Tales of Christmas in the village

There is a cheery ambiance in the village.

The local population is rising like a tide thanks to the ritualistic urban-rural migration that desires to rival the electric Mara-Serengeti beasts. And the temporary immigrants are spurring the village life that was in doldrums for months.

The village this season, is a scriptwriter’s paradise for the sideshows, some hilarious, others bizarre.

For starters, children who have all along known the village to mean Village Market or the other promotional expos have been rudely shocked to learn that there are no ice creams, coca cola or hamburger. Instead, bleating sheep, stinking cow sheds and mud and dust is all the parents could show them.

While some families celebrate, even flaunt the success of their kin, others bemoan the mission that befell their kindred in the big city. That’s why the mganga is registering brisk business as families seek to “cleanse” their own of “evil” planted by resentful neighbours or relatives.

NO LUXURIES

Besides, for daughters-in-law holidays are proving unholy. For folks, here, such luxuries as fridges, ovens or gas cookers are unheard of. It’s the antique three-stone hearth that discharges stinging smoke like a diesel locomotive engine. This makes the cooking a teary affair; ugali is normally semi-cooked.

Again, to the girl bred in Nairobi, going to the pit latrine is a nightmare. Some latrines don’t have doors: a threadbare blanket or gunny bag serves for the shutter. You can imagine what cheeky villages boy do once a city girl goes for the call. And yes, here toilet papers are unnecessary; wild leaves are in abundance.  A pal muses that a lass thought all leaves are the same; she plucked stinging nettle!

Besides, bathrooms are luxuries. A bath is taken at night or at the stream. This is the part the rural women folk enjoy. At first the Nairobi girl is shy, but hey, the silly body manufactures a whiff so foul. She is forced to undress and take a bath by the stream. And about water and firewood, that is sending bile upwards throats. Here, the trek is punitive, the load of water or wood enslaving.

And then there is this small matter of where to sleep. In the village a hut is a treasured structure. Woe unto you if you’ve none. In most cases, such grumbling like “some people are good at buying cars yet they don’t own a cage,” are commonplace. One chap is said to have coiled in the car with his family. The wife’s lips stretched from Nairobi to Timbuktu.

But the village is also exciting. Attention is shifting to the lucky chap. He is getting special treatment; and when he sneezes, everyone catching a cold. This was of course to the chagrin of that son who has been around the farm the whole year. To him, those in the city aren’t different from the prodigal son. Trust me folks, the kind of intense, vicious, sibling rivalry playing out, you wouldn’t need those Naija movies.

And oh yes, here the mother-in-law is queen; and daughters-in-law learnt this immediately they arrived. Her authority is ultimate. She is also questioning why her son is not growing a potbelly. “Is it because the wife stresses him? Is it because the city girl doesn’t know how to cook?” She wonders as she pampers her son.

WELL-BEHAVED WALLETS

The beauty of visiting the village is that brewers are a smiling lot. The local bar is also drowned and drained even before the merry has began. And, therefore, it is common for the chap to resort to chang’aa. For those whose wallets are behaving, they are duly called waheshimiwa.

In this revelry, the chap is encouraged to vie for MP even when he stands not a vote from his brother. It’s the season too when parents of every Standard Eight child are flocking different homes, begging for employment placement in the city.

 And wives are also learning to absorb shock. For some it is scandalous to learn that they indeed have stepchildren.

Imagine sitting under a mango tree crushing a goat’s ribs when a shabbily dressed woman lurches into the compound. Towing shyly is a boy of about 14. You look at the eyes and the forehead of the boy who has just broken his voice; they’re your duplicates.

That’s the product of your escapades at the stream one evening 15 years ago. The poor schoolgirl had gone to fetch water when you pulled her to the bush. You later denied responsibility and took flight to the city.

But now, the son is mature. He has sat his KCPE and needs school fees. He is also ready for the cut and, therefore, daddy has to be around. Besides, it’s not a bad idea, the grandma thinks, for the boy to get acquainted with his siblings.

Your wife is there, attentive as your riotous past bursts. You perspire; sweat flows like the Niagara. You try a smile; nothing comes. You steal a glance at your wife and see she’s inflating…

But it is also a big pity for children of the city. The problem with the village is that there are no toyshops. The grounds aren’t good for factory made toys either. Unfortunately, city children are lacking in creativity unlike their rural counterparts.

The rural child has learnt to fend for himself. He has the agility to fashion any toy, however crude, from scrap. He’s prolific at molding clay to anything, is a prolific swimmer in the village river.

That’s why, after two days, most children pester their parents to return to the city. Their mother is in support, and justifiably so. All the same folks, have a merry Christmas.