CHRISTMAS LESSON By Maureen Kambarami
Growing up, Christmas was a splendid affair at my maternal grandmother’s house. It was that time of the year when we could eat until the stomach complained while dressed in new clothing. We were also allowed to go to the shops and socialize with friends until late in the evening. The smell of baked cakes and scones made in my grandmother’s underground oven filled the air at this time, and lunch always consisted of grilled chicken or goat meat, made on the open fire served with rice. For me, the highlight was the parade of my new clothes to my friends and this made my Christmas experience complete. However, one day, Christmas as I knew it, changed. It was in 1992 when a terrible drought ravaged Zimbabwe. This drought coincided with my father’s retrenchment and as the scorching sun hardened the ground, killing all plants and livestock. My father’s pockets also dried out. It was then that he announced we had to move from the city to the farm, which had belonged to his late parents. City life was very expensive if one had no income, so we headed to the farm with the anticipation that the drought would soon be over, and we could survive on farming.
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Upon arrival at the farm, we hastily settled in and started preparing for farming. While all our neighbors had the necessary equipment, we only had a few hoes, which we used to till the land. The food we had brought was fast running out and still, the drought continued. My mother tried her level best to stretch the food by limiting us to one meal per day—supper. During the day, our saving grace was the many mango trees that my late grandparents had been wise enough to plant. The mangos were so big that a couple of them always did the trick of quietening our rumbling stomachs. On Christmas day, I woke up with a heavy heart, thinking that this was undoubtedly the most painful day of my life. I chose a big mango tree and climbed high up, finding a comfortable branch to sit on before I started having my fruit breakfast, as was the norm. After gnawing nonstop at the green mangos, my stomach accepted the appeasement, and I got down. I did not know how to spend the day and wished that I was at my maternal grandmother’s place; that woman knew how to make Christmas special for children. As I was still pondering what to do next on this gloomy day, I heard children’s laughter coming from our neighbor’s house and immediately felt cross. They were chatting loudly, excitedly, while I had nothing to be happy for. I was still in this somber mood when I was startled by a voice behind me. It was our elderly neighbor asking me if my mother was at home. It was public knowledge that my father did not like this neighbor, so it was surprising that she would come to our house. She was carrying a reed basket covered by a cloth on top, so I concluded she must have been selling something. I pointed to the thatched kitchen where I had left my mother and she went to look for her.
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