Where did the real Christmas go?

The scene at Machakos Country Bus Station can at best be described as chaotic. Touts are shouting themselves hoarse as they seek to outdo each other in an effort to attract the attention of travelers to the various buses lined haphazardly in the packed station. The drivers of these vehicles don’t make the situation bearable with their incessant honking on the vuvuzelas fixed on either side just above their windscreens.

Hawkers are equally having a field day hoisting small plastic basins atop their now hardened shoulders. They vend toothpaste, groundnuts, soda, padlocks, belts, wallets, handkerchiefs, water and any other thing that one can ask for. They are equally part of the shouting match as they jostle among the sea of humanity in search of customers.

It’s around Christmas and people are struggling to get back to their rural homes to share with other family members. The fares are hiked and the normally persuasive touts have no time to plead with reluctant customers. Even unpopular transport companies are making a killing. Here you have a cocktail of buses ranging from Eldoret Express, Mbukinya, Nyamira Express, Otange, Madonna, Marlboro, Daima Connections to Guton.

Women can be seen clutching their children with loads of luggage hanging on their backs. The scramble to get a seat pushes some to pass kids through the windows just like luggage. Toes are stepped on and insults hurled with total abandon. There is general impatience. A woman and her child will find themselves in one bus while their luggage has been stuffed to the boot of another.

Back in the villages and small towns one can spot young men and girls that appear like fish drawn out of water. Whereas some walk with large headphones hanging by their necks some don tight rugged jeans one would be mistaken for cheap and old. Bars and Wines and Spirits outlets attendants are faced with the herculean task of differentiating whisky from vodka or cream sherry from dry sherry. They have to explain repeatedly that they have never seen or stocked a Jameson (whatever that is).

What is perhaps missing is the general aura that came with Christmas in the village. This was the time the mud-walled houses got a fresh coat of smear with different patterns scribbled on the walls in different colours. The ceiling would be decorated with patterns of paper cuttings loosely hung using thread while the interior walls were covered with newspapers cuttings from different media houses. There was general excitement and the spirit of sharing. At the entrance to homes were warm messages clearly written using a piece of charcoal on the clay walls with the most common being, “Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year. Welcome!”

These were the days one would move from one homestead to another feasting on mandazis and other delicacies without a care in the world. Young children lost in the gay spirit would form small groups and dance along village paths singing celebratory songs as mothers ululated from one home to another. Fathers too would sit in groups to hold discussions on a range of issues. Some people carried mandazi which they shared with whoever they met as they moved about the village.

Since this was a time when electricity was a preserve for a few, rechargeable acid batteries were the main source of power for radios and other music systems. Those who would not afford to buy these batteries usually set aside money to buy new dry cells for their radios. Songs by local artists rent the air with almost each home playing its choice at full blast.

Flash-forward and Christmas season comes with the stress of depleted pockets and thoughts of the dreaded Njaanuary creeping from around the corner. How times have changed!