We abandoned favourite chapo for Christmas

By Joseph Maina

Tuesday morning, I woke up to a Christmassy atmosphere. It was the peak of the festive season, and the air was replete with pomp and swag.

 I had initially planned to travel to Kitale to unwind, but matatu crews decided that Kitale is farther from Nairobi in December than in other months and charged fares that were almost equivalent to Burundi’s annual GDP.

So, I doddered off to the living room, nursing a triple-distilled hangover and with a million bells jingling in my head. The previous night, I had joined my fellow wise men in welcoming Baby Jesus at the local. Pubs in my neighborhood are very understanding, and they accept all forms of payment (including school fees.) 

Back in the house, my mboys were playing Christmas Carols at staggering decibel levels, with the aroma of sweet food wafting all over the place. We also had a five-foot Christmas tree that Mama Jimmy had harvested from the supermarket the previous day. The tree was made from polyester, and it was embellished with all manner of garlands, disco lights, ribbons, balloons and all that glitzy razzmatazz.

“Nice work, dear,” I complimented while slumping on the couch. Growing up, we had no Christmas trees or Carols or Santa Clowns, but that did not burst our Christmas bubble. All we needed were new clothes and shoes. Shoes were particularly welcome, especially to those kids who combed the morning dew with their toes on the way to school.

Again, Chrissie was the day when nyoyo, enkima and muthokoi took a hike and gave way to chapo. We’d congregate around fireplaces and watch our mothers preparing this delectable snack, and nobody dared leave the house. Not even your best friend was welcome on Chrissie. Admittedly, our moms had not gone to Chapatti Cooking School, which might explain why the average chapo weighed close to a kilo. Still, we’d scramble for those chapattis like conflict diamonds, as chapo was the only piece of junk food you’d have in 365 days.

“Hakuwezi kukalika bila mti ya Christmas,” Mama Jimmy quipped with a big grin. To her, Christmas is not Christmas without a Christmas tree. However, a close look at that “tree” revealed that it was not worth two shillings. Those shiny appendages did not look like River Road material either. Now I was officially scared. With this kind of spending, we might incur the kind of debt that’s normally associated with third world countries.

 Special breakfast

“Leo nimekuandalia breakfast special, Baba Jim,” she piped, indicating a bamboozling array of exotic recipes. “We’ll have poached eggs, cranberry pumpkin bread and French toast with berry compote,” she hallucinated. With this assurance, I sunk my mandibles into the strange potpourri, praying that I would not end up undergoing a colonoscopy.

Having decimated my ration, I made a beeline for the balcony. My next-door neighbour was staggering home from the local “House of Maji”, singing a broken Christmas carol in a mix of English, vernacular and what sounded like Mandarin Chinese.

“Merry Christmas Baba Jim!” he roared, his voice bursting with alcohol-fuelled delight.

“Merry Christmas, Baba Giddy,” I saluted back while stepping back to the hacienda. I just wish we could Kenyanise Christmas. For starters, we could overthrow that bathrobe-wearing Santa guy. Just who is Santa in our scheme of things? Can’t we have our own icons - such as Papa Shirandula - taking up Santa’s role? We would dress him up in colourful Kitenge robes and christen him ‘Santa Shirandula’ or ‘Papa Claus.’ We’d then teach our progeny to sing “Jingle bells” and other Christmas Carols in our native tongues. And speaking of Carols, supposing we remixed those Christmas Carols and baptised them Christmas Wanjikus or Christmas Atienos or Christmas Walubengos?

“Daddy, please take me to sit on Santa’s lap,” begged little Tiffany. Apparently, Christmas has shifted from the chapatti pan to Santa’s lap.

“Sawa mummy,” I promised my little angel. Russell was holding a Santa Claus toy, complete with a sleigh drawn by six reindeer.

“Huyu ni Santa Claus akiendesha kadinga kake,” he piped with boyish delight.

In a truly Kenyan Christmas, Santa Shirandula’s sleigh would not be pulled by reindeer when we have our very own camels, Maasai sheep and Zebu bulls. Times are moving, and Christmas is no longer the same.

The “jolly bearded one” came around and slapped the “ho ho ho” out of the festivity. Christmas has morphed from our good old “Analog Christmas” to the “Digital Christmas” that our dotcoms enjoy these days. Our beloved chapo has lost its iconic status.