It’s not about being musical or perfect.

Christmas last year was shaping up to be pretty typical, until everything changed with a knock on my door. I had been in the Netherlands for nearly two years at that point, studying at university, with my life slowly settling into a familiar routine. I loved living here, but as the holidays approached, I found myself missing home more than usual. Christmas in the Netherlands was lovely, with lights strung up across the streets and festive markets in every square, but it wasn’t home.

Home was Portugal. Specifically, the small town where I grew up, with its quiet streets and sea-scented air. And home wasn’t just a place—it was also people. In particular, there was Inês, my best friend since we were little kids. We had been through everything together: scraped knees, broken hearts, and endless summer afternoons. When I moved to the Netherlands, it was hard leaving her behind, even though we promised to stay in touch.

We did stay in touch, mostly through messages and video calls, but it wasn’t the same as seeing her in person. So, when she told me she had a surprise for me just before Christmas, I assumed it would be something sweet—maybe a handwritten letter or a small package. I had no idea what she was actually planning.

The Arrival

It was the 22nd of December when my phone buzzed with a message from Inês: "I'm here!"

At first, I didn’t understand. Here? She was supposed to be in Portugal, spending Christmas with her family. Then it hit me—here as in the Netherlands, as in standing outside my student flat. I leapt from my desk, rushed to the window, and there she was, waving up at me with her usual grin. I couldn’t believe it. She had flown all the way from Portugal, just to spend Christmas with me. My heart felt like it was about to burst.

We hugged tightly at the door, and after a whirlwind of laughter, tears, and questions, I ushered her inside to warm up. The cold Dutch wind wasn’t the most welcoming, but the sight of my best friend standing in my living room was all the warmth I needed. We spent the rest of the evening catching up, laughing like we hadn’t in ages, and reminiscing about the good old days back home.

But there was something else, too. Inês kept eyeing the small carry-on bag she had brought with her. She was careful not to let me peek inside, but it was obvious she had something planned. I knew her well enough to recognize that look of mischief.

The Gift

On Christmas morning, after a couple of quiet days wandering around the city and visiting the local Christmas markets, the moment I’d been curious about finally arrived. We sat on the floor of my living room, surrounded by mugs of hot chocolate and fairy lights. Inês handed me a neatly wrapped package from her bag—the one she had been guarding so closely since her arrival.

I tore into the wrapping paper slowly, both excited and apprehensive. What could it be? The box I uncovered was wooden, smooth, and polished, with a decorative design carved into its surface. When I lifted the lid, I saw something inside I didn’t recognize. It was a wooden stuff, with metal tines sticking out from its top. I stared at it, unsure of what to say.

“What is this?” I asked, running my fingers over the cool metal.

Inês grinned, clearly delighted by my confusion. “It’s called a kalimba,” she explained, pulling one from her own bag to show me. Hers was similar, though a little more worn from use. “I’ve been learning to play it, and I thought it would be the perfect gift for you. It’s a thumb piano, originally from Africa, and it’s really calming to play.”

I examined the instrument more closely. It was beautiful, no doubt about that, but I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I had never been particularly musical, and the thought of learning to play something new didn’t exactly excite me. But I could see how much thought Inês had put into this gift, and I didn’t want to disappoint her.

“It’s… really cool,” I said, still unsure but trying to sound enthusiastic. “I’ve just never seen anything like it.”

Inês smiled, clearly pleased. “I thought you’d like it. I know it’s a bit different, but trust me, once you start, you won’t be able to stop.”

A Slow Start

Despite Inês’s encouragement, I didn’t rush to play the kalimba right away. For the rest of Christmas day, it sat on the coffee table between us, a beautiful ornament that I admired but didn’t touch. We spent our time doing the things we always did when we were together—talking, eating, and laughing about old memories. The kalimba, while intriguing, felt distant from me, like something that belonged to someone else’s world, not mine.

As the days went on, I couldn’t help but glance at it every now and then. It seemed to invite me to pick it up, but I resisted. I wasn’t musical. I had always told myself that. The idea of learning an instrument felt like an unnecessary complication in my already busy life. I was swamped with university assignments, and honestly, the thought of adding another thing to my plate—especially something I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at—felt overwhelming.

Inês, of course, noticed my reluctance. She didn’t push me to play it, though, which I appreciated. She understood me well enough to know that I needed time to warm up to new things.

A Quiet Evening

A few days after Christmas, after Inês had left to return home, I found myself alone in my flat, surrounded by the quiet that comes after the holidays. The New Year was approaching, but for the moment, there was nothing to do. No assignments, no lectures, no plans. I sat by the window, staring out at the soft, grey sky, sipping my tea and feeling a little lonely now that Inês was gone.

That’s when my eyes landed on the kalimba. It was still sitting on the coffee table, untouched since Inês had given it to me. It looked out of place among my books and clutter, a small wooden reminder of her visit.

On impulse, I reached for it. I didn’t have any real plan—I just wanted to hold it, to see if it felt as unfamiliar as it looked. The wood was smooth against my palms, and the metal tines cool to the touch. I plucked one, hesitantly, and a clear, bell-like note filled the room. It was a soft sound, nothing like the clunky strumming of a guitar or the chaotic banging of a piano. It was gentle, calming, and surprisingly beautiful.

I plucked another tine, then another, each one producing a slightly different note. Before I knew it, I was plucking out a simple melody, one that seemed to come naturally, even though I had no idea what I was doing. It was almost meditative—the repetitive motion, the soft sound, the way the instrument seemed to respond to the slightest touch.

Discovering a New Rhythm

In the days that followed, I found myself reaching for the kalimba more often. It became something of a ritual for me—a way to unwind after a long day or to take a break between study sessions. I wasn’t learning any specific songs, and I wasn’t trying to become an expert player. It was just something to do, something that felt relaxing and soothing.

I realized that Inês had been right—playing the kalimba wasn’t about skill or technique. It was about the simple joy of making music, of creating something beautiful without any pressure to be perfect. I started to look forward to those quiet moments with the kalimba, when I could lose myself in its gentle sounds.

There was something almost therapeutic about it, the way the notes seemed to wash over me, clearing away the stress and noise of the day. It was like finding a little pocket of peace, a reminder that not everything had to be rushed or complicated.

A Connection to Home

As I played, I couldn’t help but think of Inês. In a way, the kalimba became a way for me to stay connected to her, even though she was back in Portugal. Each time I picked it up, I thought of her, of the way she had smiled when she gave it to me, of the long nights we had spent talking and laughing. The kalimba wasn’t just an instrument—it was a reminder of our friendship, of the care she had put into finding something that would bring me comfort.

And it did bring me comfort, in ways I hadn’t expected. What started as a curious, unfamiliar gift had become a part of my daily routine, a small moment of joy in the midst of everything else. It wasn’t something I had asked for, but it was exactly what I needed.

A Gift That Keeps on Giving

Months later, the kalimba still sits on my coffee table, no longer just an ornament but a cherished part of my life. I play it whenever I need a break from the busyness of university, whenever I need to feel grounded. It’s funny, really—how something so simple can bring so much peace.

I’ve even started looking up songs to learn, though I still prefer to play my own little melodies, ones that don’t follow any particular rules. Inês was right—it’s not about being musical or perfect. It’s about finding joy in the moment, about creating something for yourself.

And every time I play, I think of Inês, of that Christmas, and of the way she travelled all the way from Portugal to give me something I didn’t even know I needed. It was more than just a gift. It was a reminder of our friendship, of the ways we stay connected no matter how far apart we are.

In the end, that’s what Christmas is really about, isn’t it? The connections we make, the love we share, and the unexpected moments that bring us closer together.