Sick Santa

Santa Clause gives me the creeps. I’m not a fan. It’s not just his florid face, wobbly belly or white beard. I have another reason for being slightly wary of the fat oke in a red suit. When I was a little girl I went to one of those Santa’s Grotto places while my folks did some last minute Christmas shopping at our local mall. When Santa put me on his lap to ask “if I’d been a good little girl…” he also made me hold his penis. In my hand. Just casually made me hold it. I didn’t think anything of this special treatment at the time. Such is the innocence of a 5 year old. In fact, I was very blasé when afterwards in the car trip home my folks asked about how it was meeting Santa, and I replied “Good. I even held his willy.” Not quite the reaction they’d expected. Of all the sick Santas in the world – we had our very own in little Sleepy Hollow. Small towns I suppose. They're a veritable breeding ground for all sorts of weirdos and vermin. Even those who come out at Christmas time it seems.


There’s no halfway when it comes to Christmas in the Kingdom. In this instance, I don’t mean Jesus’ Kingdom, although he makes a pretty big statement at this time of the year too. I mean the United Kingdom. They go all out here. More lights than Diwali adorn our high street. There’s even a ceremony held with a local celebrity to turn the lights on. Everyone counts down and cheers. There’s a concert with a stage outside the castle and everything. At any given time like a flashmob, there’s carolling in the street. Just random people all stood together singing carols and a guy with a scroll. And a hat. And a bell. There’s mulled wine. And Christmas jumpers. There is always the threat of snow. Actual snow. Supermarkets sell real Christmas trees. Everywhere you go, Christmas jingles ting merrily. There are ice-skating rinks set up in the parks. There’s even a place called Lapland (no not that kind of place….although I did wonder) where you meet real reindeer and all the elves and stuff. And then of course, there’s Santa. 
There’s no escaping the oke here. He’s in every department store. At schools. In churches. Emblazoned upon jerseys, decorations, banners, posters. Everywhere you look – you're greeted with his shiny smiling red face.

In South Africa, we’re not complete festive season philistines – we do the tree, the decorations, the reindeer trails. We deck the halls with boughs of holly. We leave a beer and mince pie alongside our jetmasters. We wear those ridiculous paper hats that make us all sweat bullets and pull the crackers at a table adorned with a stuffed bird of some variation with all the trimmings. We light a Christmas pudding and gorge ourselves on Quality Street chocolates. And after the lunch formalities are done – we all float hippo-like in the swimming pool because it’s usually too hot to do anything else. Or as is usually the case in KZN, it rains. Think humid afternoon downpours while everyone sits on a stoop getting positively pissed, while nibbling at leftovers that no one could believe themselves venturing toward again. It’s too hot for a Christmas jumper. Impressive ornamental lights strung along every street would be a waste because Eskom’s loadshedding schedule would put paid to their purpose very quickly. And they’d probably get stolen. Mulled wine would be like drinking tea on a day that’s 45 degrees. No one really stands on any street corners – certainly not while singing carols. Unless they’re begging. And that’s an entirely different kind of singing. Snow is not an option. Well, for obvious reasons.

The African Christmas Experience is very different to the British one. It’s sunny for starters. It’s holiday time. It’s chaos. It’s awesome. And I miss it very much. We’re on the brink of having our second Christmas as a family on this side of the pond. It’s a mind warp how different the holiday is. For starters, it’s not really a holiday. Not a real one at least. Schools close for like 10 days. And it's feck cold. And dark. And wet. Takes some getting used to, that’s for sure. But I reckon the universe is trying her best to get me to embrace our new festive reality. Especially when it comes to sicko Santa. Last week my son came home from school with a piece of paper that details his part in the school Christmas play. Of all the little poppets in an entire school….my slight of build, blonde haired little boy is...yip you guessed it... freakin Santa Clause. He’s not a reindeer, or a penguin, or an elf. He’s the father of Christmas. In all his red-suited glory. I have even had to pay good money for a Santa suit. Ordered via Amazon. Non-returnable of course. This year, I get to see if Santa's naughty or nice. I'll keep you posted.

Just no escaping it.

An Anthem of Awkwardness

After nearly two years in the UK, my son still misses South Africa. Still pines and cries for the land of his birth. It’s heartbreaking. He’s like one of those dogs you hear in South Africa sitting by the gate tjanking for his owners to come home. My son speaks often of a life that we’re astounded he remembers so well. He’d just turned four when we left. His pride in his heritage runs deep. Way deeper than mine, I’m ashamed to admit. He’s very happy to talk about where he comes from. He needs to. Often and to anyone who’ll listen. At school, when his British classmates speak of farm animals and domestic pets, he’ll describe a springbok or a buffalo. Regale them with tales of snakes in our garage, shongololos in the garden, my husband's earthworm farm and monkeys on the roof. 


