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Christmas
in Bethlehem
Four days before Christmas locusts were about to invade our village, somewhere in Bethlehem province. Everyone panicked at the news. The late rain had caused the locusts to target their invasion towards the Christmas season and at our village. The farmers were confused because the warning came in during a weather forecast in the evening News.
The farmers’ council summoned an emergency meeting and Dad had to leave his supper for Mum to keep. It was late in the night; Mum was bothered about our security. Mathew, my younger sibling was already asleep on the couch while the
paraffin lamp flipped in various directions. Mathew all through the day had been singing Christmas songs though he had rashes all over his body. Mum felt it was scabies; she kept rubbing paraffin all over his skin so much that Mathew kept crying and shouting that it was peppery.
“Son, don’t cry, it will go before Christmas.” Mum urged and had to pet him to sleep.
Mathew loved Christmas because he was born on Christmas day and Uncle Thebo, Grandma and other family members from Mpumalanga often come around with gifts for him and nickname him Jesus.
Sometimes they bring foodstuff and large chunk of meat with the local brew to celebrate Christmas with us, while they drink in the lounge, we run around the house with our cousins, chasing each other with meat in our mouths. It was always a full house.
Mathew was already snoring when Dad came back through the back door. Dad looked sad and meditative as he sat and watched in silence. I stood by the door to the kitchen, watching them talk in low tones about the outcome of the meeting.
“It is real.” Dad muttered, “They decided every family should start harvesting as soon as possible.”
“And the Christmas feast?” Mum asked.
“We are hosting it.” Dad replied
“We? But we cannot afford a common chicken not to speak of feeding the entire village.”
Mum was so agitated and in particular about why the council had to pick Dad for the year’s community Christmas feast when there was no harvest.
“It was my pride.” Dad said, “They thought I was making so much from the government contract.”
Dad was supposed to have a contract with some government people. Everyone envied him because he had once supplied sorghum and millet to a brewery in Johannesburg city. Mum often walked about in pride all over the village while everyone point at her saying,
“That’s the woman of the rich farmer.”
Dad on the other hand was afraid that his contract might be terminated if he wasn’t productive. Dad was famous but had nothing to show for it.
The year’s late rain wasn’t helpful either and the locust invasion would lead to premature harvest. Mum and Dad decided to talk to the government officials to see if they could help. Fortunately that afternoon they came around to our village after an inspection tour. I saw their car parked by the empty dusty street with two white women inside. I ran home to tell Dad. He came to speak with them; to possibly convert his fertilizer supply for cash to enable him to buy a cow for the Christmas feast. They laughed and accused Dad of misusing his opportunity and said his licence might be revoked if he couldn’t meet up to expectation.
“Look! No rain! The land is dry and weak … the locust invasion is near
…” Dad shouted from frustration.
“You think the government would spend billions of Rand to chase locust from a location that wasn’t on our national map? We only do you a
favour by coming here, but let’s see if the government will approve any loans for local farmers. You may be lucky.” the white woman replied.
The following day, a rumour came that a settlement (about hundred kilometres from ours) was invaded by locusts, that they were so hungry they devoured large crops that could feed ten people. There was panic everywhere. Every family was beginning to migrate towards the hill in the southern province; the weather was changing too. No one cared about Christmas and our feast any more.
Dad insisted we stay. Mathew was sick. Many times he would slump on the farm because his skinny legs were too weak. Mum had to rush him back home leaving Dad and me to continue the harvest.
“Pa! See! Shabalala.” I shouted.
Shabalala was Dad’s best friend. Shabalala decided to flee with two wives and nine children to another village behind the hill. He’d once lost his farmland and cattle to heat a wave. What hope was on a land that was impotent?
Dad walked him off to a distance and they chatted for some time as if they were making a secret plan. Shabalala kept nodding his head at Dad. Dad came back. His eyes were red and wet. He knelt on the dry dead soil like a patriot, sweat pouring all over his face.
“Son?” he paused.
I didn’t understand what he wished to say but there was something difficult about it. Shabalala came up to us, staring at Dad.
“The village is empty.” Shablala said.
“Whatever will stop me from spending my Christmas here had better kill me!” Dad shouted.
Shabalala walked away thinking Dad was mad.
That night, Dad couldn’t eat. Mum tried to make him eat his supper but he refused. Dad was afraid; he knew how Christmas used to be. The mood for festivity was a high-spirited one. Cooking started three days before Christmas. I remember once dad took Grandma and me to one of his friends in the last Christmas season. We ate and drank so much that I was carried back home vomiting.
Mum urged Dad again to eat, “There is nothing we can do other than gather the little harvest…”
“Gather the little harvest?” Dad interrupted, “Look at Malabo and other friends, they host with such pride and pleasure that no one can forget. Look at
me …”
He shook his head sadly, “It is a locust invaded Christmas. I know it is my enemy who wouldn’t make the rain fall because of envy.” he added and stared sadly at the firewood while Mum stir the boiling pap.
Dad looked pale and terribly worked out and hadn’t had any meal through the day.
“Come on eat your food, don’t get yourself mad. Tomorrow is Christmas anyway.” Mum persisted and yawned
“I wish we could visit the rain maker.” she concluded
“Yea, just a little rain could stop the locusts.” Dad murmured.
Mum arranged some short burning sticks into the hearth while red sparks flew about in the dark. Dad grunted and heaved.
There was a soft knock on the door. Everyone froze. Dad cast a suspicious glance at the door wondering who the late night visitor could be. He wanted to say something when the knock came again.
“Yebo!” a coarse voice came from outside.
It was uncle Thebo. I was excited. I recognized his voice. Dad smiled and instantly rose to open the door. Grand
ma’ was with him.
“Uncle Thebo!” I screamed in excitement and ran to hug him.
“Hey you!” he smelled of whisky and tobacco.
Their presence changed our silence and melancholy mood. Grand ma’ was holding a rope. She smiled and dragged a ram with her. Mum shouted with surprise and rushed to embrace the ram instead of Grand ma’.
Suddenly, a deep heavy sound shook our house. We froze, and then glanced at one another wondering where the sound came from. There was silence, a perfect silence that changed our destiny. From nowhere, a thunderous rumble tore the sky apart. Could it be rain? We waited in anticipation. Something happened; it started with a
drop … then showers … then a heavy downpour over the entire village. It rained. Dad went wild. I ran outside and played in the rain with him. Our joy was boundless.
That night we went to bed late. Mum and Dad were filled with happiness and asked me to leave my room for Uncle Thebo and Grandma. I slept on the mat in parent‘s room.
That night the bed creaked noisily. Dad and Mum made love in the dark while it rained outside. I peeped at them, Dad was rain, and mum was earth. Soon, the creaking stopped. They whispered to each other in the dark, and then there was silence. I slept too. When I woke up, it was another day. It was Christmas.
One Step at a Time
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