Month of miseries is coming, again

This year’s Christmas festivities started on a high note for me.

On Tuesday evening, I attended our annual office Christmas party, held at a posh city hotel.

This is a corporate event, in which staff members make merry together, forge new ties, mingle with colleagues they have practically avoided throughout the year, interact with the bosses and even pretend to like their jokes.

There was plenty of food, which people really ate, and plenty of free drinks, which I really drank.

Then on Christmas Eve, I joined a couple of wise men in welcoming Baby Jesus at the local watering hole.

Again, I treated myself to lots of nyama choma, kanywaji and some serious boogie-woogie.

Frankly, it will take a while before I sober up, what with all the concoctions I imbibed those two days.

Earlier this season, I had vowed to steer clear of reckless fun.

However, as happens in other years, I unwittingly resigned myself to the joys of the season and completely let go of common sense.

The same was true of some of my friends, some of whom are seeking cures for their Christmas spending hangovers.

With Christmas behind us, it is time to celebrate “Christ-mess”.

“It seems we never learn from our past mistakes,” my friend Mwendwa confessed on Boxing Day.

The dreaded month of Njaa-nuary is just around the corner, bringing its usual miseries along.

Days before Christmas, our landlord posted a caveat at the entrance to our plot, promising dire consequences to tenants who fail to remit rent payments by the first week of Njaa-nuary.

Again, food prices always shoot upwards, and the only food whose price remains intact is food for thought.

Coming to school fees, Jimmy’s headteacher should brace himself for Baba Jimmy’s customary cock and bull stories once schools reopen (my sacco loan backfired, the ATM swallowed my card, the dog ate Jimmy’s school fees... you know the drill).

Anyway, I arose on Christmas with the words “give us this day our kanywaji again” ringing in my mind, but Mama Jimmy would hear none of it.

“No more drinks for you, Baba Jim,” she declared firmly. Even my lads seemed to agree with her. Well, you can tell that things are really bad when teenagers start talking sense, so I shelved my drinking plans and opted to hang out with family.

Christmas Carols were playing on the stereo, setting the mood for the auspicious event.

Miss Mboch whipped up a delectable meal, and even though she spent more time cooking it than most people spend planning their weddings, she performed a sterling job.

Later on, I dished out some presents, which included a bag of shopping for the comptroller, a set of dolls for Little Tiffany and an unspecified amount of money to Miss Mboch.

I did not buy any presents for the lads, as they never seem to appreciate my choice of gifts.

Last year, I bought them novels, but a little bird tells me they hardly touch them.

The previous year, I had bought them a pair of look-alike sweaters, which they rejected.

“Hatupendi nguo zinafanana! Sisi sio watu wa choir!” they had protested.

Fearing rejection this time, I asked Mama Jimmy to try her luck, and she did not disappoint.

“Tada!” she piped, while tendering brand new PlayStation, which the lads immediately took to their room.

Since that day, they have become addicted to the gadgets, and nothing in the world matters to them anymore. A giraffe could easily walk into the house while they are playing games, and chances are they would not notice it.

With the lads’ gone, Mama Jimmy presented a gift to the man who brings home the unga.

It was a small box in colourful gift wrapping. “Nimekununulia zawadi, my dear!” she said as I opened the little box. Deep down, I secretly hoped that it contained brand new tyres for my car, but alas!

She had bought me a snazzy little watch, which I warmly accepted.

Later that evening, we enjoyed dinner while watching movies, and I never felt any happier.

Like someone once said, Christmas is best celebrated with family.