This day brings back good, old memories

I am at a stage in life when that jolly fellow they call Santa looks like my age mate, or even younger. I have seen enough Christmases that every Christmas reminds me of a past one.Nowadays, Christmas Day is no longer momentous. Remove the birth of Jesus years ago - which is based on conjecture anyway - and it becomes another drab day. For me, what makes the day special are the shared memories and the possibilities of making many more. But above all, the revisit to one's childhood. Reason why once again, this season I find myself in the village, walking down old paths whose every bend is etched in my memory like a tattoo.

Nothing new about my village - it has remained unchanged since Dedan Kimathi was in the forest fighting for freedom. After all the years, the place has the same old sights. The old pub where coffee farmers in frayed caps meet to discuss the weather, politics or the ills of the world that have stolen their children from them. The gothic Catholic church that faces the pub in an eternal moral duel. The elderly aunties chatting by the roadside, selling red plums that burst in my mouth like sunshine. Plus, the almost immortal turbaned shopkeeper who sold me Madvani sweets when I could hardly wipe my nose.

Goat-eating

During this season, the village has its own smells. The aroma of a goat head being roasted over red coals, like a burnt sacrifice to the god of Yuletide. The smell of chapatis wafting from every home. The lone distant drum from a small church full of pious villagers singing carols in the local dialect. All these are part of the larger sensations - the sounds and smells of my childhood.

I trudge down the winding dirt road that Kamaley and I walked down many a wet morning as we went to school. I cross the creaky wooden bridge below which a languid river gurgles as it meanders down to the sea. I discern the point where girls would come look for water beetles to bite on their nipples for them to grow large. Do girls do that anymore?I find Gicheru - one of my kinsmen - grazing his herd by the riverside at dusk. He stands like a sentinel, watching over his restless steers. His trousers are folded at the knees, his hands hanging on the shepherd's staff that lies across his shoulders. It may be Christmas, or whichever day, but Gicheru's beloved beasts must eat. When