In a genuine effort to try and reinforce his South African-ness, we do all sorts of things:
 - We show him many pictures of home. Of our old home. Of family and friends.
 - We still speak in our accents hey. We pronounce words ‘laaike’ ‘naaice’ and “yar” and “lekker”. The stronger his little pom accent gets, the further he deviates from our “fla-at” Saffa vowels. 

- We braai. Often. Chicken, lamb, steak, pork, you name it. We even use the Weber to do jacket potatoes. In the rain. In the cold. In the dark. No matter the weather. No matter the occasion. We braai. It’s just what we do. It’s in our blood.

- We’re happy for him to take his clothes off. In the house. Or on a beach in Scotland.
- He can climb where he likes. As long as it’s not on to the neighbour's shed (he’s done that) or out of the loft window on to our roof (he’s tried to do that), we’re comfortable that he climbs.
- We spend time with other Saffas living here. At their homes. Or ours. Not something the British do. Have people over. We Africans do it. Often.


At school, he’s been learning songs from other parts of the world. Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes in French for example. Or the De-yo Banana Boat song from Jamaica. Or a Kenyan greeting ditty. When the song has a different language, we translate it to English so he can understand what it’s all about. This gave me the idea of teaching him Nkosi Sikelel’ iAfrika – the South African national anthem. I told him that it was the song of his home country. A very important song that everyone sings, even the President. I can sing the anthem. But apparently I’m not great at singing in general. I always thought I was, but whenever I sing anything my husband makes a noise (and does the actions) of a kitten being strangled and my children tell me to please stop. I managed to sing the anthem ok. Well I got through the whole thing. Some parts I fudge slightly, but I’m better than 99% of all the white rugby players or cricketers you see on TV. Although that’s not saying much.
Anyway after I’d sung the anthem to my son, he said "So Mum what does it mean? What do the words mean?” And you do know what. I had absolutely no idea. No cooking clue what my own national anthem means. Disgraceful. I had to Google it. This is the Wikipedia translation of the lyrics of the South Africa national anthem, available to view for us ignorant little twerps.

God Bless Africa.

Let its (Africa’s) horn be raised,
Listen also to our prayers, 

Lord bless us, we are the family of it (Africa).

Lord bless our nation, 

Stop wars and suffering,

Save it, save our nation,

The nation of South Africa.
Out of the blue of our heavens,

From the depths of our sea,

Over our everlasting mountains,

Where our cliffs give answer,

Sounds the call to come together,
And united we shall stand,
Let us live and strive for freedom
In South Africa our land.

Once I’d read through the translation to my son, he says to me all big-eyed, “What is war? Who is suffering? Why do we need to save it?” In typical Ollie style, he went straight to those parts. Forget about the blue of our heavens, the depths of our sea or our everlasting mountains. My son wanted to know why South Africa needed saving. What a question. So many layers to that one. Where does one start? I decided that I’m not grown-up enough to answer the chap. I’ll cock it up. I can barely handle the dying and heaven and Jesus questions. I’m an absolute wuss. The other night the two of them were in the bath together and I heard Ollie say to his sister “I like it when you put that in my bum". I froze and back-peddled away from the door and went to my bedroom. Let them sort that shit stuff out themselves. I’m not qualified to deal with anything of a sensitive or awkward nature. I’m tactless. And rude. I will make things worse. So these kinds of things I merely ignore. And hope they go away. Or I wait for their father to come home.


For now though, I believe that there’s such bliss in his ignorance about South Africa’s past. He knows nothing of the country’s legacy of apartheid. A legacy of hate. Of violence. Oppression. Segregation. He’s not blinkered by any prejudice. He feels no shame or guilt on behalf of his forefathers and their complicity (intended or otherwise) in a system designed to persecute on the basis of race. He simply loves his home. And he’s extremely proud of it. It’s as simple as that. I understand that at some stage he will need to know the history of the country of his birth. Just as every South African child will need to know. To understand what happened. It’s why history is important. To put the past into perspective. To learn from it so one can focus on the future. But for now, it’s so refreshing that his reality is not clouded by any fact. It’s pure. His connection to Africa is visceral. Not learned. Or influenced. It just is. And there’s a beauty in that. Well to me anyway.

So what did I do? I did what any self-respecting mother in my situation would do when faced with a tough question. I dodged it and employed the ultimate weapon of mass distraction - confectionary. I bribed my son with chocolate buttons. On a Tuesday evening. Fridays are treat days in our house. He accepted the bribe. No questions asked. He knows when he’s on to a good thing. We now let Miriam Makebe sing us our national anthem every evening while they're having dinner. It’s safer that way. For my six year old. And me. Mostly me. And I'm happy with that.

Somehow this seemed an appropriate pic. Not really sure why.