Every December I find myself doing the same thing; packing a suitcase that never seems to close, and convincing myself that the journey back home will be short this time.
It seems to get longer every year, thanks to the brutal traffic jam that characterizes the festive season. But I go, anyway. And to be honest, Christmas for me is not complete unless I go back.
Not with the way westerners are always asking: “nootaaha ryari?”, which translates to “when are you going back home” in Runyankore. It is like an obligation to go, and a sin to not go home for the holidays. For me, that road always leads me to Mbarara, crawling through traffic at snail pace from Busega to Mbarara!
I travel with my parents and siblings. Every vehicle is filled with bags fitted into impossible places. Everyone seems to be in a hurry but no one is complaining, because this journey is a necessary struggle for us.
Gospel music, country music and Oliver Ngoma played softly last week as we slowly left the chaos behind and started seeing the green hills we call home, from afar. There is something about travelling with your parents as an adult that makes you reflective.
You are no longer the child in the backseat constantly asking: “Are we almost there!?”
Well, of course you are still your parents’ child, but you notice things now; how your parents are more careful on the road. The way conversations pause and resume. The journey becomes more about memory and living in the moment.
As Kampala slowly fades behind us, the traffic reduces, mobile phone network starts going to E or H with one bar somewhere after Masaka. That is how I know I am getting closer to home. Home announces itself loudly.
The air is so fresh, it feels like a new beginning but in a familiar place. The greetings are endless with some people assuming that since you stay in Kampala, you don’t speak Runyankore. In one incident, we met family friends, who greeted my parents in Runyankore and went ahead to say, “Abaana ba hello” – the children are for ‘hello’.
I actually found it funny. Christmas in Mbarara is slower, fuller and louder in ways that matter. Mornings begin with the sound of birds, cows mooing, radios playing. Meals stretch more than they should.
Food is prepared in large amounts because you never really know who will come by – people tend to come unannounced, and they must always eat. Christmas day itself arrives with so much excitement, night angels (carolers) move door-to-door on Christmas eve, singing Christmas carols to uplift the festive spirit.
The church services are as long as you can imagine; not with all the auctioning that takes place and people buying a chicken at Shs 300,000. To be honest, at some point it almost feels like a show of power.
In the city life moves so fast; constant deadlines, pressure, anxiety and a need to reach for something that always feels out of reach. In Mbarara, life unfolds gently, time seems to move slower, people are not in a rush, no pressure to perform.
You greet people you barely remember but remember you so vividly. It’s a time for me to reflect on the past year, extend some grace to myself and have hope for the future.
Going to Mbarara is not just a tradition, it is a reminder that life does not have to always be loud to be full. It does not have to be the place that raised you but simply the place that knows how to slow you down. Soon it is all over and Kampala beckons again for another 365 days.
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