A Sudden Miracle At Christmas

In 1984, Bob Geldof and Band Aid in the UK released the best single ever, ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ raising $14 million for the famine relief in Africa. A year later following Band Aid’s success, another  super group, USA for Africa, came out with  ‘We Are the World’, a charity song which  also topped music charts raising over $63 million for humanitarian aid in Africa.  No one was surprised by the success; after all, it was a very formidable group of song writers and producers: Michael Jackson, Lionel Richie and Quincy Jones. 

The objective of the two songs was “to show care and love” for the less privileged. In particular, for the song ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’, there is no better time to show love than at Christmas. For centuries, Christmas, has always been tagged a special time for good things to happen. Remember the famous message of the angel, “I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord”.  Christmas is also a time of “peace, goodwill towards men”.

Many people, including myself, will tell you Christmas is their best time of the year.  Not solely because of the spirit of sharing gifts, although the gifts add their own excitement, too. But it’s more to do with the special mark of the Yuletide season, the “coolness” of the weather and the fact that it is the end of another year, time to assess achievements before starting all over again in January. In any case, I love the pleasantness of people. They become extremely nice during Christmas period, haven’t you noticed? 

And have you ever stopped to watch people during the last week that leads to Christmas? There is so much frenzy in the air. Several people are rushing around to do last minute shopping, store food items, buy gifts for loved ones, and go in a mad rush to travel agencies to make last minute bookings to exotic places. “Merry Christmas or Happy Christmas”, fills the air. It is such a beautiful time that I wish everyday could be like Christmas.

Unfortunately, the euphoria ends as soon as we step into the New Year. Reality sets in. There are several bills to pay, new objectives and strategies to achieve new targets, deadlines, new resolutions and so on. 

That is the magic of Christmas and it is against this mystical backdrop that our story revolves. It is about a family that had to live through the worse poverty and tragedy ever recorded in the history of Africa. The family lived through the death of loved ones in one swoop, chronic blood disease, near starvation, joblessness and destitution, until one day there was an unexpected miracle at Christmas.

This is the Story:

My name is Oloruntobi (God is great), Tobi for short.  Everything is going wrong for me. The heavy rain we had yesterday took a vengeance on my body as it pelted down hitting me here and there. The faded shirt and the worn-out trousers I wore stuck to my body like glue making me shiver from head to toe. There was no money for transport. I continued walking until I reached my one-room lodging, which I share with my wife and two children. 

I heaved a sigh of relief and slumped into the only settee in the room, exhausted from the backbreaking work at the factory. Dear God, for how long will I go on like this? I am a graduate for Pete’s sake. I graduated from the university thirteen years ago and I’m still looking for a job that will provide us with basic things like food, decent shelter and clothing. It was not always like this. But somehow, things suddenly took a really devastating turn. I threw my head back, shut my eyes and took my mind back in time... To five years earlier.

*

At the beginning, the future looked very bright for me when I graduated from the university with a degree in Business Studies tucked under my arm. The woman I married was my best friend in the university, so naturally people were not surprised when we made the union formal. She read Communication Arts. We were soul mates, and going for blood test for compatibility was not the norm in those days. It was much later after the first pregnancy of our first son, that we realised the implication of both parents having sickle cell traits in their blood. We were both AS and our first son was diagnosed SS at six months, a situation which tested our commitment to our marriage and love for each other; because we went on to have another child—a girl—with just sickle cell traits. 

I was lucky to get a job with a top electronics company as a sales manager, two years after my NYSC. It was exciting, challenging and rewarding. My salary, plus other incentives, was enough to take care of my small family and buy the necessary medication for my sick child. My wife and I agreed that she should stay at home so we could give our son the much needed care. His sickness drained us emotionally and physically, but we were determined not to lose him. Half of what I earned was set aside to take care of his daily nutritional and health-care needs, and we managed to put things under control. We also had a decent accommodation and we ate good meals. 

After three years, and eight months with the electronic company, my boss got transferred abroad, and I was asked to act as the General Manager until a new successor arrived from South Korea. I took over and luckily, sales doubled with more customers coming to submit bigger orders. After a year of acting as General Manager, my position was confirmed which made a lot of people “unhappy” in the office. The major grudges against me were, amongst other things, I was not an expatriate, too young, inexperienced, and had spent only four years in the company. So how come I was able to clinch the General Manager’s job when there were other candidates who were older, more experienced, and had been with the company much longer and could easily filled the position? I ignored the subtle threats, outbursts and deliberate confrontations from older African colleagues. Not knowing that there was a conspiracy brewing to get me into trouble, I continued to be myself. I insisted on transparency, teamwork, and absolute dedication from staff. 

One day I was summoned to the Office Headquarters and suddenly given the boot. There was no explanation of any sort. There was just a letter saying ‘sorry we can no longer offer you employment... thank you for your services.’ I was shocked. I pinched myself to wake up from the bad dream. But no, I was still sitting in front of the expatriate managing director. In a split second, my whole world came crashing down. 

