Christmas is in the air, and already the nation has begun its annual transformation. (Forget WASSCE Results and Lumba’s Makra mo funeral). In Ghana, where “winter” means alasan fruits and harmattan, the spirit of the season has descended like an enthusiastic auntie who arrives too early for the party and proceeds to rearrange the furniture. Soon, homes will begin to glitter with decorations inside and out. Both well and ill-gotten gift-hampers find their ways into private spaces. Businesses that can mount inflatable Santas who perspire quietly in the tropical sun.
Our December Burghers are seen on the street, but locals have mastered the ability to ignore them. After all, the cedi is not as scared of foreign competition as it used to be. As for side-chicks and other side-personalities, it is another season of reckoning on how to become… The Luckiest.
Markets hum with activity. But the Ghanaian myth is that half the crowd are our ghost relatives who add to the hustle. Disappointed by another disappointing, copy-catted Black Friday concept, folks hurry through shopping aisles in that familiar December dance – calculating budgets, scanning possible gifts, and questioning why prices have the confidence of bye-election promises. Office parties are being finalised. Schools, too, are hosting their end-of-year shows, complete with exuberant choreography and shepherds who know all the lyrics to King Paluta’s hits.
And the children – oh, the children. (My 9-year-old is playing Mary, can you imagine?) Their anticipation is so intense you could plug an extension cord into it and power a small fridge. They wait for Santa, never mind that the last time they saw him, his beard was held in place by a Ghana cedi elastic band. Plus, he smelled strongly of FanYogo and bofrot.
Church choirs, and workplace choirs too, are warming up. (Too hell with Unions; what with bonuses that never came). No one takes rehearsals more seriously than a Ghanaian choir in December. Banana-inspired sopranos reach for notes that were not part of the original score.
But beyond the glitter and bustle, something quieter is at work.
Christmas, for many cultures across centuries, is a season for reflection. By this time of the year, the cash is all gone while January’s school fees beckon. It is also a time to gauge how far the rent payment is from the next advance. By design, Harmattan mornings encourage introspection. End-of-year fatigue demands a pause. People start asking themselves: Who do I need to reconnect with? Who do I owe a phone call, a visit, perhaps even an apology? The season becomes less about the day itself and more about the human instinct to gather, remember, and renew.
Nothing beats Christmas. Historically, the festival achieved its global reach through a rather impressive marketing campaign. Missionaries travelled far and wide, spreading Christianity, yes – but also blending their holy day with existing winter festivals. European traditions of feasting, singing, gift-giving and storytelling all found a home under the Christmas umbrella. And because it absorbed instead of replaced, Christmas became unusually inclusive for a religious celebration.
Then came commerce. If nature placed Christmas near a time of reflection, business placed it near the end of the fiscal year. A genius move. Suddenly, December became the perfect opportunity to move merchandise, daring us to call it Detty. Gift-giving traditions sharpened. Advertising grew louder. The colours red and green began to generate revenue. Today, you cannot walk ten metres in a mall without being serenaded by donkomi speakers insisting you buy something urgently for someone special. And yet, even as businesses ring their bells, people still find ways to locate the heart of the season.
Because what truly makes Bronya memorable has very little to do with shopping aspirations.
It is the emotional connection – those bursts of joy, gratitude, or even the bittersweet moments that anchor one year in the mind. It’s the laughter around a jollof dinner table or the reconciliation with that Ochokobila you haven’t spoken to since “that incident.” It’s a small act of generosity that lands exactly when someone most needs it.
There is also the sensory magic. A song played once a year. The smell of well- gingered goat-light soup drifting from a kitchen. These details lodge themselves in memory, ready to be replayed decades later with startling clarity.
And then, novelty. Every memorable Christmas contains one twist. A surprise visitor. A newly purchased home gadget. An unexpected dumsor that forces the whole family outside, laughing, sharing stories under the stars. These deviations from routine create the stories we retell: “That was the year Daavi taught us how to prepare dzemklpe.” “The year the car broke down but we still pushed it to church.” “The year Santa Claus arrived on Okada.”
Tradition, of course, is the backbone. Repeated rituals give Christmas its frame. Attending church. Calling relatives. Preparing the same dishes. Hanging the same lights. These rituals give each year its context, so that the small differences stand out. At a point it was Bronya Apata, Knock-out Crackers or Kakamotobi. At another point, it was that catchy ‘24th’ song by Kaakyire Kwame Appiah. For some, the Christmas trigger was Picadilly biscuits, for others it was Danish cookies.
But perhaps the most essential ingredient is presence. Being mentally available, not just physically there. When that call ends, when work breaks, when people put aside the hustle and attention finally settles, moments begin to take root. These become the Decembers that linger long after the calendar flips.
So yes, Christmas is commercial, historical, cultural, spiritual, noisy, busy, sometimes overblown and yet, remarkably, it remains deeply human. A season stitched together from memory, meaning, and shared ritual. A time when people try- sometimes clumsily, sometimes beautifully – to make space for one another.
In our hearts.
Afehyia pa!
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The writer can be reached via email at [email protected]
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