I remember being arrayed in new "Kaunda" suits, and flowery ready-made cotton dresses for my sisters. From a distance, the instrumental versions of popular Christmas carols oozed nostalgically from the church organ.
But sweeter was the night arrangement when natives grouped on Christmas Eve and moved house to house singing their hearts out. It would start in my sleep, the mellow notes reaching my ears with angelic faintness. And then the music would rise with such grudging beauty as would rouse me, lighting my face up with a smile on realising they were the night choristers singing outside our veranda.
My father would give them money, and they would ask us our favourite carols, and would sing, longingly, particularly Silent Night, from the core of their hearts, before moving on to the next house.
I would linger out in the moonlight, watching the stars twinkling aesthetically in the sky. We were living in Kigezi back then, and I've never seen anything like the beauty of the stars in the Kigezi heavens!
After church, we would sit round the dining table garnished with all sorts of delicacies, devouring and washing them down with sodas (soda was a big deal back then) while between swallows, father entertained us with memorable anecdotes.
Later, he would teach us rare poses while the village photographer snapped away. Christmas was the only time father was not tough, the only time we were completely free with him. And how we relished the good merry cheer together!
At night, he would insert new batteries in his Phillips radio-cassette, and with a single glide across the floor, bow before my mother, his hand extended. She would pick it with an obliging smile, and soon they would be gliding and flying and whirling together in a dance of waltz to the effervescent sounds of Dolly Parton. We would watch, hypnotised, till father said it was our turn. And the best dancer would earn some money for sweets.
That way, my father gave Christmas a special definition that always makes me look forward to every December 25.
Even though times have changed, it still moves me that some people have lost faith in Christmas. That's why I'm dedicating this piece to my colleague, Mary Atuheire. Ditch your office plans, and come spend it with me. It'll be a Christmas to remember, I promise. December will never be your worst month of the year again.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Mary!
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| Posing with Dad on Christmas in the good 'ol days |
My father would give them money, and they would ask us our favourite carols, and would sing, longingly, particularly Silent Night, from the core of their hearts, before moving on to the next house.
I would linger out in the moonlight, watching the stars twinkling aesthetically in the sky. We were living in Kigezi back then, and I've never seen anything like the beauty of the stars in the Kigezi heavens!
After church, we would sit round the dining table garnished with all sorts of delicacies, devouring and washing them down with sodas (soda was a big deal back then) while between swallows, father entertained us with memorable anecdotes.
Later, he would teach us rare poses while the village photographer snapped away. Christmas was the only time father was not tough, the only time we were completely free with him. And how we relished the good merry cheer together!
At night, he would insert new batteries in his Phillips radio-cassette, and with a single glide across the floor, bow before my mother, his hand extended. She would pick it with an obliging smile, and soon they would be gliding and flying and whirling together in a dance of waltz to the effervescent sounds of Dolly Parton. We would watch, hypnotised, till father said it was our turn. And the best dancer would earn some money for sweets.
That way, my father gave Christmas a special definition that always makes me look forward to every December 25.
Even though times have changed, it still moves me that some people have lost faith in Christmas. That's why I'm dedicating this piece to my colleague, Mary Atuheire. Ditch your office plans, and come spend it with me. It'll be a Christmas to remember, I promise. December will never be your worst month of the year again.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Mary!
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