As was our tradition on Christmas Eve we were sitting beside our big Christmas tree, we three children wearing our new Christmas nightdresses and our mother reading the Christmas story.
We lived in a bungalow with wire mesh doors and windows that were closed at night to allow the air to move freely whilst keeping insects out. In the darkness we could hear crickets and other night noises through the wire mesh.
We became aware of other sounds - people coming up our garden path. Through the French doors that opened straight out into the garden from our sitting room we saw the light of a swinging hurricane lamp. At the front of a small procession coming up the path was a man leading a sheep.
Our beloved house servant, who had been sitting by the Christmas tree with us, acted as interpreter. He explained that this visiting family wanted to thank our Daddy, who was a doctor, for saving the life of their child. They had brought their sheep for us to eat at our Christmas feast. Such generosity, but what on earth were we going to do with a live ram? Sheep in Uganda look more like goats than the varieties we are familiar with here in England.
After many kind salaams they departed, leaving us with the animal. Our parents decided to put it into the garage for the night as we had no desire or need to butcher it. On Christmas morning we took it out of the now messy garage and tethered it to a tree on the lawn. Later that day, after carol singing around the hospital wards, attending church and sharing Christmas dinner with various people my mother had collected up, an arrangement was made for the hospital chaplain, Reverend Galliwango, to come and collect it. He was delighted and would share the feast with his family.
My mother often reminded us of this event and loved to tell her grandchildren of the day these visitors had become to us just like the shepherds in the nativity story.
