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Every year, as Christmas Day approaches, we continue to celebrate this European Christian tradition of Father Christmas or Santa Claus

Sekai Nzenza on Wednesday IN front of a supermarket in Mt Pleasant last week, we see Father Christmas. He is skinny and tall. And he is dark skinned. I am seeing my first black African Father Christmas in Zimbabwe. This is history. I want to shake his hand.

I am walking with my cousin Reuben’s nine-year-old boy, Kuziva. This boy was born in Australia. He arrived in Zimbabwe last week. I extend my hand to greet our own homegrown, indigenous Father Christmas. His smile shines through the white beard. But Kuziva pulls my hand back and says, “Tete, that is not Father Christmas. This one is fake”.

Father Christmas hears this and he says, “Iwe mupfana. Fake? Ndiri pabasa”. (Hey young man, I am not fake. I am at work). But the boy is determined to tell me that this is not the real Father Christmas. No. The Father Christmas he knows is white, has a big tummy and he is often accompanied by a reindeer. They travel at night all the way from the North Pole.

I am embarrassed. Some of these children born in the Diaspora do not have respect for adults. They have too much freedom of speech and say whatever comes into their heads. I apologise to Father Christmas saying, “Ndizvozvo zvenyu Bhudhi, muri pabasa. Chero zvichipa sadza”. By this I mean, that’s the way brother, you are at work as long as this gives you sadza. Father Christmas and I shake hands. I then discreetly place a two dollar note in his palm. He smiles even more and thanks me.

Kuziva and I walk into the store. “Tete, why did you give that fake Father Christmas some money?” the boy asks again. I thought he had not seen anything.

“Oh, that was nothing, only two dollars,” I tell him. But why Tete? A real Father Christmas is supposed to give you presents and not you giving him presents. You see why I think the man is fake?” the boy says.

“Ah iwe. That was just a sign of good will. This is Christmas,” I tell him again, hoping he will stop asking. Then you should have given him 10 dollars and not two. What kind of good will is that?” the boy asks. At this stage I decide to ignore him. Because I am feeling a little guilty or perhaps I am once again questioning the whole idea of an African Father Christmas. We walk into the supermarket. The Christmas Jingle Bells song on the speaker is loud and clear.

“Oh, jingle bells, jingle bells

Jingle all the way

Oh, what fun it is to ride

In a one horse open sleigh

Jingle bells, jingle bells

Jingle all the way . . .”

Last year, at about the same time in December, I walked into another supermarket in Harare, with my cousin Reuben. The same song was playing. But Father Christmas was not black. He was a big white elderly man. Reuben said, “If they keep on using old white guys as Father Christmas, they will soon run out of them.”

There was a long line of parents with children eagerly waiting for a turn to sit on the lap of Father Christmas then pose for a photo. Long before independence, people came from Highfield, Chitungwiza, Mufakose, and Mabvuku and from all over the African townships to see the Christmas decorations. During the day, they brought children to pose for a photo with the white Father Christmas.

One time l saw Father Christmas in one shop along First Street. “Ho! Ho!. Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Ho ho ho!” he said. He opened out his arms to take one child after the other on his lap. Some children took one look at him and screamed. They had never seen a white man. But parents insisted that they did not come all the way into to town and not return home without a Polaroid photo with the white Father Christmas.

In those days, First Street was meant for mostly Europeans. You did not see vendors selling cockroach poison or mushonga wemapete, as they do now. No. First Street was First Street. You walked carefully and made sure you did not accidentally bump or push a white person. That would have been seen as a crime.

Father Christmas was white and he stayed in big expensive shops. We wanted to take the children to him and let them pose for a photo. The photo would be placed in the display cabinet or on the wall so neighbours and others can see that the child had indeed been to the centre of the city and met the white Father Christmas.

Every year, as Christmas Day approaches, we continue to celebrate this European Christian tradition of Father Christmas or Santa Claus. Even though we live down here, in the Southern part of the world, we wait for Father Christmas to come down from the ‘North Pole’, with his reindeer and a sledge. He must wear his red warm jacket, beard, hat and boots, like he has been walking in the snow.

Father Christmas belongs to a tradition that had been followed in Christian countries for centuries. The story of Father Christmas begins with St Nicholas, a bishop who lived in Myra, Asia Minor around the 4th Century.

This area is now called Turkey. St Nicholas inherited a lot of money from his parents. He was a very kind man who gave money to the poor. One popular story tells an incident about a poor man who could not afford to pay a dowry for his daughters. Here a man pays lobola to marry a girl. But in some countries, it is the girl who pays a dowry to marry a man.

In the St Nicholas story, the poor man was troubled that his three daughters would never find a man to marry them. But one night, St Nicholas secretly dropped gold down the chimney of the poor man. The bag fell into a stocking that had been left to dry by the fire. The poor man was surprised, but very happy with this gold. He paid dowry for his oldest daughter. But he was determined to find out who his benefactor or donor was. He hid next to the fire every night so he could see the person dropping the gold for the next dowry.

One night, he caught St Nicholas donating the gold for dowry. St Nicholas begged the poor man not to tell anyone about this act of generosity. But this secret was not hidden for long. From that time onwards, when people received a present from an unknown person, they believed that it came from St Nicholas. As a result of his kindness, Bishop Nicholas was made a saint and he became St Nicholas.

Later on, due to political upheaval in Turkey, St Nicholas was forced to leave Myra and put in prison because he supported a ruler called Emperor Diocletian. Although the date of St Nicholas’s death is not known, it was believed to be the 6th of December in 352.

Around the 16th century, the story of St Nicholas became popular in Europe. St Nicholas was linked to an old man called Pere Noel who gave children presents around Christmas. Across Europe, there were legends and myths about “Christkind”, a golden haired European child with wings who symbolised a new born Jesus. In the US, this new born child was called Kris Kringle.

Dutch settlers in the US combined the old stories of St Nicholas with the American idea of Kris Kringle and created “Sinterklaas” or the man we now know as Santa Claus.

During the time of the Victorian era, St Nicholas became more and more popular in literature and poems. One poem called “Twas the night before Christmas”, published in 1823 was linked to a story of St Nicholas travelling with a reindeer called Rudolf. Over time, Christmas was associated with Santa Claus, blonde haired baby Jesus and Rudolf the Reindeer coming from North Pole delivering presents through the chimney.

The tradition of Father Christmas and the American Santa Claus spread throughout the world. Colonialists and missionaries presented him to us. They told us to forget our own African traditions of ancestor ceremonies, rituals and celebration.

We embraced Jesus, Christianity and the white Father Christmas. Our children believed in this fable and we did not tell them that the origin of Father Christmas is based on European fables, myths and half-truths.

In Zimbabwe, we have created our own indigenous Father Christmas who stands in front of a shop this time of the year. Children like Kuziva will call him fake because he is not a white man. We are following a variation of European tradition. But, it should not matter too much whether we have a real or a fake Father Christmas. Christmas is here. It has been an eventful year. Let us enjoy the beauty of Zimbabwe, the spirit of Christmas and good will to us all.

• Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic