I Hated Christmas

The meat was gone. Celestin was not willing to serve borrowers. We were doomed. Another painful Christmas. But, oh well, this was just another of those many Christmases. We we were getting used to them, or so we thought.

As soon as I arrived home from the butcher's shop I started crying. Papa had talked to Celestin the night before. He had explained to him how he (Papa) had not been paid by the tea factory for almost three months. He wanted to borrow some meat for his children for Christmas. It was well known in the village that every butcher had some meat left at the end of the day. But not this Christmas of 1987. I was 12. I arrived at Celestin's butchery at around 6:00AM. I was the first customer to arrive. I waited. I watched Celestin and his friend Paul grab the bull by the horns, lay it on the ground, and skin its thick brown coat off. It was Christmas in the making. I couldn't wait. Paul grabbed the thigh by its bone and ran a three-cord string through it. He mounted it on a tall eucalyptus tree and started chopping at it. By that time many children had arrived. Some with their parents, others with their big brothers or sisters. I started wondering how many of them had money and how many were here to borrow a kilo or two. Paul started chopping off pieces of the Christmas delight and laying them on a brown, and slightly rusted, weighing scale the size of an old record player. One kilo, two kilos, one after the other. He chopped the thigh to the bone and was ready for the next one. Mrs. Celestin was seated quietly on his three-legged stool pocketing old and new shilling notes from the shoppers. If the whole thing could be sold in one day, Mr. and Mrs. Celestin would walk away with more than fifty thousand shillings. That was a lot of money back in 1987's uganda.

The third piece of Christmas was gone and customers were still arriving- with lots of cash, mostly old notes stacked away for 12 months in preparation for Christmas. Others were waving new notes from the bank. These were mostly teachers and other civil servants. I waited. The sun began to turn yellow. The clouds gathered. Paul chopped. Paul chopped away the last piece of Christmas. Mrs. Celestin pocketed the notes. The meat was gone. Nothing left for the borrower.

I looked around to make sure I was not missing anything. Tears started to form in my eyes. A big and dark lamp of sadness grabbed my throat. This was one of those Christmases where the poor had no chance to celebrate.

I slowly eased out of the happy crowd and headed home. My mother saw me first and knew something was wrong. "What's up muneza?", she inquired. "You don't look happy". And how could I. The greatest day in the year 1987 was slipping away. And the greatest gift was gone. Gone to those who had the money to spend.

Last year when I was buying some meat at QFC in Portland, Oregon I received a sad flashback of the events of 1987 and the years following that. There is still so many children in Africa reliving my pain. And that is why I created Christmas in Africa. Last year I raised $15,000 with the help of Africa Mission Alliance. We purchased hundreds of gifts for children who, like me, were planning to swallow their sorrow and let another merry Christmas slip by. But not this time. Will you join me this Christmas to put a smile on a child's face? Go to http://www.africamissionalliance.org and join me to make this Christmas memorable for a poor child in Africa.