‘What went wrong?’ I asked, dumbfounded.

‘I cannot go into details, just to say that we no longer require your services. Please make sure you hand over all company properties,’ the expatriate said.

I left the office, shoulders stooped, my confidence gone, and wondered what type of conspiracy this was. No one would look at me straight in the face. They all avoided my eyes as I walked to my office to pack my papers and other belongings. I was not even allowed to go in my official car, so I ended up picking a taxi outside the company premises. I must have dozed off. 

‘Oga, where you dey go, now?’ The taxi driver woke me up from my slumber.

‘Oh, sorry, please drive towards Allen Avenue, Ikeja,’ I replied weakly. 

My wife wondered what I was doing home so early. I handed the letter to her. She just sat down quietly. We looked at each other, but our eyes spoke volumes. We understood each other so well, and we could sense what the other was thinking and asking. ‘How do we continue to pay the medical bills for our son?’ ‘What about rentals and school fees?’ Luckily, because I always put 10% of my earnings aside, the first three months was manageable, but thereafter things started to go awry. With no monthly income, housing allowance stopped, no car, savings almost gone, life began to be extremely difficult. We had to look for a cheaper accommodation. 

We finally got a one-room apartment and moved in. It was as if the curse refused to be pacified; as somehow I just could not get another job...there were so many unfulfilled promises. My wife and I then agreed to put the little money left to purchase a second-hand Danfo, minibus bus, to run a small transport service. If you have ever done this kind of job, you would understand the craziness of taking people from A to Z in Lagos. There were those who refused to pay, not to forget the extortionists on the road, saucy conductors, bad car drivers, suicidal okada manoeuvres and several other road atrocities I can’t mention. It was a frustrating job for me, knowing where I was coming from. Danfo business was total chaos. At least that was my experience. 

After one year of driving a minibus to take people to desired destinations, and merely breaking even, I sold the bus carcass for N75, 000 ($460) and decided to go into a less physically demanding but hopefully profitable business. As I was contemplating what to do, I got the most devastating news of my life. My parents died in a car accident, which happened on their way to visit me in Lagos, in early January 1996. 

I will never forget that day as long as I live. It is still very vivid in my mind. As soon as I was told the bad news, I just left my one room apartment as if in a trance and started walking towards the Lagos-Ibadan expressway. I stopped when my legs refused to move any further. I sat down on the side of the road with cars zooming past me. The cool harmattan breeze was vicious on the expressway. I shuddered and pulled my shirt tightly around me. I then contemplated suicide. 

Why don’t I just run in front of the fast-moving cars, and end my life here and now? I thought, tears rolling down my cheeks. 

I kept on debating this in my mind. Suddenly, one man, from nowhere, I did not even hear his approaching footsteps, said, ‘Young man, if you sit too close to the road, you will get run over. And what are you doing here by yourself?’ He did not say more than that. It was enough to jolt me back to reality. I was astonished to find myself miles away from home.

 ‘How did I get here?’ I asked no one in particular. I quickly pulled myself together, turned round to thank the stranger, but to my astonishment he had disappeared. I was now confused. Did I imagine the strange interruption? Where did the man go within the twinkling of an eye? ‘Well, doesn’t really matter,’ I said as I started the six-mile trek back to Lagos. I got home dishevelled and my wife had almost lost her mind worrying about my disappearance. Family members and friends came to sympathise. A large portion of the money from the sale of the bus went to my parents’ burial expenses as I was their only child. 

Two years after my parents’ death, I still struggled on. My son’s disease continued to take a toll on our meagre resources, mental and physical health. An ulcer had developed on the lower part of my son’s right leg, which bled my heart each time I bathe it. It was worse for me whenever he woke up in the middle of the night crying and groaning with so much pain from the leg wound. We stayed awake all night petting him, giving him painkillers to relieve the excruciating pain. As if this was not enough, our rent payment had accumulated six months, and the landlord was threatening eviction. We had to leave eventually and ended up in a one-room accommodation. This was our third move. 

I decided to put my degree in my pocket, for a while, and register for casual work with a factory not too far from our new home. The hours were long and hard, and the pay was peanuts – barely enough left for food, toiletries, education of my children, once we take out the monthly room rent. In actual fact, payment of school fees was never regular. A couple of times my children were sent back home and another time threatened that they would not to be allowed to take exams unless we paid the outstanding fees. 

My wife, whose initial role was being a full-time housewife, because of our sick son who needed 24 hours care, had to consider bringing in some income. But nothing was forthcoming for her. In the end, we decided to buy some fruits and petty provisions from my meagre factory wages, so she could sell outside our home. We bought any fruits that required little capital, and had at least two days life span – that would not perish fast. We were so preoccupied with basic things; our pride as graduates was non-existing, as we struggled to make each day better than the previous.

One Tuesday, at the factory, I heard a group of workers talking about a friend that won a visa lottery to the US, and had started a new life. ‘I am an African to the core and never believe I have to leave the shores of Nigeria to make it,’ I told the man sitting next to me in the canteen.

