 |
Yesterday
was Boxing Day. It was just another day like any other. I was still reeling
from Christmas hangover. Booze- Tuborg, Tanqueray, Absolute Apeach, Whyte and Mackay,
Captain Morgan- (guys went GB), binge eating- nyama choma, chicken, fish, osuga, ugali and
salsa (Kenyan kachumbari)- and live band music serenading the aura like opera. So social places in Nairobi become a bevy of
activities during the festive season. Reservations were almost everywhere and packed with a sea of humanity. The
middle class has an uncanny penchant for matching tastes and preferences. Same
places are usually unoccupied just few weeks before celebration of Jesus’
birth. Oh and the prices of food. You guessed it right. Full kienyeji chicken
goes for Sh. 2500 (It is not kienyeji though, broilers), a full goat goes for Sh. 20,000,
chips is sold at Sh. 350 a plate (Barely half of what is served in fast food
restaurants in town) and a slice of ugali sold at Sh. 200. And the place is
full to the brim. You take a sneak peak and see a person with a bill of Sh. 80,000. You realize that
you have not spent a dime.
Christmas is for children I realize. Bouncing castles, Horse riding, Merry-go round, boat-riding in makeshift pools that are for children. Those cars that children drive in an enclosed room. Artificial trains and horses for children to ride. There is a package that covers such stuff and and if you have a child, you have to spend.
When I think of Boxing Day, I think of a day full of lolling. Whoever thought of naming this day so was quite ingenious. There is however something lovely about Boxing day, misconstrued denotation. Like a child I have had illusions, I usually picture myself waking up in the morning and finding boxes ready for me to unspool the contents and sift through the presents sent to me by those who hold me dear in their heart. So far none has ever thought it worthy to bestow me a gift on Christmas that I unbox on Boxing Day.
Dreams, right. But dreamers are makers of the world. I still hold onto the dream of receiving the gifts.
What do these people think of me? The question I’ve asked most often during this very day, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I suppose this question is one you have probably mulled over as an individual. It stormclouds over my mind every other time I think of Boxing Day.
Christmas is for children I realize. Bouncing castles, Horse riding, Merry-go round, boat-riding in makeshift pools that are for children. Those cars that children drive in an enclosed room. Artificial trains and horses for children to ride. There is a package that covers such stuff and and if you have a child, you have to spend.
When I think of Boxing Day, I think of a day full of lolling. Whoever thought of naming this day so was quite ingenious. There is however something lovely about Boxing day, misconstrued denotation. Like a child I have had illusions, I usually picture myself waking up in the morning and finding boxes ready for me to unspool the contents and sift through the presents sent to me by those who hold me dear in their heart. So far none has ever thought it worthy to bestow me a gift on Christmas that I unbox on Boxing Day.
Dreams, right. But dreamers are makers of the world. I still hold onto the dream of receiving the gifts.
What do these people think of me? The question I’ve asked most often during this very day, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I suppose this question is one you have probably mulled over as an individual. It stormclouds over my mind every other time I think of Boxing Day.
As
a child, I had a very parochial perspective as to what was the real
reason behind Boxing Day. In my humble opine, this was a day you had to square
it out with those whom you had vengeance. It was a day of retaliation. It was a
day to show you had gallantry over those whom you thought were weaker than you
in valor. It was retro-wrestling to determine the man who had the nerves.
Nerves to beat a brother into admission. To show respect, that the victor is
going to rule for the next year(s).
Most of my Christmas holidays were spent in the rural areas while growing up.
We had invented a some small sport among us. Wrestling it was. On Boxing Day.
Those whom we went to the wrestling ring with were my cousins and close relatives of the same age group. It was a covert lair in the middle of bushes situated away from the eyes of preying adults. It goes without saying that adults had authority over children.
If an adult found you wrestling, he had the right to discipline the two of you for misbehaving. Wrestling was fun. WWE then had brainwashed our minds. Shawn Michaels, Undertaker, Chris Benoit (RIP) among other stars we wanted to identify with. We aped them as such. Don't try this at home was a caveat then. Where we did it was not at home though. Then my role model was Stonecold Steve Austin. He was the reining champion before he broke his legs. He was brave and audacious. His signature entry beats still ring in my mind- glasses breaking.
Back then, there was a line drawn and whoever crossed it to the opponents side would be declared the winner if the opponent never reacted upon provocation. Provocation involved touching the head of the opponent or even slapping the person. There was also a referee whose only role was to incite the wrestlers into crossing the line. He knew how to chide us into crossing the imaginary line. Plus he was the oldest and neither of us could beat him fair and square.
The last fight I remember having was between me and a cousin. Mum told me he was two years old than me. I inquired later. The dude did beat the hell out of me like I was a bag of potatoes. I remember my cousins berating me that I had turned into a drum that was easily beaten like a stray wild dog. Hitherto, I had plunged, possibly it was due to my boyhood apprehensiveness that had let me succumb in the first bout.
Previously, before our fight, one of my younger uncles had given a close relation a dog beating and he had easily surrendered. Everyone thought I was in for the same fate.
Then things changed all of a sudden and took a different twist. Everyone was celebrating at my downfall. As a boy from town, the rural chaps thought that they were more hardened than I. I was from town (considered a softy) and since majority of those who were in the den were from the rural areas. Like the ubiquitous Man Kind, I never succumbed to the impulse of the beating. A man never lets the spoils take the better of him. You don't easily pin a man down. I had to come back and I did it so quick that none ever noticed it was me.
