✨ Christmas Who Raised Me

Christmas looked different depending on where we spent it, with my dad’s family in Cape Town or with my mom’s family in De Aar in the Northern Cape. Two places, two cultures, two rhythms. And somehow, both became home. These are the Christmases that raised me.

When Christmas was in Cape Town, it meant spending it at my Ma and Pa’s place on my dad’s side. December in Cape Town is a whole vibe, long warm days, school holidays, and that unexplainable festive feeling that settles in the city. Since school closed for four weeks, my older brother and I often stayed with my grandparents for the holidays. Which meant one thing, Ma’s Christmas preparation rituals were about to start.

She would say, “We’re going to turn out,” and when Ma said that… you knew it was game on. Painting, washing curtains, polishing brass, scrubbing floors, dusting every ornament. My brother did most of the work (and tried to escape whenever he could lol). I was young enough to get away with innocence. And truly, every brown or Coloured family in South Africa knew the December “turn out.” It was cultural law. December wasn’t December unless the house had been deep cleaned.

Throughout the year, Ma collected stamp booklets, each page worth a set value, and by Christmas she used them to buy groceries and festive extras. She also bought the “luxuries” that only came out at Christmas: pan peanuts or raisins (especially the chocolate-covered ones), Pic ’n Mix sweets, Quality Street, dried fruit, redskin peanuts, and peanut clusters. These snacks filled the Christmas table like a proud festive display.

From late November, Ma started buying the meat, silverside, topside, sometimes half or a whole lamb. Vegetables came closer to Christmas. The smells of her kitchen still live in my memory. And then there was the trifle. Ma’s trifle will forever be the gold standard. Perfectly layered with fruit, sponge cake, jelly, whipped cream mixed with nuts, and Flake chocolate sprinkled on top. I try to recreate it now, but it will never quite reach Ma’s level. She made magic in the kitchen, and her trifle was something else.

Christmas Eve was for cooking the silverside and the leg of lamb, and starting the trifle. Christmas morning was vegetables, sauces, salads, and the Christmas Morning church service, something many South African families still do. After church, Ma finished the rice and all the trimmings. Ma and Pa didn’t have much, but Christmas always felt like abundance. Family, food, and love.

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Christmas lunch in Cape Town always filled us to the brim. The leg of lamb, roast potatoes, salads, rice, and all the trimmings. After eating, the whole house took that long December break, either lying on the couch, napping, or sitting outside catching a bit of breeze.

But the best part came later in the afternoon. Ma would start bringing out the dessert and all the Christmas treats, the trifle, Ma’s gold standard of layered perfection, the mince pies, the Christmas fruit cake, and all the snacks she saved especially for the day.

She would set everything out beautifully on the coffee table in the lounge, like her own little festive display. Some family and friends would come over for afternoon tea, nothing too hectic, just a chilled vibe, everyone chatting, catching up, and picking at the treats.

And me, I’d be sneaking extra sweets into my pocket for later, just in case the good ones disappeared first lol.

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What made my childhood special is that Christmas never lived in just one place. Some years it was Cape Town, full of coastal breeze, deep-clean traditions, Ma’s trifle, and that city buzz only Cape Town can give. And then there were the years we packed our bags, bought padkos, and made our way up to the Northern Cape, to De Aar, my mom’s hometown. A completely different rhythm, slower, quieter, hotter, but just as full of love.

Christmas in De Aar was like stepping into a different world. The moment we arrived, you felt it, we weren’t in the city anymore, we were in the Karoo. Endless open spaces, dusty roads, dry heat that wraps around you, and a silence so deep you can hear the wind. Before leaving Cape Town, my mom always stocked up on drinks, snacks, and groceries. People from the big cities never arrived empty-handed when visiting smaller towns.

Growing up without a car meant we took the train everywhere. So the long-distance train to De Aar became part of our Christmas tradition. The journey took the whole day, passing small towns, big towns, and miles of Karoo bushes.

Watching people get on and off the train felt like watching life unfold in little chapters. If you had a sleeper cabin, that not-so-comfy little bed felt like luxury. And padkos, always non-negotiable. Sandwiches, boiled eggs, chips, and sweets made the 12-plus-hour trip bearable.We always arrived early in the morning, tired but excited.

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Life shifted completely. In the early 90s, many small towns didn’t have electricity or running water inside homes, especially on the black and brown side of town. So De Aar meant oil lamps for light, coal stoves for cooking, water from a communal tap, and no flush toilets. It was the opposite of city life, but somehow, we loved it.

Ouma had her own version of “turning out,” the Karoo way. The stoep polished until it shone, floors buffed with candle wax, and the whole house cleaned from top to bottom. A few days before Christmas, Oupa would buy a sheep from a nearby farm. Slaughtering at home was normal. My Ouma, mom, and aunts cleaned and packaged the meat, putting aside what was needed for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

And just like at home in Cape Town, my parents always chopped up the liver and kidneys, fried with onions, salt, and pepper, fresh, simple, and delicious. That was the unofficial start of Christmas in De Aar.

Christmas Day in the Karoo was hot, easily 35 degrees Celsius or more. Cooking in that heat was something else, but the food was always worth it. Fresh leg of lamb, potato salad, pap (optional), chicken, and Ouma’s homemade ginger beer, which she started days before. Dessert was farm-style, shortbread biscuits, cake, and ice cream.

By the time we were done, we were full, hot, and stretched out under a fan.

Christmas morning started with porridge, then all the grandkids went to church with Ouma while my mom and aunts cooked. Christmas in De Aar is a part of me, my mom’s culture, which is my culture too. It was the one time in the year we saw Ouma and Oupa and the extended family we rarely saw.

Cousins running around, uncles and aunts joking with one another, laughter, dancing, and either a braai or a potjiekos on the go. Those were the moments that made it special.

My Ouma and Oupa also didn’t have much, but when the whole family filled their tiny house at that time of year, it felt like they had everything.

Now that I’m older, I’m grateful for both of my traditions and both sides of my culture. It’s something I carry with me wherever I go.

That was Christmas in the Karoo. That was home.

Even now, living far from home, these memories stay close. Since it’s the Festive Season, I’m starting a little series on the Christmases that shaped me. This first chapter begins at home, from Cape Town sunshine to Karoo heat. More stories to come. ❤️✨