*

My son’s greetings woke me up from my daydream. 

 ‘Welcome Papa,’ said my twelve year-old son, who despite the fact that he suffers from sickle cell anaemia, and had probably not had much to eat since there was hardly any food in the house,  still had time to throw jokes at me. 

‘Wet again, Papa. You look swell, anyway,’ he said with a grin.

‘Where did you hear the word ‘swell’?’ Who taught you to use words like that? That is no proper English.’

‘The other day, I heard two men exchanging greetings and one said to the other ‘you look swell’.

I guessed it must mean ‘good’. Does it not, Papa?’

‘I suppose. Anyway, where is your mother?’

‘She said she would be back soon. She decided to take the remaining provisions to the market. 

 Prayed she might be lucky and get enough money for some ‘proper’ supper tonight.’

‘What about your sister? And have you had anything to eat?’

‘Went with mama, but we soaked some garri and peanuts before she left,’ my son said. 

My son again reminded me of my wet clothes. I changed from my rain soaked clothes and waited for my wife and daughter to return from the market. They came back two hours later. 

‘Welcome my husband, how did today go at the factory?’

‘It was the usual wahala (trouble). But at least there was good news from one of the workers. His friend won a US visa lottery. I don’t believe in such things. Knowing my luck so far, it will just be “hopeless” hope’ I retorted without much enthusiasm. 

To my surprise my wife said, ‘Why don’t we give it a try? You never know. In any case, our son will enjoy better health care and at least be assured of getting a job with our degrees. It will be an opportunity to put all these tragedies behind and start all over again.’ 

‘There is 1 in 1000 chance or more of wining; in any case it is not free. Even if we are lucky to get the visa, what about visa fees, airfares, medical check-up fees, and housing. Who will put us up?’ 

‘We will cross those bridges when we get there. Just one step at a time,’ my wife said. 

We never spoke about the visa lottery again until my wife brought the entry forms for us to fill in the necessary information requested. I reluctantly did. I never asked my wife how and where she got the forms, but I noticed she was not wearing her wedding gold band on her finger anymore. I kept quiet. I was too much involved in my daily money calculations for our daily needs, to start asking about her wedding ring. 

Several months after, I was at the factory as usual, when one of the despatch riders brought me a slip to sign so he could collect, on my behalf, a letter deposited in the company’s mail box. I did. The letter came and you guessed right. My wife had won a US visa lottery. We had some months to honour the visa entry ‘invitation’ or forfeit it. In between, there were requests for series of medical checks and interviews. All of these we scaled through with a month left before the deadline date. It was early December. We were told to appear at any US port of entry by December 29. 

There was nothing to pack. We had nothing. But the question was the airfare. We ran to our friends, in-laws, and neighbours, no luck. It was the usual story of “things are hard”. Although we had no money, we still went ahead to book the cheapest seats on the airline for December 27, hoping a miracle will happen by then, and in any case determined to beat the deadline. The airline called and reminded us the reservations will be cancelled if we did not pay by a certain time.  We begged them to tarry a little. We had braced ourselves for the worst Christmas ever. In any case, where was the joy of Christmas, when the good fortune thrown our way, by destiny, was about to evaporate, unless something out of the extraordinary happened. For the first time in several weeks, I prayed to God and also asked my dead parents not to forget their only child. 

Early morning on Christmas day, my landlord came knocking on my door. I opened wondering what the matter could be. I saw a middle-aged man standing behind him. 

‘Mr Olanipekun, you have a visitor,’ my landlord said.

‘Good morning Sir, May I help you?’

‘Are you Mr. Oloruntobi Olanipekun?’

‘Yes, I am’

‘I am Mr. Lawrence. I have a package for you and a letter from your parents.’

‘From my parents? But they are dead.’

‘I know. May I come in?’

‘Sorry Sir, please come inside’

He entered and I offered him a seat. I took the package, a thick black nylon bag. It felt quite heavy. I opened it and found clean crispy notes of N500 bills. I counted N500, 000. I took out the letter, my hands shaking as I unfolded it. 

‘Our dear son, we want to surprise you with this gift on your 40th birthday. You have been a wonderful son. We are sending the money through Mr. Lawrence, our stockbroker, whom we have instructed not to give you until you reach 40 years on December 25, 2000. We put a little money on some shares, which yielded more than we expected. Do with it as you wish. We look forward to celebrating with you. Your loving parents.’ 

The letter was dated December 25, 1996, two weeks before my parents’ death, four years ago. 

My God! I had not even remembered my own birthday. I was overwhelmed with our needs I forgot completely. But, my dead parents came to celebrate my 40th birthday as they promised in the letter with an unexpected arrival at Christmas. 

We hope you find your own miracles this Christmas and in the New Year. God bless.

Story Credit: Waving in the Wind by Bisi Abiola (Outskirts, 2014)

Photo Credit: Creative Commons