PRE-BIRTHDAY MEMO

REFLECTIONS OF A SOON TO-BE 25-YEAR-OLD

It is much easier to be a child for two reasons:

1. Because the above statement is an obvious truth

2. Everything is free, all you have to do is enjoy

I used to love my birthdays because my Dad made them special. I don’t remember ever having a huge party, just little family outings with my siblings and cousins to my then best place in the entire world- Tasty fried chicken or my second best place -Water parks. What made it special wasn’t the day itself, it was the build-up to the day. The way my dad would gas me up and make BIG promises of places we would go my daddy bless that man, is the master of nicknames. He just had to take one look at you, say your name twice before he decides on a new name for you and your parents like how he nicknamed our neighbor’s child Nmachukwu to Choco-milo and it stuck. For some reason, everyone always loved the Nicknames and they somehow would abandon your real name and stick to my Daddy’s name for you. My Daddy called me bómbóm, it sounded like the sound you make when trying to describe an explosion, it sounded dramatic and I loved it.

In the days that led up to my birthday, he would go around the house telling everyone in my family that it’s bom-bom’s birthday and that they are in for the time of their lives. To be honest, those were the best birthdays of my life.

But those days ended way too fast. I didn’t even have time to blink.

Even a spoilt brat knows when to give up

It started on my 8th birthday, my dad had promised me heaven and earth. I was banking on it. I even bragged to my friends at school. The day came, I woke up to no cake, just a bubbly happy birthday song and “Bombom the Bombom’s don’t worry next year we will throw a huge party” I felt the world crumble, a knot tied in my throat, water swelled in and I wailed. I wanted to say ‘’ daddy you lied’’ but instead I gave him my meanest look and silent treatment the entire day. I wasn’t going to let him get away with deceiving me. He bribed me later with pepper snacks and speedy biscuits and told me he was truly sorry, the look in his eyes explained everything..it was the look of an adult that was going through it, A man whose priority wasn’t birthdays because it was leisure he could no longer afford.

The HUGE PARTY never came but the last outing did. A personal one; just me and my dad. We drove in his silver Mercedes 190 my side of the window was rolled down, my telephone curls dangled in the breeze ‘’where are we going, daddy..where are we going’’ I kept bugging my dad, he gave me a one-sided smile shrugged, and kept driving.

We pulled up at a beer parlor. I followed him inside not sure if I should be disappointed or excited ‘’maybe we won’t stay so long’’ I thought. There was a big box Tv, dance of shame was airing on galaxy channel 53, I can remember Egejuru’s playing in the background as I watched my daddy drink with his friend who I and my siblings fondly called Uncle Al Capone. I never understood the name but I thought it fit him just fine because of the size of his head.

I imagined that if Al-Capone was a fruit it would look like a distorted mango, a rebel mango seed that chose an irregular shape because Al-Capone doesn’t follow the crowd. I found out later that his real name is Amos and that Alcapone was just a nickname given to him by my dad because he liked to act like the lord of the flies.

Anyway, I sat sipping my viju milk and eating peppered beef in the children’s section which had been created for me by the beer parlor madam, a light-skinned woman with an enormous bum, a bearded face, and a funny L factor which made her pronounce the R in rice as Lice. Uncle Alcapon and Daddy killed beer bottle after beer bottle, my dad would turn to me occasionally, smile, and give me a wink. I indulged myself, I ordered another big bottle of Fanta and meat pie as my teeth sank into it two stunningly beautiful ladies walked in. I dropped my meat pie so I could take a closer look. I noticed my dad’s face lighten up the ladies walked straight to his table they took turns hugging each other. The ladies were like night and day. One had dark luscious skin and breast the size of a watermelon the other was so yellow she reminded me of the bulb in my room, her hair was curled into tiny jerry curls and when she smiled she showed off a cute dimple.

She must have sensed that I was looking at her, she smiled at me. I scowled in silent solidarity to my mum plus she was sitting too close to my dad it made me uncomfortable. I turned away and focused on the tv.

By the time we left the beer parlor, it was already evening I was cranky because I had not signed up for beer parlor and adult gist. My Dad could read my mind, it was as if he heard me protesting, he drove straight to Tasty Fried chicken my face lit up as we pulled into the driveway I slipped my little hands in his big hands and we walked into the restaurant. Just before he placed our order he crouched, looked me in the eye, and said ‘’ order anything you want Bom-bom because this might be the last time’’

I ate my food in silence as we drove back home, I wanted to ask what he meant by last time but I was too distracted with my chicken. We never spoke about that day and we made a silent pact not to tell my mum about the ladies from the bar.

Now that I think of it I understand why he was drinking those many bottles of beer like he was trying to wash down the taste of a bitter pill. Like he was trying to drown his sorrows.

I resolved to never pester the man about my birthday again.

As I grew older, I told myself I don’t like birthdays. I convinced myself that it was too much noise and unnecessary spending. “I am a private person” I’d say when anyone asks me if I had plans. Sometimes I wish my birthday wasn’t a public holiday- Oct 1st because it made it even harder to forget. I wanted more than anything to forget the date.

Looking back I realize that I dread my birthdays because it reminds me of the beginning of my family’s financial crisis. A constant reminder that we were once okay. NO, we weren’t extremely rich but we were very okay.

My reality is the Nigerian family cliche. I was born with a silver spoon only that in my case I wouldn’t have lost the spoon because I loved it too much but life snuck in at midnight and snatched it from me.

So every year as my birthday approaches, I feel crippling anxiety, so much pressure builds up in my chest and I worry about my spoon.

Will I ever find my spoon?