By Munhamu Pekeshe

HATE it, love it…there is something special about Christmas.
Some use Christmas as a marker of age.
Wadya makirisimasi mangani?
It is also about feasting.
Growing up Christmas meant new clothes, tea and bread, rice and chicken.
There was also vhuserere from the local Methodist parish in the morning.
In the afternoon, village patriarchs moved from homestead to homestead par-taking the special Christmas brews.
Our mothers anxiously awaited compliments on how well they would have brewed doro rekirisimasi.
Men who spent the greater part of the year toiling in towns used this chance to bond with colleagues and attend to community issues.
Youngsters went to the township for soft drinks and to show off their Christmas outfits.
Whether you are Christian or other you know that this side of heaven Christmas is always warm, wet and jovial. This last Christmas was no exception.
I left Harare very early for Unyetu on Christmas day.
Well before the morning showers and police roadblocks. By sunrise I was negotiating my way past Chambara in the Manyene Communal areas.
On either side of the road even the miserable maize crop seemed to be waving at me in some unexplained Christmas excitement.
At exactly seven o’clock in the morning I was announcing my arrival home with one final rev of the engine.
Mbuya, from her sweet potato beds and her vazukuru, who had miserably remained in their beds fearing my non-arrival all mobbed the truck, in celebratory mood.
Christmas goodies were quickly offloaded and Christmas was finally with us.
Breakfast approximated the traditional tea and bread with generous Sun Jam spread.
Presents were unpacked and distributed.
Stories were exchanged on developments in Unyetu and Harare.
By mid-morning two cocks and a goat had paid the supreme Christmas sacrifice.
Mbuya and some of her vazukuru left for a Christmas church service and were back well before lunch.
Lunch was served early and what a feast it was.
There was plenty to eat and drink.
I had brought enough drinks in cooler bags from Harare.
After lunch it was time for the ritual visit to the township.
The little ones all fitted into mukwasha’s Noah and each one with a dollar to spend headed for Unyetu township.
The eldest of the vazukuru was allowed, unlicensed, was allowed to drive this special cargo to the township.
Not before repeated counselling about overexcitement and the holiday ghost.
The rest of us took to the truck and left for Masasa Township.
The crowd that was at Masasa was massive.
Nothing could have prepared me for such a large crowd. From toddlers to adults the place was teeming with excited characters.
A few crowded the poor shops for purchases.
Kids appeared to be in an ever ending show of crisscrossing movements.
Most, however, seemed content to just stand in the searing heat and engage in idle talk.
This was Christmas.
With my mukuwasha and muzukuru we parked by one of the bottle stores and tortured ourselves with warm beer. In the cooler box back home there were much colder beers.
Later we left Masasa to join the Unyetu group.
The crowd was equally massive.
Like at Masasa most of the people appeared just content to stand and mark their presence at the township.
One or two strange faces recognised me. I pretended to recognise them as well and engaged in some small talk before they left.
This is the new Christmas ritual, I wondered.
By the evening, back home, the excitement had rapidly cooled down.
It was all over.
Next morning we would travel back to Harare.
Christmas is over.