The Sunday Mail
Dr Sekai Nzenza
Christmas is here. The rains have been good so far this year.
Almost everywhere, the countryside is looking beautifully green.
Once you go past the Hwedza mountains and cross the Save River into Chikomba East, you will see many mazhanje trees full of the tasty round fruit that has four big seeds and yellow juice inside. If you are lucky, you may find wild nhedzi and huvhe mushrooms like I did last week.
Zimbabwe during the Christmas summer rains this time of the year has some breathtaking views and sunsets.
When I lived in the Diaspora for many years, there were times when I missed the taste of mushrooms and mazhanje at Christmas. I recall one Christmas in America, when almost every house was decorated with Christmas lights and many trinkets. On television, there were advertisements asking you to buy this and buy that for Christmas.
There was Father Christmas sitting in departmental stores singing popular Christmas songs. I was invited home for Christmas by some American friends in San Francesco. I followed the American tradition too and bought presents. I wrapped them nicely and wrote cards, then placed the presents under the Christmas tree in the corner of the lounge room.
On Christmas Day, I joined in the celebrations and gift exchanges with their extended family members and friends.
The celebration was very organised and civilised. It was nice to give and to get a present. Then we sat around the table for hours, eating turkey, ham, Christmas pudding, sweet potato pie and minced pies. There was plenty of wine, whisky, soft drinks and cranberry juice. But no dancing or singing. A young girl played the piano and we clapped hands then continued conversations for hours.
Although everything about an American Christmas was pleasant, I missed the sound of the drum and the rituals of a Zimbabwean village Christmas.
I longed to go back to the village for Christmas and smell the rain, walk in the forest and pick mazhanje and mushrooms. I also wanted to eat fresh organic vegetables like mowa, derere and muboora. I longed to sit on the mat and eat bread with plenty of Stork Margarine and Sun Jam followed later by a village road-runner chicken, the nicely prepared goat intestines or zvinyenza and sadza or rice.
I even missed the smell of my grandmother Mbuya VaMandirowesa’s snuff.
When we lived in the village, Mbuya paid little attention to the birth of Jesus Christ. She did not even believe that Jesus was born on Christmas Day. But she always ordered the killing of a beast for us to eat on Christmas Day.
My father always said no, the beast must be killed after we had celebrated the birth of Jesus Christ. This meant we would go to St Columbus School for the all-night preaching and prayer on Christmas Eve. Then on Christmas Day, we dressed in new clothes and waited for Baba Mutemarari, the Anglican priest, to pass by our homestead on his way to conduct mass at the church.
My mother told us to watch out for Baba Mutemarari in case he discovers that there were some unChristian practices in the house. When we spotted him coming, my mother quickly instructed us to cover the two big pots of the highly-potent mhanga beer under sacks and blankets then close the kitchen hut.
My brother Charles dragged our famous drum called “Zino Irema” and hid it in the granary.
Drums were not acceptable in the ears of the Lord, especially on Christmas Day. My sister, Charity, switched off the gramophone and hid it in the bedroom.
On Boxing Day, the elders gathered in Mbuya VaMandirowesa’s kitchen hut for the ceremony to thank the ancestors.
The beast was slaughtered and we ate plenty of meat.
Later on during the day, we went to Muzorori & Sons Stores to dance to new songs. Muzorori & Sons Stores was the place for music and Christmas fun. Here, you showed off your best dress and new hairstyle. Young men from the city wore bell bottom trousers and platform shoes and they had Afro combs sticking out of their hair.
This Christmas, my sisters, cousins, nephews, nieces and several relatives from within Zimbabwe and from the Diaspora will gather together in the village.
We will go up to the Catholic church up on the hill. We shall sing, pray and beat our drum “Zino Irema”.
Then the same drum will be brought down to the village compound. My brother, Sidney, and the uncles will present a pot of beer to the ancestors and mention the names of those who have since died and are buried in the village cemetery. Then we shall follow Mbuya VaMandirowesa’s ritual and a cow will be killed.
We do not have a refrigerator. All meat will be hung above the fire in my mother’s kitchen. It will be smoked beautifully to make nice dried meat, chimukuyu.
We shall eat, drink, play the drum and celebrate Christmas in the village, the way we have always done.
It might rain on Christmas Day. If it does, we will thank the ancestors and sing, “Let it rain so we can eat pumpkins.” (Mvura ngainaye tidye mapudzi).
Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She wrote this article for The Sunday Mail.
