BAJAN SUN MAGAZINE
DEC 2014
A BAJAN CHRSITMAS
“ AL L I W AN T FO R CH RI STM AS”
“Time to get your bath, Cherry! Hurry up before the
water gets too cold! I ain’t putting on the kettle
again.”
My Daydee yelled from the bathroom as she poured
the last of the hot water into the galvanized basin that
I used for my evening bath. The running water from
the shower was way too cold for me (well that was
what I had convinced her of and I was quite dramatic
in my presentation). Under normal circumstances I
would have gotten up from the rocking chair in a
slow purposeful manner and continued the charade as
to how tired I was, and that I didn’t want to bathe,
and it was too much trouble, and I had already had
one that day, and so on and so on (quite the little
actress I was). This evening, however, was different;
it was December 24th, Christmas Eve and there was
no way I was risking a cut ass, or a “I gonna take
away that doll from you”. The next twenty-four
hours were to be the most exciting ever, even though
it had happened every year for the past eight years
and I expected, would continue into the future.
I lived with some elderly folk since my mother was a
single parent and had to make ends meet by working
very long hours. I saw her often, but in my youthful
eyes the person who was my maternal figure was the
younger of the two ladies in the home, my Daydee. I
never knew why I called her that because that was
not her real name, and now, as I sit and reminisce;
her beautiful long black curly hair that was always
pulled back into a waist length pony tail, her caramel
skin dotted with numerous moles and her strong but
gentle hands, tears well in my eyes.
I stepped into the basin and felt the warm water rise
to just below my knees (yea it was a big basin) and I
was lathered down from face to toes with Pears soap.
By Cher Corbin
To this day, the smell of that golden brown bar brings
such joy to my senses and such peace to my mind
that I keep one in my dresser drawer as my rescue on
really tough days.
As my bath concluded, the ritual began. It was now
seven-thirty and I heard the BBC Evening News
come to an end and the Christmas carols from that
famous British boys’ choir started. The old
Redifusion that hung in the corner of the dining room
was turned up to all. Daydee hurriedly toweled me
down to prevent me from “catching a draft” and
then powdered me up with Cussons Baby Powder,
and quickly pulled my vest over my head. I was then
brusquely told to go sit on the bed.
Next came the combing of the hair. The tangle of
fibre on my head had become more unmanageable as
each year passed and Daydee wanted to press it out
with the hot-ironing comb but my mother forbade it.
So, I suffered through the brushing and the parting
and the greasing with Blue Magic.
That night, however, I felt little pain. I was far away
as my thoughts swirled - what would I find under the
Christmas tree? Under the tree…but where was the
tree? Every year there was the saga of the missing
tree. For as long as I had remembered I would look
for the tree; in the back yard, in the old shed. One
year I even ventured to our neighbours’ who lived
two houses down to ask if they had had it. I was
promptly sent home with a scolding and a “you betta
guh long home before I call you mudda”. The plight
of the elusive tree conjured all sorts of scenarios in
my overactive imagination and I was totally unaware
when the sand man appeared, only to be yanked to
reality with a sharp tug that whipped my head
backwards.
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