CAROL OF THE BLACKENED SEASON.

Episode I: The Half-Sleeping Nation The night before Christmas, Nigeria fell asleep with one eye open. In the dream that followed, the country became a vast marketplace at dusk. Stalls stretched endlessly, but most were empty—their wooden frames dressed with faded tinsel and political posters peeling like old scabs. Above us, the sky wore the colour of burnt kerosene, neither fully dark nor truly bright, as if the sun had resigned halfway through its duty. A cracked loudspeaker hung from an electric pole, playing Christmas carols slowed down until they sounded like dirges. *Joy to the world*, the singer moaned, and nobody laughed at the irony. This was how the dream announced itself—not suddenly, but with resignation. Episode II: The Market of Broken Promises I walked barefoot through the market, stepping over promises. They lay scattered on the ground in glossy pamphlets: Renewed Hope, Dividends of Democracy, A Better Tomorrow. Each time my foot touched one, it dissolved into dust—harmattan dust, thick and choking, familiar enough to be trusted. It crept into noses, into lungs, into prayers. It was Yuletide, but the air did not smell of celebration. It smelled of fuel scarcity and fear, of queues that began before dawn and ended nowhere. --- Episode III: Lights That Refused to Shine Christmas lights blinked weakly, powered by generators that coughed like dying animals. Every cough sounded like a complaint the nation had learned to swallow. Children pressed their faces against shop windows displaying toys priced in currencies their parents no longer understood. A small boy tugged at his mother’s wrapper and asked if Santa knew Nigeria’s exchange rate. She did not answer. Her silence was heavy, practiced—the kind that had survived many Decembers. Episode IV: The Tree at the Centre of Things At the centre of the market stood a giant Christmas tree. Its branches were hung not with ornaments but with statistics: inflation figures swinging like broken bells, unemployment rates carved into brittle stars, insecurity reports pinned where angels should be. At its peak was no guiding star—only a flickering siren light, red and blue, warning without rescuing. Beneath the tree sat men in flowing agbadas and tailored suits, their faces hidden behind masks shaped like smiles. They shared wine and laughter, toasting to “the season,” while beneath their feet the ground cracked open. In those cracks lived stories they refused to see—displaced farmers, stranded students, mothers rationing love through food. Gravity did not apply to them. --- Episode V: Houses of Faith, Houses of Waiting A church rose suddenly from the earth like a mirage. Its doors were wide open, swallowing crowds. Inside, hope was sold in measured doses. The pastor’s voice boomed like thunder trapped in a bottle: "This Christmas, your sorrow will expire." The congregation answered with thunderous "Amen", as if volume could substitute certainty. Some clutched last year’s testimonies like expired medicine, afraid of relapse. Across the dusty road, a mosque stood in quiet dignity. Worshippers knelt shoulder to shoulder, praying for peace, for leaders with memory, for a country that would stop eating its own children. Their prayers rose and collided with the church’s songs, hovering above the city like confused birds unsure where to land. --- Episode VI: The Armed Lullaby Then the soldiers came—not marching, but drifting, summoned by the scent of anxiety. Their boots left no footprints. Their rifles mirrored blinking Christmas lights. One soldier smiled and offered me a sweet wrapped in gold paper. When I unwrapped it, it was a bullet shaped like sugar. I dropped it. It made no sound when it hit the ground. Night thickened. Gunshots and fireworks argued over the sky. In some neighbourhoods, joy burst briefly into colour; in others, fear spoke the same language. People learned the difference only by consequence. --- Episode VII: The Domestic Frontline I wandered into a living room where a family gathered around an empty table. A pot simmered on the stove, filled mostly with water and optimism. The father laughed too loudly, telling stories of Christmases when rice was affordable and meat did not require negotiation. The mother stirred slowly, as if time itself might thicken the soup. The children sang rewritten carols: *We wish you fuel and light, we wish you fuel and light…* On the television, lawmakers fought. Papers flew. Microphones trembled. The newsreader smiled and called it democracy. Outside, a blackout swallowed the street. The generator next door refused to start, staging a quiet protest. --- Episode VIII: The Falling Ash Ash began to fall from the sky—soft, grey, relentless. It settled on hair, shoulders, rooftops. No one screamed. Ash was familiar. Ash was burned ballot boxes and scorched police stations. Ash was the remains of protests crushed and questions unanswered. Children tried to catch it on their tongues. Adults closed their mouths and remembered. --- Episode IX: The Woman Called Nigeria From the ash emerged Nigeria herself. She was an old woman wrapped in patched green and white cloth. Her back was bent, but her eyes were sharp. She hummed a lullaby that sounded like the national anthem slowed to mourning speed. Her palms bore scars shaped like oil wells. From her pockets fell coins that became debts before touching the ground. “Is this Christmas?” I asked. She smiled, tired but stubborn. “This is what Christmas looks like when survival becomes tradition.” --- Episode X: Fractures of Light Just before dawn, something shifted. The ash thinned. The sky lightened—not enough to promise a good day, but enough to deny total despair. In a corner of the market, a woman shared her food with a stranger. Youths painted murals over campaign posters, splashing colour where lies once lived. A child laughed—not politely, but fully, dangerously. The Christmas tree trembled. Some statistics fell and shattered. Not all. Enough. --- Episode XI: Awakening I woke with harmattan in my throat and carols on the radio. Outside, Nigeria was still Nigeria—wounded, loud, unequal, breathing. It was still a Dark Yuletide. But somewhere between the gunshots and the hymns, between hunger and habit, the country remained awake—dreaming, yes, but also enduring. And in that endurance lived a fragile, defiant kind of light.