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The Night Before Christmas:
'An African Christmas Story
It was the night before Christmas. I was eight years old, and very sad because my family life had been severely disrupted. I was sure that Christmas would never come this year. There was none of the usual joy and anticipation that I always felt during the Christmas season. Before this year, Christmas was a time for beautiful music on the streets, on the radio, television, and everywhere. Our village church started preparing way back in November – we really felt that we were preparing for the birth of the baby Jesus. Christmas was the time when relatives and friends visited each other so there were always people traveling and visiting with great joy from all the different tribes.
I was only eight years old, but I had grown a great deal in the past few months. Oh, how I wished I had some of the traditional food we ate at Christmas. I knew I could not taste the rice, chicken, goat, lamb, and fruits that made our holiday meals. In years past, the houses were always decorated with beautiful paper ornaments made by children. All of us looked forward to the Christmas Eve service at our church, which was followed by a joyous procession through the streets. Then on Christmas Day we all went back to church to read the scriptures and sing carols to remind us of the meaning of the blessed birth of the baby Jesus. We always thought that these were the things that meant Christmas. After the Christmas service, young people received gifts of special chocolate, cookies, and crackers. We also received new clothes and perhaps new shoes.
Throughout the celebration, everyone was greeted with the special greeting, "Afishapa," meaning both Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. This Christmas Eve things were different and I knew Christmas would never come. Every one was sad and desperate because of what had happened earlier in the year, when the so-called Army of Liberation attacked our village and took all the young boys and girls away. Families were separated and some were murdered. We were forced to work and march for many miles without food. We were often hungry.
The soldiers burned everything in our village and during our forced march we lost all sense of time and place. Miraculously we were able to get away from the soldiers during one rainy night. After several weeks in the tropical forest we made our way back to our burned out village. Most of us were sick, exhausted, and depressed. Most of the members of our families were nowhere to be found. We had no idea what day or time it was. This was the situation until my grandmother, who was very sick herself, noticed the reddish and yellow flower we call, "Fire on the Mountain" blooming in the middle of the marketplace where the tree had stood for generations. For generations it had bloomed at Christmas time. For some reason it had survived the fire that had engulfed the marketplace. I remembered how the nectar from its flowers had always attracted insects, making them drowsy enough to fall to the ground to become food for crows and lizards.
What a miracle it was to see that tree. Grandmother told us that it was almost Christmas because the flower was blooming. As far as she could remember this only occurred at Christmas time. My spirits rose as I saw the flower. But soon I became sad again. How could Christmas come without my parents and my village? How could this be Christmas time when we celebrate the birth of the Prince of Peace? Since April we had not known any peace, only war and suffering. How could we celebrate as grandmother instructed us to do, in her last words before dying that night?
Late the next day we heard the horn of a car and soon saw several cars approaching our village. At first we thought they were cars full of men with machine guns so we hid in the forest. To our surprise they were not and they did not have guns. They were just ordinary travelers. It seemed the bridge over the river near our village had been destroyed as the soldiers left our village. Since it was nearly dusk and there were rumors that there were land mines on the roads, they did not want to take any chances. Their detour had led them straight to our village. When they saw us they were shocked and horrified at the suffering and the devastation all around us. Many of these travelers began to cry. They confirmed that tonight was really Christmas Eve. All of them were on their way to their villages to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. Now circumstances had brought them to our village at this time on this night before Christmas.
They shared what little food they had with us. They even helped us to build a fire in the center of the marketplace to keep us warm. In the middle of all this, my sister became ill and could not stand up. A short time after we had returned to our village, my grandmother told me that my oldest sister was expecting a baby. My sister had been in a state of shock and speechless since we all escaped from the soldiers. I was so afraid for my sister – we did not have any medical supplies and we were not near a hospital. Some of the travelers and the villagers removed their shirts to make a bed for my sister to lie near the fire. On that night sister gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.
This called for a celebration! War or no war, Africans have to dance and we celebrated until the rooster crowed at 6 a.m. We sang Christmas songs. Every one sang in his or her own language. For the first time all the pain and agony of the past few months disappeared. When morning finally came my sister was asked, "What are you going to name the baby?" For the first time since the soldiers came, my sister spoke. "His name is Gye Nyame," she said, "which means ‘except God I fear none'."
And so we celebrated Christmas that night. Christmas really did come to our village that night, but it did not come in the cars or with the travelers. It came in the birth of my nephew in the midst of our suffering. We saw hope in what this little child could do. A miracle occurred that night before Christmas and all of a sudden I knew we were not alone any more. Now I knew there was hope and I had learned that Christmas comes in spite of all circumstances. Christmas is always within us all. Christmas came even to our village that night.
Peter Addo, known as Osofo by his friends, has written books of poetry and collected folktales from his native Ghana. A Methodist minister, he lives with his family in North Carolina.
You can learn more about Peter
and read more of his writings here.
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Last revised on 12-09-02
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