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Christmas then, Diaspora now and mutilation of family ties
Capulet Chakupeta
January 05, 2010

The celebration of Christmas has had several turns for many individuals and families. This used to be a time of merry making and feasting, casting aside the fact of poverty and suffering. That transformation has long since ceased to be, the poor continue suffering, even going hungry on Christmas day. Chickens and goats were slaughtered to feed all, sparkling village girls used to shine and smell nicely. Kids dressed in their newly acquired clothes, villagers welcomed even strangers on the table to share a meal. Church attendance on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning meant congregations gathering to praise God for the gift of life. Jesus- life and individuals- life. That-s barely ten years ago.

The last six years have been different. I moved to the 'Diaspora- to fend for and defend myself and my immediate family and other unofficial dependents, cousins, nieces and others adopted over the years I have been in the Diaspora. Whenever I come back home at Christmas, fellow villagers have expectations and I am obliged to fulfill these, being their homeboy, neighbour, sonny, mukoma, muzukuru, mukuwasha or sekuru. Others adopted informally call me bhururu, murungu, biggaz, or mufana all because they want me to give them sidekicks. I have tried to honour their expectations and play the provider, be at church, at the bar, in the village and even at unorganized community functions, right from kwaMai Talent to Sekuru Mujubheki at the end of the village. Of the six years I have been out of the country, I have returned to Zimbabwe for Christmas once every year except last year.

One of the best things that I used to do when I returned home was to enjoy a small bottle of either creme de liquer or rum. The rum bottle, named 'hand granade- would be my own whereas scuds and hot-stuff [whisky] were bought for the entire drinking folks. I used to buy the 750ml bottles, and then they would run it down with either coke or water. My mother reminded me always of the story of the man who died the other year. His relative from 'Diaspora- came and did get 'zvapomba- for the family. There were varieties - vodka, Smirnoff, Teachers and Jamaican rum. Now as the drinking went on, people began to confuse the bottles. Instead of mixing Smirnoff with water or coke, he picked vodka instead. He downed the mixture as the others cheered. In less than half an hour, he was frothing and kicked the bucket. You do not run down Smirnoff with vodka.

Christmas being what it used to be, all being fair, the kids from the neighbourhood would don clothes with creases of newness from Payless, Mr Price or Express. Clothing ranged from viscose shirts and dresses tie and dye, stone-washy jeans and dark glasses. Shoes were mostly from kwaBata and extra large Tee shirts from flea markets. Imprints varied from Bob Marley portraits, Turpac, Hulk Hogan, Madonna, Janet Jackson and never to be seen European league soccer players and teams. Hairstyles came in various styles; punky, box cut, bibo, potato cut and golden dyed hair for men. Women had wig, straight perm, carpet dreads, weave and Dark and Lovely effects.

Christmas season brings to memory the days when we used to celebrate not only Christ-s birth, but family and communal celebration of life. Food and dance were indicators of happiness. Apart from chicken and rice, bread murusero, goat meat, even pork for non fundamental Christians and non Muslims, Mazoe orange crush and raspberry could be seen flowing fast down throats even at the poorest homestead. At home, Duracell batteries would energize the portable cassette players with loud music accompanied by adumbrations of body movement. Children and young adults flocked the local township, gyrating vigorously to Nicholas Zacharia, Simon 'Cellular- Chimbetu, Oliver Mutukudzi, Thomas 'Gandanga- Mapfumo and Leonard Dembo-s artistic vocal and guitar explosions. That was Christmas.

Homemade brews on this day were not entertained. Those young boys from town would have saved their incomes from August, to enable them to travel back to the village, and show off. New clothes, drinking clear beer, affording ginger biscuits or vanilla creams for their village girls, who would also smell nice in rarely used perfume. On this day, one would think the young lady had fallen into a whole bottle of perfume. They all smelt nicely.

Teachers would be seen riding their mountain bikes in the afternoon tracking the dusty road to the local shopping centre. This was one period they ceased to 'shine- in the village. In normal days, they were the 'haves- of the community, even though they were known for borrowing meat from the local butcher, goats and chicken from villagers, even some grocery items from one shop to the next. This period, since many would have come back from town, teachers were not the only ones partaking of clear beer. This day, they were forced to buy using cash, not 'ndinyorei mubhuku rangu-, as they used to say to Doreen, the lady in the bar. Even in the Village Beer Garden [bhawa] where they had an iron bench reserved for them, on this day, they would not find space. Town boys would invade it deliberately to show how much they can compete in spending.

Last year I didn-t go home for Christmas. My mother wrote a letter and mentioned that half of the village was asking what had happened. Like other Diasporas, travel is costly, let alone the expenses at home. One cannot afford yearly travel back to Zimbabwe and down to the village. So, sending money is the only option. They use it economically, thinking of school fees and uniforms, clinic fees, chigayo, cattle tax and other family needs. The last time I came, I shared with most of the relatives, the basic needs thus last year they asked what had happened. I was their only hope. I am afraid I am disappointing them again this year. I cannot translate the economic furore at the beginning of this year. I cannot explain this to them, even to my own mom. Let alone affording travel and sharing generously.

My aging mother was expecting to hear the news of my yet to be announced marriage. I would have wanted to show her the snaps [pictures] of my newly acquired Indian girl friend, a lawyer by profession. My mother is rather opting for Chipo from the neighbourhood. Chipo is decent and can do all household chores prudently. She dropped from high school the other year when her father failed to raise fees. Now my heart has settled on this Indian girl. This might disappoint the family. Christmas might have been the best time to announce her to the family. Since I failed to go home, this announcement is being shelved, not sure when to make it. Whence forth this year? Peep Less and Speak Less.

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