In primary school every other pupil knew I was the bravest (I used to call myself Hercules from the cartoon character). I could not let that title go away easily. Not in a setting where I thought I was better placed as I had access to wrestling on television. In the rurals, my cousins only saw wrestling when they went to town or that relative who had a great-wall TV with a car battery. Electricity was still a pipe dream. Thank God it became a reality.
The game had no rules as to the weapons to use. Mostly the hand and legs were used.
I became ingenuous and used the next available weapon that could aid me in ending the game once and for all. I was utterly consumed with bristling rage which was tearing into my lungs, plucking at my nerves till I wanted to twist my cousin's neck off. Since stones are freely available, I used one and hit my cousin on his forehead tearing into the skin and rupturing a vein. The cut was deep as the bludgeon was done using a sharp stone. Blood did gush out and I won the match as my cousin writhed in pain on the ground. That was the last wrestling match we had as none of those who intended to wrestle next decided not to out of fright. Luckily, the bruise was not that devastating.
My cousin still spots the scar to date. He took the pain as a man. Like the wrestlers in TNA, he took it at heart. He respected me henceforth. I deceased from fighting henceforth.
Boxing Day it was. Reminisces. With time we changed our approach. It became a day when the youth and the children mingled together to celebrate for having stayed far away from each other.
What goes around comes around, Karma I tell you.
I am still longing to unbox. That day will surely come one day. Am sure many in Kenya never unbox. A stark reminder that we have not yet internalized Boxing Day. My circle of friends and the people I know of rarely unbox. Yet it goes without saying that we have to celebrate Boxing Day. An addition to humanity, to save those who have a tasking itinerary that is overwhelming. SITONANE.
Most of my Christmas holidays were spent in the rural areas while growing up.
We had invented a some small sport among us. Wrestling it was. On Boxing Day.
Those whom we went to the wrestling ring with were my cousins and close relatives of the same age group. It was a covert lair in the middle of bushes situated away from the eyes of preying adults. It goes without saying that adults had authority over children.
If an adult found you wrestling, he had the right to discipline the two of you for misbehaving. Wrestling was fun. WWE then had brainwashed our minds. Shawn Michaels, Undertaker, Chris Benoit (RIP) among other stars we wanted to identify with. We aped them as such. Don't try this at home was a caveat then. Where we did it was not at home though. Then my role model was Stonecold Steve Austin. He was the reining champion before he broke his legs. He was brave and audacious. His signature entry beats still ring in my mind- glasses breaking.
Back then, there was a line drawn and whoever crossed it to the opponents side would be declared the winner if the opponent never reacted upon provocation. Provocation involved touching the head of the opponent or even slapping the person. There was also a referee whose only role was to incite the wrestlers into crossing the line. He knew how to chide us into crossing the imaginary line. Plus he was the oldest and neither of us could beat him fair and square.
The last fight I remember having was between me and a cousin. Mum told me he was two years old than me. I inquired later. The dude did beat the hell out of me like I was a bag of potatoes. I remember my cousins berating me that I had turned into a drum that was easily beaten like a stray wild dog. Hitherto, I had plunged, possibly it was due to my boyhood apprehensiveness that had let me succumb in the first bout.
Previously, before our fight, one of my younger uncles had given a close relation a dog beating and he had easily surrendered. Everyone thought I was in for the same fate.
Then things changed all of a sudden and took a different twist. Everyone was celebrating at my downfall. As a boy from town, the rural chaps thought that they were more hardened than I. I was from town (considered a softy) and since majority of those who were in the den were from the rural areas. Like the ubiquitous Man Kind, I never succumbed to the impulse of the beating. A man never lets the spoils take the better of him. You don't easily pin a man down. I had to come back and I did it so quick that none ever noticed it was me.
In primary school every other pupil knew I was the bravest (I used to call myself Hercules from the cartoon character). I could not let that title go away easily. Not in a setting where I thought I was better placed as I had access to wrestling on television. In the rurals, my cousins only saw wrestling when they went to town or that relative who had a great-wall TV with a car battery. Electricity was still a pipe dream. Thank God it became a reality.
The game had no rules as to the weapons to use. Mostly the hand and legs were used.
I became ingenuous and used the next available weapon that could aid me in ending the game once and for all. I was utterly consumed with bristling rage which was tearing into my lungs, plucking at my nerves till I wanted to twist my cousin's neck off. Since stones are freely available, I used one and hit my cousin on his forehead tearing into the skin and rupturing a vein. The cut was deep as the bludgeon was done using a sharp stone. Blood did gush out and I won the match as my cousin writhed in pain on the ground. That was the last wrestling match we had as none of those who intended to wrestle next decided not to out of fright. Luckily, the bruise was not that devastating.
My cousin still spots the scar to date. He took the pain as a man. Like the wrestlers in TNA, he took it at heart. He respected me henceforth. I deceased from fighting henceforth.
Boxing Day it was. Reminisces. With time we changed our approach. It became a day when the youth and the children mingled together to celebrate for having stayed far away from each other.
What goes around comes around, Karma I tell you.
I am still longing to unbox. That day will surely come one day. Am sure many in Kenya never unbox. A stark reminder that we have not yet internalized Boxing Day. My circle of friends and the people I know of rarely unbox. Yet it goes without saying that we have to celebrate Boxing Day. An addition to humanity, to save those who have a tasking itinerary that is overwhelming. SITONANE.
