Folks, it is that dreaded time of year for loners like me. A time when families gather, travel hundreds of miles to remote homes they see once a year and pretend to love and care about each other and everyone within 10 kilometres of the local church. No, do not get me wrong, I am not a misanthrope; I love people and find joy in their merrymaking. Heck, half of the time, that is one of the things I enjoy about going to bars and nightclubs; getting a corner by myself and watching people have a wonderful time. It gives me joy. But there is something about the Christmas holiday that rubs me the wrong way. I just hate the pretense that comes with this particular holiday.
I am not going into gory details about it merely being a random day bestowed upon us by a solar and lunar cycle that is schizophrenic at best. It is a date that humanity has decreed that we pretend to share peace on earth and spread goodwill towards all men then the very next day, go back to our corrupt tendencies, buying court decisions, stealing each other’s land and sometimes spouses. Miss me with those celebrations.
Usually, Christmas finds me on the couch, book in hand or in the mountains on solo hikes. This time though, things are a bit different. A good friend of ours, Angie, who has probably never missed a Christmas gathering, has asked that we get together and just do a braai and whisky as we sing our vaunts to the gods and belatedly celebrate her 41st birthday and latest promotion at work. She is probably hosting.
When she asked, all of us gave her the ‘you can’t be serious’ look, but she told us a story about her last family Christmas that left us caught between laughter, tears and pity. She told us of her exchange with an ‘auntie’. You know the kind that ask for salt, sugar and medicine cash soon as they set eyes on you. She calls her ‘Auntie sukaali’.
Last Christmas, Angie had turned 40 and she went to the village, as usual. She handed Auntie sukaali her usual gifts of sugar, soap, salt and 100K. Hugs and loud thank yous follow. It is the usual Christmas cheer. Or so Angie thought. Until lunchtime came. Angie, in her own words, went like: ‘I can’t quite find a proper description of the element of surprise these aunties come with but I will use football terms for this: imagine having a village soccer team full of ex-pros, then a drunken village chief, beer in hand, potbelly to show for years of imbibing the bitter brew, just casually walks on.
He lulls everyone into a false sense of security, only for him to dribble past y’all and send a curler into the top left corner of the goal, Zizou style. Then bursts out laughing.’
She continued: that is the kind of mischief these aunties seem to be up to. Their timing is impeccable. They wait for when everyone is gathered for that heavy Christmas lunch, the alcohol is making rounds, everyone is praising you for your overwhelming career success and then they drop the bomb: ‘But Angel, we see you are doing very well but when are you producing?’
You look up, almost chocking on your meat. You know she is not talking about setting up industries for consumer goods. She looks around the silent table as if to confirm the punch landed and then she goes in for the kill: you know, these days, you do not even have to bring us the man. I am sure among your friends, there is one you really like and can stand. Wink, wink. Now you feel the entire weight of the room on you. They are suffocating you with judgement, expectation and a ting of pity; a resigned fate, if you will.
These are the same relatives that only a few short years ago were asking you to wait and find the perfect man to marry you in a glamorous wedding to be talked about by generations of villagers. Now, all they see you for is a baby assembly line. The bar is at basement level.
‘Being a single, successful, childless 40-year-old in Uganda should come with a warning label to remember to avoid family gatherings’, she concluded. Outside Angie, the entire friend group has kids but we were aghast at the treatment she got for making a choice only she can make. And hers is not the worst Christmas horror story. So, we will be gathering on 25th to have such a great time while the rest of y’all partake in this mass hysteria that is a middle eastern holiday. We shall use a break from your meanness. Merry Christmas!