By Chana CheMasvingo
The festive season is upon us, and across the nation, a familiar mix of excitement, pressure and expectation is brewing. For many, Christmas has drifted far from commemorating the birth of the Messiah and instead become a season of wining and dining—often under the looming shadow of the January blues. It is a time marked as much by celebration as by quiet anxiety over the bills that inevitably follow.
This is the season when sons and daughters of the soil return from all corners of the world to their rural homes, each attempting—subtly or loudly—to outshine the other. The goal is to project bliss and success, even if only for a few days. Some arrive flashing Benjamins, affectionately referred to as mabhuru—the bulls—while those perceived to have them are crowned with praise names such as mabhuru or maboss. The festive theatre unfolds with precision.
Top-of-the-range vehicles dominate dusty homesteads, some owned outright, others temporarily hired for inclusion among the “big boys.” Those arriving on foot are quick to blame stiff procedures at border posts, a convenient explanation for pedestrian entry. Dressed in original designer labels—and in some cases their creative imitations—Christmas becomes a parade of appearance. Down in Boterere kwaMaranda, it is simply marah neh marah neh, another local flair to describe the season’s energy.
Men and women make merry, often forgetting the sacred roots of the season. Many forget that the day is about Jesus the son of Mary and they replace the day with fleeting pleasures, hide-and-seek games of desire played with little regard for tomorrow. Marriage is rarely the objective. The bulls, emboldened by drink and applause, often end their escapades preying on young girls, while a few opt for the “old young girls”—those who simply do not care, vanacherozvazvaita.
Spending during Christmas is extraordinary. People live and spend as though there will never be another day. Excess is embraced as part of the ritual. For some, the festive season becomes an opportunity to settle old scores and pursue vengeance—a dangerous tradition that stains what should be a time of peace. Law enforcement agents, no doubt, will be on high alert. As one detective friend, Privy Mudozvori—also known as V11 Byforce—often says, “Tinokubata tokuisa seri.” Spending Christmas behind bars is hardly festive bliss.
Meanwhile, the paupers gulp down any liquid capable of stupefying them. Just yesterday, I witnessed a member of the abohwindi culture crying like a child after losing a phone. The intensity of his tears betrayed the influence of platinum liquid rather than the value of the gadget.
In all things, Christmas should be a season of joy—drawing blood from poultry and livestock, not from fellow humans. There should be no killings, no stabbings. Let the celebration be merry, even as we remember the January bills waiting patiently ahead. As we spend what we have, let there be bliss, not regret.
To those travelling, remember: speed thrills, but it is better to arrive late than to be the late.
It is just a view—from the mango tree—and nothing more.
