Prelude, Christmas

The mothers are weaving their hair & talking about chickens. Iya Jide, who has poultry with twelve birds, says she is ready to sell her flock. They are outside the hairdresser’s shop decked in colorful bubu. The wall of the complex is a painting of Fela Aníkúlápó Kútì raising his hands in solidarity. The women talk about their husbands. Funlola says he has brought chickens home. Two of them. They laugh. Aunty Folake, as she is fondly called, interjects and says this Christmas different. Birds are crying like birds, and the children of men speak like the children of men. No blood stains are on the walls lined close to the river, and no child is missing. Olúwa o sé o. The wind outside is chilly, full of dust. Harmattan settles cold in everybody’s bones. The women plait each other’s hair and palm their lips with lipsticks, ready to welcome their husbands.