There are many ways to discover that the universe has a sense of humour. One is slipping on ice. Another is realising that “winter wonderland” is a phrase invented by people who have never met malaria.
But perhaps the biggest revelation arrives when an unsuspecting African steps into an American Christmas and finds himself in a climate that feels like God accidentally left the fridge door open.
Back home, Christmas is a warm-blooded celebration. The sun performs its annual soliloquy. It shines with the confidence of a motivational speaker. Goats and cows look nervous. Chicken receives ominous glances. Fruits ripen. Cousins argue. Aunties and uncles materialise from the cities carrying goodies and unsolicited life advice.
The air vibrates with music and laughter. Pilau steams like a prophecy, nyama choma sizzles with purpose, chapatis soft enough to heal emotional wounds. Food that warms you from the inside out. The night is marinated with muratina, mnazi, busaa and beer, beer, beer… Everything is alive, sweating, and slightly chaotic. Christmas is a festival of heat, colour, and the occasional power outage that reminds you of your place in the world.
The US Capitol Christmas Tree, a 53-foot-tall red fir from Nevada, stands at the US in Capitol in Washington, on December 23, 2025.
Photo credit: Tyrone Siu | Reuters
But in America? Aah. America has snow. Snow, that annoying dandruff from the sky, falling gently as if the heavens are exfoliating. Snow that looks soft until you touch it and discover it is basically frozen disappointment. It falls with the smugness of a celebrity cameo, drifting down as if auditioning for a blockbuster movie. Americans gaze at it with misty-eyed nostalgia. You gaze at it with the same expression one reserves for that drunk cousin. The one you schooled with and played childhood games together, then he fell in love with mama pima .
Christmas is a monochrome painting. White, cold, and suspiciously quiet. The entire holiday is a meteorological event. The sun sets at 4pm like it has given up on life. You step outside on December 25 and immediately begin negotiating with the weather like it’s a stubborn landlord who wants you out.
The cold is dangerously cold. It’s torture. It interrogates you. It asks questions you are not prepared to answer. “Who are you without the sun?”
“Why does your breath look like a ghost escaping your body?” It is the kind of cold that forces you to reconsider your life choices, your clothing choices, and occasionally, your travel choices.
Clothing is a dicey affair. You must choose between looking good and staying alive. You cannot have both. Wearing gloves makes you feel like a malfunctioning posho mill in the village. Thick jackets make walking a spiritual exercise. Everything is padded, insulated, and suspiciously expensive. Winter clothes are less about style and more about survival.
Wrapped in 20 layers of clothing, each one heavier than the guilt of ignoring WhatsApp family group chats, you trudge through snow that crunches like existential dread. Every step is a meditation. Every gust of wind is a sermon. Every slippery sidewalk is a reminder that gravity is undefeated.
United States Army trainees, who are based at the US Army Fort Benning, walk in a single file line at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport as they head back to their families in Atlanta, Georgia, on December 19, 2025.
Photo credit: Alyssa Pointer | Reuters
And then there are the traditions. Americans hang socks on fireplaces. They drink eggnog, a creamy, holiday beverage made from milk, cream, sugar, eggs, and spices. They erect inflatable snowmen on their lawns. Giant, smiling, air-filled guardians of suburban cheer. Meanwhile, you stand in the living room, politely nodding, wondering why the Christmas tree is indoors and why it smells like pine-scented ambition.
Yet, beneath all that lies something tender.
A winter Christmas is a reminder that human beings are endlessly inventive in their pursuit of joy. Whether under a blazing sun or a brooding sky, we gather, we feast, we laugh, we hope. We create rituals to anchor ourselves against the chaos of existence.
We decorate trees, or we dance under them. We roast turkeys in Kentucky, or we roast goats in Kajiado. Some dance barefoot on African soil; others waddle through icy sidewalks like penguins with grocery bags. The details differ; the longing is the same. Every culture has its own choreography for happiness.
In the end, you discover that a winter Christmas is not an upgrade or a downgrade. Just a different flavour of wonder. A reminder that the world is vast, that traditions migrate, and that human beings will always find a way to celebrate, even when their toes are numb.
And so, now armed with a mug of hot chocolate and a newfound respect for thermal socks, you step outside. Snowflakes swirl like tiny, frozen confetti. Lights shimmer on rooftops. Somewhere, a choir sings a carol that sounds like a weather report. For a moment, just long enough to forget the numbness in your toes, the world feels beautifully strange. A little absurd. A little like home, but in a different accent.
In the end, Christmas is Christmas everywhere. Whether under the Mombasa sun or the Minneapolis snow, it remains a season of laughter. The scenery changes, but the spirit persists. Merry Christmas!
