Christmas – The Zimbabwean Way

The Christmas season is back. 

It is that time of the year that most people the world over take most of the year preparing for in very diverse ways depending on locality. Generally, it is a time for family, love and sharing, but for me, being a black Zimbabwean, Christmas has its own meaning that I eagerly anticipate its arrival every year.

 Growing up, for me Christmas meant, going to “kumusha” (our rural home) where we would meet up with the rest of the family clan. It was that holiday that I was assured to meet my distant cousins, check out who had grown faster, who had excelled academically or in sport and just find reason to show off even with a twenty cent plastic watch.

It meant sleeping late on Christmas Eve while arguing and betting which beast of our cattle herd was going to be slaughtered by “Sekuru” (our grandfather). It also meant waking up early in the morning to catch a cold bath and be the first to wear one’s “Christmas clothes”.

When now adorned in our brand new clothes we would then walk around hands in pockets as if we had made some great achievement, checking out others clothes while showing off our own.

I still do not know to date why “Christmas clothes” were the quintessence of the Christmas celebration. Maybe it could be because of poverty, which made it hard for parents to buy their children new clothes any other time of the year, but failing to provide Christmas clothes would totally devastate even the adult’s egos.

We would then go around to our uncles and aunts and scream “Christmas Box!” (which was our way of asking for the presents since our festivity never included the Christmas tree) whereby they would respond with a simple box and hand us with 10cent pieces, candy or the bigger coins if someone was feeling rich that day.

Around ten O’clock, it would be time for breakfast. We would be served with large pieces of roughly cut bread, plastered with a lot of margarine and a red mixed fruit jam. For once we had the option to have a juice or the usual cup of tea.

After breakfast, which usually ended suddenly because of the rush to the cattle pen, it was time to see who among us had guessed right on the falling beast. It was always an occasion to see the beast slaughtered and it gave us great delight to be part of the occasion.

But, after running around with the killing of the beast things usually turned unpleasant for us as we had to devise means of not being the one to have to herd the livestock, despite the known fact the younger boys (of which I fell into that category) where the ones to tend the livestock since we did not do any much of the rigorous work.

It was never the best part to have to go to the pastures with the cattle and goats, while others made their way to the township to spend their “Christmas boxes”. Well times have changed and Sekuru is now late, the extended family no longer gathers and most people now want to associate with the “English” Christmas.

Today, being a young Zimbabwean adult, Christmas means last hour shopping for groceries to take to “kumusha” after picking up my annual bonus from the bank. And since most other people will be doing the same it means bearing with the congestion in shops and finding alternatives for groceries that will have fallen out of stock.

It means dashing in the rains to Harare’s oldest township – Mbare, with big bags of groceries and hoping they do not get wet while trying to board buses that may have slightly hiked their fares, capitalising on commuters’ desperation to get to 

their families since they might have been awarded a week or so away from work.

When on the bus, then and only can you call someone from “kumusha” with a cellular phone that has network reception and advise of your arrival so as to get assurance of finding someone to receive you with a wheelbarrow at the bus stop. Then also there is the need to make a convincing story for Gogo (grandma) as to why you would have spent the whole year without visiting.

Being my Gogo’s favourite grandchild, my arrival spells the death of the biggest he-goat and the biggest cock altogether. Since the clan has disintegrated the onus to kill and skin the goat will be on me and it is quite a thrill for me. Then as we prepare the goat intestines and other offals into some delicious coils that are then boiled, Gogo will then take her time to tell me of all rumours and deaths that may have occurred during my absence.

But usually after the long narration, the tide then turns on me and I end up on the receiving end. I then have to endure my almost 90 year old grandmother’s scolding for reaching 30 years and still single. Despite that I still get the biggest piece of chicken and the best goat portions usually served with rice for our Christmas lunch and then I am obliged to head to the Local Township or Growth Point (business centres that were designed to eventually become small towns in rural Zimbabwe) with other people of my age.

The township will be packed with people of all ages milling around and spending their savings on Coca-cola and the famous lemon cream biscuits, some will be braaing in front of the butcheries and others will be sitting as family and friends dealing with the 2 litre opaque beer, which they either pass around all people drinking from the huge mug, or the more hygienic would rather have personal tumblers or the 1 litre "Shake-shakes".

The teenagers will be milling around the community hall trying to find their way into the Christmas Disco if not trying to “catch” someone to go in with. Those from the cities will be showing off with their finer English accent, cell phones borrowed from their older relations and anything else that is of no significant value.

But for me being an adult from the city means having to buy something for almost anyone who will have recognised me. A fizzy drink here, a packet of candy there and maybe a fine beer for a distant uncle, it all comes around to making Christmas what it really is for me.

For me Christmas is a time for me to reflect on the importance of family; family in the cultural way, where everyone has a link with one another through sharing surnames, places of origin and totems. 

May the realisation that we are all one big family this Christmas be a reason to think of the less privileged this festive season and help us also to reconnect with the families that we may be neglecting.

Have a pleasant holiday