Despite growing up in a strict Christian family, my siblings and I never received gifts for Christmas. Not once. Yes, we’d get the customary new clothes, and shiny new shoes if we were lucky, to wear to the church, but that was it. Instead, early on Christmas morning every year, my mother would rally the entire family and we’d drive off to the village.
Our car, sometimes there was a little goods van trailing along, would be packed with blankets and supplies — everything from bags of rice, sugar and all kinds of grains, all nicely packed into sacks. Then we’d start making the stops, from house to house, as mum, in true Santa Claus mode, distributed her gifts. The recipients were shortlisted from a list she’d been preparing in the weeks before Christmas, and she knew exactly which sack was meant for which family. The stops were quick and brief, but each ended with lots of smiles, and always a prayer.
“You don’t need any gifts,” mother would chide us whenever we’d make our lists for Santa. “There are too many people who don’t have anything to bring them joy on Christmas.”
I still remember once making my list and reminding my parents multiple times what I’d written down and where I’d kept my little basket for Santa. Nothing came on Christmas day.
Years later, when she became too sick to drive around the dusty roads into the village (my mum died of cancer in 2015), mother would make my siblings and me continue her annual tradition. But it was never quite the same. We didn’t have half her charisma.
My siblings and I moved out of our home, to other cities and countries. And even though we’d go home for Christmas, the early morning tradition eventually stopped.
I hope to revive it soon. Because when people talk of Christmas, the only thing it means to me, is giving.
