Growing up, one of the most heartwarming traditions we had was sharing meals within our homestead. not just as a family, but as a community woven together by kinship and culture.
Our homestead had a beautiful layout: Granny’s house stood proudly at the north end, flanked by her sons’ homes, alternating left and right. Firstborn on the left, second on the right, and so on. Meal times, especially lunch and dinner, were sacred. Each household would prepare a dish and bring it to Granny’s. The women sat together on one side, children huddled at the far end, while the men gathered around tables on chairs, a simple but symbolic setup. On hot days, we’d eat outside under the shade of mango or neem trees, the air filled with laughter, the aroma of food, and the clinking of shared plates.
There was an unspoken competition among the daughters-in-law to ensure all meals arrived at the same time. Tardiness was frowned upon. It meant others had to wait, and worse, it could embarrass your husband. But beyond the competition was a powerful act of unity. no child, no household, ever felt left out. Even if one family couldn’t afford a hearty meal, that day their children still ate meat, still shared in the joy, still felt equal. It was food, yes, but it was also dignity, love, and shared humanity.
And if someone from city came visiting, they didn’t just bring gifts for their own house. They shopped for the whole homestead. That gesture lit up the compound like Christmas lights. Children were happy, bellies were full, and hearts were even fuller.
If he was from the city, he could visit relatives with some gifts of course.
But somewhere along the way… it faded. Slowly, what was daily became occasional, and then only at Christmas. Now, even that feels like a distant memory. We’ve become scattered, urbanized, surviving in cities where neighbors are strangers and shared meals are takeout on tired laps.
I don’t keep the tradition anymore. Not because I don’t want to, but because life has changed. The economy bites, time is tight, and sometimes I don’t even make it home for Christmas.
It’s a tradition forgotten… but deeply remembered. And perhaps, one day, revived.
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