for it. However, I have decided that I will have a word with my round shape, my flat feet and the weather. Something must give, and I know it will not be me. Have a wonderful Christmas preparation, in spite of everything going on around us.