Boxing Day in ZANABIA: The Great Unboxing of Joy
A field report from the happiest marketplace north of common sense By the time the sun finished yawning over the pine-lined hills of ZANABIA, the town square was already negotiating loudly with itself. Boxes were opened. Prices were debated. Dignity was temporarily misplaced near the “50% OFF (No, Really)” stall. Boxing Day had arrived. In ZANABIA, Boxing Day is not about punches or leftovers. It is about liberation—of toys from boxes, of sweaters from storage, of common sense from responsible decision-making. The banner said it plainly: BOXING DAY – ZANABIA. No fine print. No refunds on joy. At the left edge of the square, the Froghead merchant ran a stall that technically sold “assorted useful items” but practically sold surprises. Nobody knew what they were buying, including him. A hedgehog walked away with a music box. A fox bought socks and somehow received a kite. Everyone agreed this was fair. Nearby, Grandpa Wollybay was not shopping. He was supervising. This involved holding a pipe (unlit), nodding wisely, and telling anyone within earshot that prices were “better in his day, but happiness was smaller too.” Nobody asked him to clarify. Children—small, woolly, winged, or otherwise—were everywhere. One counted boxes. One shook them. One attempted to trade a perfectly good gift for a clearly inferior one “because it rattled better.” No adults interfered. This was considered education. At the center of the square, the elephant ran the Big Sale Table, which doubled as a carnival game and tripled as an emotional support station. Plush toys were arranged with ceremonial seriousness. Every purchase came with a trumpet-blast announcement, regardless of size or relevance. A mouse buying a button received the same fanfare as a goat purchasing a sled. In the background, the ferris wheel turned slowly, as if not to distract from the real spectacle: people walking proudly with things they absolutely did not need. A raccoon strutted past with three hats. A rabbit dragged a box larger than himself and refused help on principle. And yet—no chaos. There was bargaining, but no greed. There was selling, but no hoarding. There were boxes everywhere, but no one left empty-handed. Because in ZANABIA, Boxing Day follows an unwritten rule: If something is cheap, joy must be expensive. If something is discounted, kindness must be full price. As evening approached, unsold items were quietly gifted, not returned. Boxes became seats. Wrapping paper became decorations. The banner stayed up—not to advertise, but to remember. By nightfall, the square looked less like a market and more like a shared living room after a very successful mistake. Boxing Day in ZANABIA ended the way it always does—not with empty shelves, but with full stories. And somewhere under the snow, a box waited patiently, already knowing it would be opened next year.
