DAE ES SALAAM: THERE is no season I fear more than the festive season, especially Christmas.
And let me make this very clear before theologians start sharpening their pens: I have absolutely nothing personal against the gentleman from Galilee. Jesus and I are cool.
My problem is not with the Messiah, my problem is with Christmas itself.
Too many expectations, too many expenses and too many unnecessary family meetings that always end with someone threatening someone else with kitchen equipment.
If I had my way, Christmas should be held once every ten years, like a census.
That way, by the time it comes again, we would have forgotten the pain of the previous one and maybe even saved some money.
Unfortunately, Christmas is stubborn. It insists on coming every year, and every year it finds me unprepared, broke and emotionally vulnerable.
Every December, a holy conflict erupts in my humble palace in Manzese. It is a predictable conflict, like rain in April or potholes after road repairs.
This year, however, the war started early, before even the Christmas songs became annoying on the radio.
The commander-in-chief of this conflict, Mama Boyi, decided to seize power with immediate effect. This year, she did not even warm up. She went straight for my throat.
The drama began innocently, as all disasters do. My domestic thug, Boyi himself, also known in underground circles as Papa Dog Killa, walked up to me and asked, with the confidence of a child who knows he will not be beaten, what plans I had for Christmas.
I looked at him, assessed his size, remembered that he still eats my food and told him, very gently, to buzz off and leave me alone.
I even added that, as far as I knew, he was not a blood relative of Jesus Christ, so Christmas plans were none of his business.
Unfortunately, my wife had already picked up the signal. “Kwani Baba Boyi,” she asked, pretending to be innocent, “si you promised to take us to Bagamoyo this year?”
Now, any married man reading this knows that when a woman asks a question while standing with arms akimbo, that question is not a question.
It is a court judgment waiting to be enforced. I knew I was walking on landmines. One wrong word and my future would be decided right there in the sitting room.
I explained, calmly and diplomatically, that my wallet was currently admitted in the Intensive Care Unit. I told her the boss at work had shown no signs of compassion, no visions, no dreams, no angelic visits suggesting a salary increase.
I was still waiting for divine intervention to soften his stingy heart. She shook her head slowly, the way women do when they are about to destroy you psychologically.
Then she reached into her bra. Now, when a woman reaches into her bra during an argument, just know evidence is coming. She pulled out a piece of paper.
I squinted. My heart sank. It was my salary slip, November’s salary slip to be precise. The same salary that had already been wounded beyond recognition.
“Nakwambia upende usipende wewe mzee,” she said, waving it like a victory flag, “lazima Bagamoyo tuende. Piga ua garagaza, mwezi huu sikuachii!”
She was basically informing me that even if it meant dragging my unconscious body all the way to Bagamoyo, we were going.
I tried to explain that there were many important things I still needed to do before embarking on such a luxurious journey.
Before I could even finish the sentence, she reached into the bra again.
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At this point, I was convinced that bra was a filing cabinet. This time, she produced a more colourful document.
“Zakayo’s Pub… Bill.” The amount written below nearly gave me temporary blindness.
“So these are the important things you need to accomplish?” she screamed.
“Drinking yourself stupid while we suffer?” Suddenly, memories came rushing back.
The previous night at Zakayo’s Pub. Veteran drunkards. Round after round of Ilala product. Laughing. Singing.
When the bill arrived, I honestly thought the number at the bottom was the waitress’s phone number because it had too many digits.
As she continued talking, my mind wandered to my wallet. Something felt missing. I checked. My worst fears were confirmed. My ATM card, also known as Another Terrible Mistake, was gone. I demanded it back immediately.
She refused. I threatened to send her back to her parents in the hilly regions of Mbeya. That was a tactical error. She dashed into the kitchen.
Any man who has survived marriage knows what that means. But this time, I stood my ground. I was ready. I was defending my constitutional right to drink in honor of Jesus Christ. I needed that ATM card.
That very night, I was supposed to meet Jattelo, that fellow from the lakeside and such meetings require serious red paper. She charged at me with a Nyakiusa war cry.
I responded with a full Rugaruga war cry, the same one used by my great-grandfather, Chief Mirambo. The ancestors were fully activated.
Just when bloodshed seemed inevitable, my son Boyi intervened, standing between us like a UN peacekeeper. Even after smoking his ‘holy herb’, the boy knew he could lose a parent that day.
Peace was temporarily restored, but the ATM card remained in enemy hands. Her final verdict was clear.
“If you want money, we go to the ATM together. You explain what the money is for. Otherwise, forget it,” she said with finality.
And with that, she stormed out. It is moments like these that make you wonder where the sweet, understanding woman you married disappeared to.
As for me, I have to be honest, I had the loneliest Christmas ever. Because honestly, what kind of Christmas is it if you cannot swallow a few frothy liquids now and then?
That is why I still insist, Christmas should be held once in ten years, or if possible, it should be banned altogether that way my liver, my wallet and my marriage would all be much safer.