Dear Father Christmas,
I’m tucked half naked crunching some cookies and sipping some hot black coffee. It’s silent and serene in an abnormal way. I want you to tell me what really happened to Christmas. What happened to the frenzy of getting ready to host guests. Yeah, lots of them. What took away the excitement and commotion accompanied by this day? How can people be sitting in their beds alone? How can we be only volatile on virtual network? This is fun no more.
Let me remind you what Christmas was like when I was growing up before a tornado hit my family hard unawares. I was brought up in a farm. I presume you know all this but these fine details are very import to me. Yeah, large farm with tract and tract of land. Uncountable cattle, numerous poultry and abundance of crop. Our home had a pen, an orchard, a dam, a stream, acres of corn, wild fruits and a big family. I think you comprehend my version of large.
I had normal days alternating from routine and some misplaced priorities. As a kid, those must have been school, loose herding, sitting at the fireplace and constant whipping due some stupid mistakes. That’s what being a child should be anyway. I remember once, when I was thrashed for swimming in our cattle’s water trough. Dumb, huh?
The most import day was Christmas. Birthdays, thanksgiving and religious days were allowed to be carelessly forgotten but this, no. Christmas was the only timed we were permitted to break the rules without dire consequences. Having paranoid and strict parents who all they ever wanted was the best for their kids, one loose day was a safe haven. Wait, apart from living in our small garden of Eden.
The news stuff we got during other 365 days of the year were not regarded as special. No. what was special about them? Absolutely nothing. They were just new stuff, you know what am saying? Christmas gifts were dear. Sometimes I tend to think my parents saved for half a year to get us the most expensive outfit every year.
The eve of Christmas was the most industrious day of our lives. We cleaned every corner of our homestead. My dad was busy mowing the lawns and trimming the hedges, mummy was cleaning the ‘guest’ kitchenette, I was weeding the flowers and watering the potted plants, somebody else was doing laundry, another was tiding the sheep’s pen. One chore to another but we never complained. Christmas was meant for absolute feasting and resting.
Christmas day. By sunrise you could smell the fragrance of freshly baked cakes. We had a very old even that seemed to be very useful on this day. I could dash out of the bed to the kitchen to feast. Daddy was somewhere slaughtering a goat which would be roasted or grilled later. After breakfast I would be assigned to catch the rooster that my family had kept the whole year just to be eaten during Christmas. I remember this one time that it was so huge and old that it took the whole day to cook. My parents are generous. Our guest list was long and the meals prepared were enough to be eaten for two days. Our parents awarded us with good amounts of cash during this day which was out of the norm since they had a perception that money corrupts good morals. I don’t know what to think about that now. After eating, we would all go out. The day was concluded with a family photo.
When I was twelve, shit happened and the happy family was separated and it was the last time I ever heard of a fun Christmas. It was the last time I lived in the farm. It was the last time Christmas gifts meant something. It was the end of family feasts and Christmas photos. It was the stoppage to big sacrificial cock rearing. Suddenly Christmas lost meaning and my people started working on this day. We stopped hosting and partying. My parent stopped coming home for this sacred day.
It was only during Christmas that daddy was willing to travel just to be there for the slaughtering ritual. Then all that was gone. He always had an excuse. Am working. My leave is short. It became sad and lonely. Then, slowly the light of Christmas dimmed. I remember one Christmas that I sat at the gate the whole day waiting for any automobile to dispatch papa at our door step. He never came. I cried.
Now daddy is dead and there is no point of waiting at the gate. The tranquility of Christmas is gone. The nostalgia of my childhood is drowning me. As I write this, I want you to know, nothing unique will happen today. I’m probably going to sleep after posting this mail. I don’t think it is happening to me only. It is happening to a lot of people. Christmas is supposed to be blissful and full of love. Some people are really missing out on it. Please restore Christmas. Merry Christmas .
Yours truly,
You Essie.
