When Santa Didn't Come

In the sultry heat of my childhood, I eagerly awaited Santa, my heart brimming with expectations. I had seen the movies, enchanted by his grand nocturnal visits, gifts tucked into stockings, and reindeer-driven sleighs soaring across a star-filled sky, leaving a trail of magical glitter, and oh, I did wait.

Without a chimney for him to slide down or snowflakes softly falling, I still hung my stockings, clinging to the hope that Santa would somehow find a way to pilot his sleigh through the dry, dusty winds of the harmattan, and pinpoint which droplet was mine amidst a sea of brown roofing sheets. I listened for the sound of jingling bells, for the unmistakable “Ho ho ho!” But only crickets serenaded me, their melancholic song a stark contrast to my dreams.

I remember once asking Santa for a bicycle, so I could zip along the dusty roads of my street. I wished for a big teddy bear to cuddle at night, one that Daddy wouldn’t buy, and a little pink dress just like Aurora’s, my favorite fairytale princess from the Disney movie. But all I ever received was an empty, aching wish—endless disappointments that crept in slowly, like shadows at sunrise.

As my milk teeth fell out, it gradually became a more permanent reality that Santa wasn't the most reliable. It was during the holidays, amidst the vibrant chaos of family gatherings, that I sensed the change in my hopes. My rich aunties would arrive in big jeeps filled with goodies, their high-pitched laughter ringing through the air as my cousins dashed about, excitement radiating from their faces.

The air was filled with pleasantries, hands shaking, voices exclaiming, “Unu ne a gba Christmas nudo,” and the sour-sweet smell of Hollandia yoghurt and the sound of glasses of red wine clinking. We would share food with our neighbors, and they would squeeze brand-new naira notes into my hands, my smile brightening as they remarked on how much I had grown. Their words were a bittersweet reminder that the jolly old man in the red suit was but a fleeting fantasy. That’s when reality struck—I had grown, and Santa was never coming.

Now, I have outgrown the childish desires. Bicycles would mean a thousand falls, and teddy bears are no longer my style. The princess gown, a fantasy that wouldn't fit my widening hips. Life isn’t prom, after all.

I knew what I had to do: let go of Father Christmas. No snowman to build or winter wonderland to enchant. I had to build and enchant my own reality, forging a new tale—one I’d author myself.

—Gloria

Unu ne a gba Christmas nudo: An Igbo phrase that roughly translates to "Are you people enjoying Christmas well?"