The silly season is that time of the year when everybody that you meet (and that includes strangers of course) kicks off each conversation by asking you the question; "where is my X-mas?”

But why am I supposed to know where everybody’s X-mas is? Am I Jesus? Do I look like Santa?

Talking of X-mas, I hate it with a passion and I have my reasons why. I know that just like me, most people also hate Noel but just won’t admit it for fear of being labeled ‘evil’ and satanic.

So I won’t be as selfish as to speak just for myself. I will also cover the backs of the cowards who have been suffering silently. After all it’s said that when a brave man takes a stand, the spines of weaker men are stiffened.

One of the things I hate about this day is the yearly insistence by newspaper editors and media managers to force writers to come up with Christmas-themed stories. By Christmas-themed stories they mean jolly happy stuff to paint a flowery picture and, since I do not readily recall the last time I had a memorable Christmas, why bother?

Also, I hate riding on a band wagon. I want to be the odd man out in that sea of writers all over the world extolling the virtues of Noheli out of nostalgia because we all know that the only Christmases worth the hype are those when you are still a little child –when wearing new garb on the day means everything. When all you are expected to do is receive, not dish out Christmas-related goodies.

Growing up in a poor setting, the mere prospect of drinking soda and eating pop corn mixed with roast peanuts made Noheli something of a novelty to me.

Usually, new clothes and shoes would have been bought for you by one of your parents, and what better way to bask in your blessings than to go to bed in these new clothes and shoes the night before Christmas?

The shoes would hurt because they were ill-fitting (too small), but also because you had spent the better part of the year walking with bare feet, meaning that walking in shoes would need to be practiced a little to refresh one’s mind on correct usage.

Often, the clothes were also ill-fitting – too small or too large. Where you got small clothes, it was usually because your cloth was sewn from scrap pieces of cloth that were left over after your mother’s kitenge had been sewn.