All I Wanted for Christmas

This past Christmas Day I awoke without the familiar scent of turkey and mashed potatoes, the anticipation of gifts under the tree, or the clanging of my parent's coffee cups coming from the kitchen. Yet I wasn't sad. I'd had a wonderful Christmas Eve replete with the traditional pleasures: Nat King Cole's crooning, a tree that sparkled and gleamed (albeit a small one), and a multiple course meal that had me salivating each time I waited to fill my plate. I'd even went shopping the day before; but instead of fighting last-minute crowds at the mall and limited stock, I battled through shouts of "Nasarra" (meaning foreigner in Fulfulde) and inflated prices at wooden stands with tin roofs.
And although I certainly missed my family, I had a group of seven female volunteers who had helped me make the day unforgettable before it'd even started. At midnight we'd brought in the holiday by standing on chairs around a table belting out Mariah Carey's "All I want for Christmas", our arms raised with beers in our hands, and swaying back and forth to honor a great singer as well as the sacrificed time with our families. We had hours of careless dancing both behind us and ahead of us, and the only thing I could possibly regret about a night like that was that I'd scraped one too many no-bake cookes from the pan. But that didn't stop me from over-indulging in a Christmas morning breakfast of leftover mashed potatoes, savory squash chutney and a baguette. I needed it to carry me through a day of wandering around Maroua aimlessly while trying to keep away the guilt of wondering how badly I was being missed at home.
Yet, that day I was reminded over and over again that I was right where I needed to be. I was reminded of this as I stood in the narrow path of dirt and grime in the covered market, watching as the business of Muslims went on without the interruption of a holiday. Men pushed wheelbarrows full of vegetables, sold wash water heated by coals that could burn a careless passerby, and yelled greetings and prices at each other in Fulfulde. And in all the chaos I watched as three small brothers, led by the oldest of them at maybe eight, and dressed in the same cream-colored long gown and cylindric caps, held hands affectionately as they made their way through the crowded row. And I was reminded again as I exited the market and walked by another two brothers, these less fortunate. These two slept on the curb of the streetside facing each other, their skin exposed to an unforgiving sun, in their raggedy clothes and with their aluminum bowls still outreached in their hands in case a passerby might fill with change while they dreamt. And again, when I heard the solemn chants of the mosque and minutes later watched as maybe a hundred men left their stands to lay down their prayer rugs and kneel to the ground without a second thought to the vegetables, spices, fabrics and goods that they were selling.
And when I finally returned home to relax and browse on my laptop, I first saw a message from a close friend that made tears brim in my eyes, reminding me that I was right where I needed to be. And that evening, as I sipped warm hibiscus juice and vodka, and sat in the sand around a fire with my friends who are quickly becoming like family, I contemplated how although it might not have been in the form I most desired, I had experienced the most important things Christmas could offer: tradition, love, and spirituality.