Nativity Mayhem!

Christmas is here once again. What does it mean to you? A time to eat until you burst? Spending time with family? Having a lazy day watching all the TV specials? Remembering the birth of Jesus? As a child, it meant all, but as a dramatic person, I enjoyed the annual nativity most of all, and in our household, we had two to look forward to: one at Church and one at School. My first nativity was when I was four, and it was at nursery school, which was ran by our Church. I was one of the three wise men, but because I seldom talked when I was little (unbelievable but true) and seldom followed instruction (still true today), all I did was wear a crown and robe, stand on stage, and suck my fingers. Oh well, it's taking part that really matters...


My second nativity was two years later, in Primary School, where once again I was one of the three wise men (What is it with me and wise men? Maybe it had something to do with my height, and as a result I played authority figures). That's not the story, though. We were a multi-ethnic Anglican school, and the organisers wanted this reflected in the story. As a result, we were all told to bring our national costumes which would be worn during the final performance. National costume?


I went home and told my mother, who despite her years in the UK, was Nigerian and proud. I expected her to bring out a corseted Welsh costume with Dutch wooden shoes (Please don't laugh - this was the eighties, and we lived in a white neighbourhood, and despite her efforts, I'm pretty sure my mother found it hard rasing black kids in eighties Streatham due to a predominatly white influence, whatever the nationality). Instead, my mother, God bless her, searched her drawers and brought out a brightly-coloured African cloth. In Nigeria, they are known as 'Dutch Prints', so I guess my dream of being Dutch was half-reality.


"But Mummy", I pleaded "They said national costume". To which she replied: "this IS your national costume". I wasn't happy, but I had to go along with it. Imagine the amusement when the kids at school saw me wrapped in that fabric. Not one of them said they liked it, but I did hear one or two people sniggering - of course I was upset; how I envied the kids who were lucky enough to wear their national costume everyday (jeans, skirts, trainers, etc etc).


 But all that was nothing compared to the big night. I walked onto the stage, carring my gift. Even though I was told not to, I looked at the audience and noticed two parents giggling. They probably were not laughing at me, but by now I'd had it - I was so furious I refused to give the baby Jesus my present...I kid you not. Unfortunately, the person who was more furious than myself was my mother; she said I had disgraced myself by not performing well at the nativity. Sorry mum, but kids screw up nativities all the time; it's not big deal. For a whole week she didn't let me forget it. Come on, I never said I was perfect.


That was years ago. Today, I am still proud to be British, and it's not only because I was born and raised here, but also because Britain truly is great. But I'll be mad not to acknowledge my Nigerian background - granted, my Igbo is poor (Dr Sam, if you are reading this, stop spreading lies about me - I never pretend), and yes, I have a South London accent (for that I refuse to apologise), but I am proud of my Nigerian roots. Since visiting Nigeria, I am more aware of my culture, and I am pleased to have countless relatives. But I am also proud of the fact that I live in a country that is multi-cultural and tolerant. Of course there is still along way to go, but things better than ever before. This Christmas, as I remember that nativity, I also feel blessed to be an Afro-Brit (you heard it here first!)


Merry Christmas.


Jemma Bond x