Whose Birthday? #14

The Night Before Christmas

An African Christmas Story

by P. E. Adotey Addo

The night before Christmas I was very sad. My family life had been severely disrupted. I was sure that Christmas would never come. I felt none of the usual joy. I was eight years old. In the past few months I had grown a great deal.

Before this year, I thought Christmas in my village came with many things... a joyous religious festival with beautiful Christmas music everywhere. The church started preparing in November. Relatives and friends visited each other. People traveled with great joy from all the different tribes. We really felt we were preparing for the birth of the baby Jesus.

All the young people loved to decorate their homes and schools with colorful crepe paper. After the Christmas Eve Service there would be a joyous possession through the streets. Everyone would be in a gala mood with local musicians, like Mardi Gras. On Christmas Day we all went back to church to read the scriptures and sing carols of the birth of Jesus.

Young people received gifts of special chocolate, cookies and crackers, new clothes and perhaps new pairs of shoes. Throughout the celebration, everyone was greeted with the special greeting word, "Afishapa" meaning Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. We always thought that these were the things that meant Christmas.

This Christmas Eve things were different and I knew Christmas would never come. Everyone was sad and desperate because of what happened last April when the so-called Army of Liberation attacked our village and took all the young boys and girls away.

Families were separated. Some had been murdered. We were forced to march for many miles without food. The soldiers burned everything in our village. During our forced march we lost all sense of time and place. Oh, how I wished I could taste some of the traditional food served at the Christmas dinners - rice, chicken, goat, lamb, and fruits of various kinds.

Miraculously, we were able to get away from the soldiers 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.

Then my sick grandmother noticed the reddish and yellow flower we call, "Fire on the Mountain," blooming in the middle of the marketplace. The tree had bloomed for generations at Christmas time. For some reason it had survived the soldiers' fire that had engulfed the marketplace. What a miracle!

Grandmother told us that, as far as she could remember, this only occurred at Christmas time. Those were the last words she spoke before she died.

My spirits were lifted for a few moments as I saw the flower. 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, because since April we have not known any peace, only war and suffering.

As I continued to think about past joyous Christmases and the present suffering, we heard the horns of several cars approaching our village. At first we thought they were cars full of men with machine guns. We hid in the forest. To our surprise they were just ordinary travelers. The bridge near our village had been destroyed last April as the soldiers left. Since it was almost 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 them began to cry.

They confirmed that this was really Christmas Eve. They were on their way to their villages to celebrate Christmas with family and friends. They shared with us the little food they had. They even helped us to build a fire in the center of the marketplace to keep warm.

In the middle of all this, my sister became ill and could not stand up. I was so afraid for her because we did not have any medical supplies and we were not near a hospital. Some of the travelers and the villagers removed some of their clothing to make a bed for her near the fire.

On that fateful night my 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, everyone in their own language. For the first time all the pain and agony of the past few months escaped.

My sister had been in a state of shock and speechless since we all escaped from the soldiers. When morning finally came my sister was asked, "What are you going to name the baby?" For the first time since our village was burned and all the young girls and boys were taken away, she spoke. She said, "His name is Gye Nyame, which means 'except God, I fear none.'"

We celebrated Christmas in the birth of my nephew in the midst of our suffering. His birth is the universal story of how evil turns into hope - the hope we find in the Baby Jesus. A miracle occurred that night before Christmas. All of a sudden I knew we were not alone. I knew there was hope. Christmas comes in spite of all circumstances. Christmas is always within us all. Christmas came even to our village that night. †

This page last updated 20 October 2012

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