Our very own Christmas Story – on the Road

Sometimes we encounter Christmas stories in unexpected places, as WINNIE?GRAHAM found one wet December day.

Some years ago my late husband and I were returning from rural KwaZulu-Natal when we spotted an old man trudging along a country road.

It was December, but the day was damp and the hiker wrapped in an old raincoat that hung to his ankles. My husband pulled up next to him.

“Can I give you a ride?” he asked. “Perhaps we can drop you somewhere?”

The man hesitated before taking a seat in the car. Maybe we could give him a lift till the road divided—one to the Free State, the other to Johannesburg?

What’s your name? Joseph. Going home for Christmas? I was making conversation and our guest responded politely.

He fetched a letter from his pocket—rather grubby from much handling—and showed it to me. It was written in an African language which I could not read. Then he told me his daughter was expecting a baby and he wanted to be with her when the child arrived.

Interesting, I observed, that a father wanted to share the happy event. Usually it was the mother’s prerogative. Yet, despite the joyous news, the man seemed inordinately sad.

I asked where he was from and how long he’d been walking. He answered in faltering English. He came from the Eastern Cape and had been on the road nearly two months. He had left in October and because he had no money for train fares had decided to walk.

Sometimes he slept in the open but generally people along the way had been kind. They had shared their food and quite often provided him with shelter at night. Then he sank back in his seat and fell asleep.

 

When we reached the next town, my husband stopped at a cafe and emerged with lunch: meat pies and cold drinks. The three of us ate in silence. There was so much I wanted to ask, but suddenly I was shy. My husband was more practical.

“Where does your daughter live?” he asked. “There is a bus station here. I’ll buy a ticket for you and you’ll be with her in a couple of hours.”

The old man produced the letter just as my husband opened our map book. Then the two men walked to the ticket office together. When they emerged, the old man was transformed, his face alight. The weariness that had been so much part of his persona had lifted. He would indeed be with his daughter by Christmas.

We said our farewells and exchanged Christmas wishes. Then he was gone.

“Strange thing,” my husband said. “He wasn’t going to Bloem. He wanted a ticket to Bethlehem [in the Free State]. His name is Joseph and his daughter is expecting a Christmas baby…”

“Was he having us on?” I asked.

“Not at all,” my husband answered, He was genuine all right. It’s just one of those glorious coincidences that make this season so joyful. It’s our own Christmas story… We are blessed to have been involved.”