We are a few weeks away from being unwillingly submerged in the annual circus of twinkling lights, forced cheer and Jingle Bells on loop — the festive fatigue we didn’t ask for, but somehow must survive.
But first, we must endure the great commercial warm-up act, that glittering spectacle of capitalist foreplay otherwise known as Black Friday.
Nonetheless, I too will be participating, stocking up on the pricier coffees and teas to impress my grandmother, because apparently nothing says “family love” like overpriced caffeine.
Yes, I fully support this absurd commercialisation and blind adaptation of Western constructs. I hate myself for it, but I don’t hate being able to afford bulk items that my normal salary politely laughs at.
With the year limping to an end, I can’t help but become reflective, perhaps even a little cynical, about the general mental wellbeing of South Africans as the so-called festive season approaches.
Yes, many of us are exhausted, having laboured through 12 relentless months, clinging to the idea of a much-needed “rest.”
Except, of course, that “rest” for the average South African often translates into a marathon of binge drinking, binge consumerism and the unspoken expectation to show up for every wedding, funeral and family gathering within a 50km radius.
It’s less rest and more social endurance disguised as celebration.
Every year we dutifully participate in these makeshift year-end Olympics — no warm up, no pause, just straight into the chaos.
We sprint through malls, emotionally and financially, pressuring ourselves and others to contribute to the grand illusion of “needing” things we don’t.
We’ve somehow managed to turn financial strain into a festive tradition — from the buying of Christmas clothes to the sacred institution of the liquor stokvel, ensuring that both our spirits and our spirits remain high.
Our traditional ceremonies and family functions now boast liquor budgets that could rival the most decadent soirées: champagne dreams on strained debit cards.
Wilfully we proceed as though our habits of overconsumption could somehow masquerade as a cure, a convenient panacea for the psycho-emotional, financial, mental and spiritual burdens we’ve been dragging behind us all year.
We decorate our exhaustion with fairy lights and pretend it’s joy. Often, this performance unfolds against the backdrop of environments that once harmed us; the very places where our earliest traumas took root.
Yet, without addressing any of that pain, many are expected to return “home” for the holidays, performing normalcy in spaces that are anything but safe.
Those who come from families marked by conflict or abuse must now smile through the same dynamics that wounded them, seated across from their own triggers while being told to “just enjoy the festive.”
With this in mind, I unequivocally understand why the holiday season feels like the toughest stretch for so many.
It’s a cold reminder of the quiet isolation some endure, even when surrounded by people, and of the financial overreach we willingly engage in, simply because we’ve been raised in families and societies that equate love and belonging with consumption.
And then, as if by cruel design, the season ends abruptly, without ceremony, leaving many scrambling to recover from emotional hangovers and empty bank accounts.
The lights dim, the music fades and we’re left to find inventive ways to survive the consequences of our own performative joy.
I am all for showing up for family, honouring traditions and celebrating life. But I think it’s time we start asking ourselves where some of these “traditions” come from.
Are they sacred? Passed down through generations as meaningful acts of connection and reverence? Or are they capitalist hand-me-downs, dressed up in cultural language to make us feel better about our overspending?
Maybe this year, the real act of rebellion is rest — spending time, not money.
And if that means swapping the champagne for ginger beer and choosing peace over performance, then perhaps that’s the kind of festive spirit our ancestors would toast.
Sowetan
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