Thriving Through Trials

As a child in the refugee settlement of Kenya Tanganyika in the Democratic Republic of Congo, 31st December was the day when our little corner of the world turned into a festival of joy. It wasn’t just the end of the year; it was the culmination of months of effort and the highlight of my father’s extraordinary ability to bring people together.

My father’s nickname, Mwanga Sombe, was a testament to his charm and ingenuity. As a fish trader, he roamed the village, calling out in Kiswahili, “Mwanga Sombe, Mwanga Sombe, Mwanga Sombe.” It was a slogan that meant “throw away cassava leaves”—a rallying cry to abandon the monotonous and aspire for something better, like fish or meat. The nickname stuck, and we, his children, carried it with pride.

Months before New Year’s, my father embarked on a mission to secure cows from the Banyamulenge, a Congolese community of Rwandan heritage renowned for cattle herding. These cows represented the community’s shared dream of a festive feast. Once the cows arrived, our home became a bustling hub of activity. Villagers came to inspect the animals, form groups, and contribute money. These gatherings were lively, filled with laughter, negotiations, and a shared sense of anticipation.

My job was to care for the cows. After school, I’d lead them to graze, navigating the watchful eyes of contributors who would stop me to check on their investment. The responsibility was enormous, but so was the sense of pride in being part of something so significant.

The night before 31st December was a mix of excitement and tension. The cows’ enclosure was fortified, and my father prepared his tools with meticulous care. His special knife and panga were untouchable by anyone else. Watching him prepare was like witnessing a sacred ritual. The weight of the next day’s events was palpable, making sleep nearly impossible.

When the morning arrived, the village came alive. Children gathered outside our house at the crack of dawn, their faces glowing with anticipation. At the football ground, the community gathered for the spectacle of my father’s cow-slaughtering expertise. He moved with a confidence that left the crowd in awe, tying the cow’s legs and pulling it to the ground with practiced ease. The applause that followed was loud. In that moment, I knew my dad wasn’t just my hero; he was the village’s hero too.

The process of dividing the meat was an exercise in trust and tradition. Banana leaves were spread out, and the cow was meticulously portioned into shares for the contributing groups. No scales, no disputes, just a shared understanding that made the process seamless.

By evening, the village was alive with the sounds and smells of celebration. Fires blazed, pots boiled, and laughter filled the air. The feast wasn’t just about food; it was about unity. It was a moment to forget hardships and celebrate the simple joys of life.

Even now, decades later, the memories of those New Year’s celebrations remain vivid. My father’s efforts taught me the value of community and the power of hope, lessons that continue to guide me. And every 31st December, I smile, remembering the magic of being Mwanga Sombe’s son.