A hands off Christmas in Shaggz

The gentle December winds blew steadily over the vast harvested corn fields, gathering dusk and dried husks, only to deposit them at random places yonder. The relief these cool winds brought in an environment otherwise colonised by the scorching sun was quite refreshing; except for the load it carried-which proved to be quite a visual nuisance, especially when in contact with the eye balls. The afternoons were the harshest, with each spec dried of moisture. The wind sucked them up in their zillions and saturated the air to look like a cloud of tiny locusts had invaded the village. Breathing at this point was difficult and asthmatics especially, needed to have their anti-histamines very close by.

It was best to stay indoors or some place elsewhere where dense foliage could soak up much of the micro bullets flying in the air before they hit the trachea. A drink too would do good, making up for the fluids lost thanks to the heat. Panda and I were having a hard time.

Judging from the beehive of activities around and about my grandfather’s homestead, no energy was being spared in their mad rush to wind up the chores, as the family braced for Christmas day.  The big tasks like thatching and plastering the houses with ochre had been done in the weeks that passed, and the eve saw everybody put the final tit bits to the whole workmanship to bring about finesse for the day. I saw grandpa adjust a sheath of skewed thatch with his cane, while my aunts delicately applied bright orange flower patterns on the white-ochred walls. My grand-mum was watching keenly, occasionally pointing with a crooked finger at points on the walls she thought did not match her expectations. The younger cousins were busy helping to deliver supplies to the working women, shrilling loudly as they engaged in running matches to and fro. Tethered far across the low hedges, a young black bull was busy chewing on a heap of vines and saplings, oblivious of the fate that awaited it that evening.

Panda pulled her scarf tighter around the face. It was getting harder for her to adjust to the air. A whiff of raw air sent her into a sneezing fit, and after that she wrapped head permanently in a hood and a scarf like a Toureg tribesman. We had barely arrived from the city when our parents shooed us away to be with our grandparents during the Christmas festivities. Panda had been amazed by the reception accorded to her, as my grandmother and a throng of women relatives swarmed around her, ululating and wrapping her with khangas.

The singing went on until the noon meal had been served and the women summoned back to work. Being new guests, we were exonerated from the day’s work, a noble decision which needed no much urging. Unlike Panda’s first encounter with my mother, which was a bit unsettling, this was like a walk in the park. My grandmother was not expecting any wifely prowess and her gentle heart and charisma made Panda fall for her charm. They were talking like age old friends even before formal introductions had been done. As soon as the pleasantries were over, my Grandpa was out and running. He was expecting his peers the next day and wanted to ensure all was set for a good reception.

And so we sat idling the whole afternoon and evening, engaging in lazy banter. Later on, I volunteered to help hold down the young bull as it was being put to the knife. Through the corner of my eyes, I saw Panda’s unbelieving face, her mouth forming a big ‘O’. She thought slaughtering was cruel. However, when a bit of the meat was roasted, she wolfed down three chunks from the skewers, with a face of intense enjoyment.

‘To eat roast, a bull must be slain; you ignorant wife of mine,’ I thought unkindly as I sat next to her. ‘Why are you giving me that look?’, she asked between bites. ‘Oh? Errrr… actually, I am so glad to see you enjoying your meat,’ I lied. The lie was true to some extent.

Of late, our baby growing inside Panda was becoming big and heavy She was convinced she was carrying a giant baby. Ironically, she had no appetite. She thought that to accommodate the huge baby, her stomach-the part that allows for food-had shrunk. And that was grave Clews in the midst of a Christmas fete. She could only afford to eat half a helping and no more. Instead, she just watched as kinsmen gorged themselves. I could see beyond her plastic smile, a whirling uproar that did not take kindly her pregnancy being a road block to indulge in the fat of the land. There were no gifts exchanged as that was not the custom.

We handed over our presents unceremoniously to our grandparents in the morning of Christmas. Grandmother was thrilled by the coastal kitenge Panda brought her while grandpa immediately put on his new shoes and started walking around proudly in the new outfit.

Later that evening after the meal, a string of elderly men snaked in from the neighborhood, leaning heavily on their walking sticks. Brief greetings saw them ushered under an old giant mango tree in the garden behind the huts. There, a number of foldable chairs arranged in a circle awaited them. My grandfather gestured at me to follow the throng of elderly men. As I was pondering if this was a kangaroo court about to deliberate on its minutes, a stout uncle bearing a burly pot emerged from the hut and proceeded to plant it at the epicenter. A file of female relatives followed, each carrying a guard filled with traditional beer and warm water.

These were emptied into the pot. The wizened men then proceeded to twist the top caps of their canes, which detached themselves from the bottom rest, after which they coercively tapped them onto the ground. With a puzzled look, I saw a narrow ‘soda straw’ like tubule snake out of the bamboo hollow. The end of the tubes had a round protuberance which was slowly lowered to the bottom of the beer pot. Beer was taken by sucking into these flexy tubes. I saw how the first sip brightened the eyes and elicited toothless grins from the men. However, that was not to be my case, the novice in me somehow sucked in brute force, and the flood of brew found my windpipe still open. I was thrown into a coughing fit with the alcohol threatening to asphyxiate me… That discouraged me from further indulgence.

There was a surge of adrenaline in me as my grandfather introduced me to his peers as his first grandson, named after a legendary hero of our tribe. The fellowship registered me with appreciative nods. Soon, however, I got bored with their peer monologue about the village goings on, of which I had neither clue nor interest in. It was tiring, staying mum as they had their quality time downing their favourite drink.

I started throwing expectant glances towards the huts looking for Panda. After an eternity, she burst from the kitchens. I calmly stood up and walked as if towards the toilets, then changed my bearings to the right. ‘Hey princess: I startled her from behind. ‘I see you are busy being tear gassed.’ She turned, saw it was me and smiled warmly. ‘You can say that again: she replied, looking tired. I smiled and opened my arms for an embrace. She did not resist. ‘You reek like a brewery: she started. ‘And you smell like a fish market: I joked. Smoke had clung on her, mixing with her deodorant, resulting in a weird scent.

There was a deep throaty cough from behind; we turned to see grandma giving us a disapproving glare. I read the mood and quickly uncoiled my hands that had roped themselves around Panda and moved a step back guiltily.

“Children are watching” was all she said before she turned back and headed for the latrines.

This was a patriarchal society, and open display of affection was frowned at. Couples, who had a tendency of getting cupid at every slight opportunity, could get in trouble here. I can swear I have never seen our grandparents even hold hands since I was born. Romance was confined behind the walls of the mud hut bedrooms and nothing beyond that.

‘We can’t even hold hands?’, Panda asked unbelieving.’ Nope, but that is just for today. Tomorrow, we head back home where we can do that: I reassured her. I was glad our parents were a bit liberal and had refused to be wholly sucked into some of these taboos. After rehearsing not holding hands for a while, we stole a quick embrace.

‘I find your grandparents good people though: Panda summarized, ‘Their hearts are generous and kind.” Yeah: I agreed, ‘Some good people are sometimes tied up in some unpleasant environments. Your folk are good just as much.’

Panda smiled as she remembered the hardship I had endured as I braved a visit to their home to ask for her hand in marriage. We went our separate ways; her back to the kitchen and I back to the beer fellowship of brethren. Deep inside, we knew that we were not about to keep our hands off each other. We will somehow find some discrete spots in the compound and craftily indulge in our blissful romance, then later on emerge with pious faces as if nothing had happened.

END: PG 37 /14-15