THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS. An African Christmas Story (standard:non fiction, 0 words)
Author: osofoaddo	Added: Jul 05 2001	Views/Reads: 3807/2345	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It happened in a devastated African Village on a Christmas Eve. Read On I don't want to spoil the Story for you

It was the night before Christmas, and I was very sad. My family life
had been severely disrupted, and my grandmother had just died. I was 
sure that Christmas would never come again. There was none of the usual 
joy and anticipation that I always felt during the Christmas season. I 
was eight years old, but in the past few months I had aged a great 
deal. Before this year, Christmas in my village came with many things. 
Christmas had always been one of the joyous religious festivals for me. 
It was the time for beautiful Christmas music on the streets, on radio, 
television, and everywhere. Christmas was always a religious 
celebration, and the 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. 
There were always people traveling from all the different tribes and 
visiting with great joy. I thought that was the way it would always be 
on Christmas. 

That year, oh, how I wished I had some of the traditional food consumed
at the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners. I knew I would not 
taste the rice, chicken, goat, lamb, and fruits of various kinds this 
year. 

Houses were always decorated with beautiful paper ornaments. The
children and all the young people loved to make the ornaments and 
decorate their homes and schools with colorful crepe paper. All of us 
looked forward to Christmas Eve Service at our church. Every year after 
the service, a joyous possession wound through the streets. Everyone 
was in a gala mood with local musicians in a Mardi Gras mode. 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 thought that these were the things that meant Christmas. 
After the Christmas service, young people received gifts of special 
chocolate, special cookies, and special crackers. Young people were 
told that the gifts came from Father Christmas, and this always meant 
Christmas for us. 

We also received new clothes and perhaps new pairs of shoes. Meanwhile,
throughout the celebration, everyone was greeted with the special word, 
"Afishapa" meaning Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. Oh, how I wished 
that those memories were real that night in order to bring us 
Christmas. However, that Christmas Eve, things were different, and I 
knew Christmas would never come, maybe never again. Everyone was sad, 
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, and some were murdered. We were forced to work
and march for many miles without food. We were often hungry, and we 
were given very little food. There was little food. The soldiers burned 
everything in our village, and during our forced march, we lost all 
sense of time and place. Miraculously, one rainy night, we were able to 
get away from our captors. 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 sick grandmother noticed the reddish and
yellow flower we call, "Fire on the Mountain." It was blooming in the 
middle of the marketplace where the tree had stood and had bloomed for 
generations at Christmas time. For some reason, it survived the fire 
that had engulfed the marketplace. I remembered how the nectar from 
this beautiful flower always attracted insects making them drowsy 
enough to fall to the ground to become food for crows and lizards. We 
were surprised that the soldier’s fire did not destroy the "Fire on the 
Mountain" tree. What a miracle it was for us. Grandmother told us that 
it was almost Christmas because the flower was blooming. As far back as 
she could remember, the flower only bloomed at Christmas time. My 
spirits lifted for a few minutes when 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, because since April we had not known any peace, only 
war and suffering? How could we celebrate as grandmother instructed us 
to do before her death? Those were the last words she spoke before she 
died the previous night. As I continued to think about past joyous 


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