It was 2000 and I was eight years old. I was late getting out of bed that Christmas Eve as I had been involved in painting our house and that chore had ended sometime around 3 am.

The day before the painting activity, my dad decided that Christmas needed to be special. As an eight-year-old boy, I thought my dad would have gone all out and bought a Christmas tree, finally, and we would have presents under it.

Instead, he went and bought paint and I had my first painting class, which took me no time to catch on because he was the one doing it while I watched on.

We spent the entire day painting walls and waiting for the paint to dry. My dad then excluded himself from the rest of the Christmas preparations, which was unusual for him because like me, he too was a child at heart and liked the splendour of lights, wall hangings and what not.

People say that once you’re good, old Saint Nicholas would bring toys as a reward of good behaviour, but my dad always told us that whether we were good or bad we would get nothing from Santa, “it’s hard-working parents like me does help the big man out.”

Though he said he felt Christmas was commercialism, for some strange reason every year, one day before the holiday, a jolly and merry feeling takes him over and it’s uncontrollable.

As for my mother, she apparently had an altercation with Mr Claus when she was a child. I had told my mother that I wanted a remote control car and she flipped and said a number of things that will not be disclosed here owing to the content.

As a result, Santa Claus was never featured in our house; even the mere mention of his name would start a lengthy discussion and I would swear I was listening to the History channel. As a tradition, our family celebrated the birth of Christ.

Christmas morning dawned and the day felt like any normal day with neighbours doing their early morning chores. Curious, I quickly checked to see if ‘Santa’ had left everything, but then it hit me — my dad felt Christmas was just “a bunch of stores who want parents to spend their money in the name of profit”.

I sat quietly in our new chairs waiting to go to church, for it was a tradition that our family had to be in church on Christmas Day to start the season in the right way. I went to church that morning and fell right to sleep, tired from all of the preparations, which took most of my energy.

After church, the rain came down and soaked every member of my family including some of my relatives as we stood waiting for my father to retrieve his car from the parking lot. It was really funny because my mom always says, “water sheds light on things that are hidden” and that day I saw the true colours of some of my aunts.

We headed home with most of my family anticipating the huge Christmas lunch and the time of fellowship that would follow.

Usually, this was the time when we (the children) would show off what we got for Christmas. I was gripped by the fact that I had not received anything for Christmas. My heart began to race and questions rang in head what was I going to tell my cousins?

Soon the table was set, my dad (Christmas Chef) baked his famous pot roasted chicken with stuffing and my mom prepared her special fried rice, there was luscious mashed potato, sprinkled with corn and carrots.

For dessert, we had ice cream and black cake.

Before we ate, my dad reminded us to pray for the children and families around the world who would not have what we had that day.

It was after our satisfying meal that my dad brought out a box which was not wrapped with gift paper or tied with a bow. But it was what I had wanted all along, a remote control car, and it was in my favourite colour, blue.

Oh the happiness of owning a Ferrari remote control car!

That Christmas I learned that Christmas meant more than toys and gifts.

That night we went to my aunts’ home in East Ruimveldt and had a blast. I showed off my new blue Ferrari. My cousins also had toys but my car was extra special.