As has been the norm for over 10 years now, this Christmas, just like all the others, was spent upcountry. As a result, I’m reeking of firewood smoke, even as I write this, never mind that I have taken several vigorous showers since.
I had planned to cross over the New Year with the same hairdo I have had for a week or two, but my hair won’t stop leaving behind a trail of wood smoke odour, so I might have to budget for a trip to the salon.
Oh, and my nails have taken such a battering, they are ready for retirement.
Last year, around this time, I wrote about the things that I hoped would change come this year, and one of these things was that the ‘slavery’ women are subjected to on Christmas Day would come to an end and the men would find it in their hearts to chip in.
It was, of course, wishful thinking. My female relatives and I still found ourselves huffing and puffing in the kitchen, and by the time we were done cooking and feeding the men and the children late in the evening, we could barely hold a conversation lasting a few minutes, so we gave up and went to bed.
A colleague and I had this conversation a few days before Christmas, and she told me that she made it a point to avoid travelling up country during the festive season, and if she absolutely had to travel during this time, she always hired a chef. That was a good idea, I told her, but one that was out of reach for majority of women, who could not afford it, or did not find this idea practical, especially if the visit upcountry lasted a few days, like in my case.
Having had several years of experience of backbreaking Christmases, my female relatives and I have since figured out how to survive Christmas – creating the simplest menu we can afford to get away with. Among other things, this means no chapatis, no matter how much the children, (and the men, especially the men) insist on having them. Another trick is making big meals that can be eaten as leftovers the next day, allowing the women a much-needed breather that was nowhere to be found on Christmas Day.
And this year, we could hardly believe it when it suddenly occurred to us that we had helpers we have not had access to before. Our children. They were all grown up and could wash the dishes and be sent on errands, therefore the workload was lighter this time around.
It is only later that I realised the vicious cycle was being repeated. Once upon a time, we were our children, being inducted by our mothers into the Kenyan way of spending Christmas upcountry! Oh well, I guess it’s a small price to pay for having a family to spend time with on this special day which comes once a year.
As we prepare to usher in a New Year, I choose to view my glass as half full, rather than half empty. I choose to count my blessings, that even though I am still dog-tired after a hectic Christmas, I spent it surrounded by people that I love and who love me back.
That I had a meal to eat and leftovers to eat the next day in these harsh economic times when many families cannot afford even a meal a day. That I am healthy enough to labour over a fire for several hours. That I had a family to spend this day with.
This coming year, why don’t we make it a habit to count our blessings?
