The Christmas that never was and other pretty short stories

Charles Baraka,Derick Otieno,Michael Mwanza and Eugene Amani at the Somerset Westview Nairobi Christmas tree lighting and Kids Christmas Carols singing event by Somerst staff and Glory christian rescue home kids in Nairobi on 3rd December 2022. [David Gichuru,Standard]

Christmas travel has been banned in my household in recent years. This one-man campaign against the rising tide of consumerism and exhibitionism has been hard-fought; even the youngest man in the family relishes the prospects of lifting a landline and ordering for room service.

I am not exactly averse to travel: I say take me to the moon if you want, but do so in the first 51 weeks of the year. But I will not move an inch over the Christmas season. I will be home with family, not manga-mangaring around like a man of no fixed abode.

The official opposition in the house got organised and lobbied quietly to ensure I lost the vote 3-1, and so managed to drag me out of the house to a facility in Gilgil, on the fringe of Lake Naivasha.

The setting was picture-perfect, as the promotional pictures online attested. But the software of the hotel wasn't in working order: the shower was solar-powered, so we mostly had cold showers throughout our stay, and the food was so bad, it fitted the popular bill of mathogothanio. That means a mish-mash of unpalatable things.

Most evenings, the menu was rice and cabbage, the sort that you concoct when least inspired, after a long day at work. But since a hungry man or woman can't afford to choose, even this mishmash elicited a stampede at oddly spaced-out meal times. Unable to stomach the nonsense, I drove the clan to Nakuru for lunch at a proper facility on Christmas day.

"I told you..." I said gleefully. "We'd have had a better experience at home..." One of the lads shrugged: "Me I'm enjoying swimming!"

Of course, he need not have travelled half across the country for a swim, certainly not on Christmas day but I did not say anything. When things are where you want them, you let them be. My point about the pointless Christmas travel had been made. Or so I thought...

Last year, the clan got foot loose, yet again. But this time, it was a lunch drive within easy reach. It was raining when we arrived, in the thick of Covid-19 restrictions, so we could not huddle in the few tents available, and whose occupants gave murderous look at those who dared get close.

And because some relations had been phoned to join us at the establishment, we called to redirect them home - as I had always proposed - but even this victory was pyrrhic. I called my local butcher and ordered a fine roast.

Arriving two hours later, I was surprised to find the butcher dodgy. He had sold my order. "Naomba unipe nusu saa..." he pleaded. There was a beeline waiting for the roasting meat so I decided I better hang around and pick my order as soon as it was ready.

But it was not to be. The new order was sold, partly cooked, I presumed, so I drove the clan home in a fit of fury. Lunch was served as dinner. I had missed lunch on Christmas day!

That's not to say I do not enjoy travel and hospitality; when the razzmatazz dies down, I intend to retreat to the sun-kissed beaches and sit chini ya mnazi and marvel how this pagan rite came to gain religious meaning and following. Thankfully, I'm not part of that ruckus.

Merry Christmas, everyone, and best wishes for the New Year!