ZULULAND LETTER: Fighting the festive way

A significant part of my energy is expended on simply avoiding people – my family in particular.

They’re great in small doses accompanied by large doses of alcohol, after which it inevitably ends up in a spectacular blow out ranging from that time my brother farted on my nose to ‘Say, what are your thoughts on the Gaza Strip?’

That’s why I’m quite focused on muting all WhatsApp conversations that I couldn’t get out of by pretending my phone had been stolen; lying about a lack of cellphone signal; answering my phone with a thick Estonian accent; or just hiding out in a cave for the better part of the year.

But then Christmas rolls around and there’s not a cave big enough to hide in. You know they’re coming for you.

Two years ago, my husband and I decided to flee across international borders in an effort to avoid the annual holiday get-together.

It worked like a charm. Sitting on a Mozambican beach, sipping RnRs while some weird local dressed as Santa runs around throwing seashells at the children. Not an extended family member in sight.

It worked so well, we managed to keep it up the following year. But come January this year, we got the dreaded invitation on one of the many family WhatsApp groups. 12 months in advance.

Let’s all hit the coast (no, not the coast closest to us, the coast some 1 000km away) for a full-on family Christmas! Our half-hearted agreement to attend this family fistfight dwindled to a full-on ‘no thanks’ as the reality of the horror we had agreed to was thrust upon us.

By February, we discovered we had absolutely no say in the chosen dates for the family holiday. In March, it was revealed that Aunt Edna had extended the invitation to her entire family, most of whom look like they live under a bridge, which meant we’d be lucky to sleep in the doghouse, should one still be available.

By April, we truly realised what fools we were for ever entertaining this invitation: the house was nowhere near the ocean, so the 10-hour trip there would be a breeze compared with the daily commute we would endure to share an inch of sand with most of Jo’burg.

It was time for our backup plan: Mozambique.
We started easing in our trepidations about this family holiday, citing our many work commitments, dwindling financial resources, and potential conversion to Judaism as key reasons for not having us around this festive season.

But we forgot one key point: the world had gone into election mode and Mozambique’s long-suffering citizens were heading to the polls, optimistic that corruption would be washed away by a collective show of force. It was not to be.

Our Christmas destination turned into a full-on civil war zone, complete with rioting, potential kidnappings and murder. Throw in a cyclone for good measure and this isn’t turning out to be the tourist destination they advertise on the brochures.

I’m not sure what awaits us at the family holiday is much different. I envision days spent avoiding Aunt Edna and her family with my bottle of vodka on the beach. Christmas Day will be a series of disappointments, mostly my mother-in-law’s when she gets the same gift she gave me last Christmas – a 2022 subscription to the Sunday Times.

The chosen son and his second family will undoubtedly force us to listen to their annoying toddler recite her entire Nativity play that has already been shared on the incessant WhatsApp group, along with his work accomplishments, thought for the day, and just marginally sexist memes.

I will get stuck into the Christmas punch and launch into a tirade of what I really think about all of them, igniting a chain reaction of expletives that ends with the toddler shouting all the swear words I taught her on the sly.

Who knows, I hear Syria is lovely this time of year.

Don’t have the ZO app? Download it to your Android or Apple device here:

HAVE YOUR SAY