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Underground eXperts United File 591
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Underground eXperts United
Presents...
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[ The Spirit of Wigilia ] [ By Simon Moleke-Njie ]
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THE SPIRIT OF WIGILIA
by Simon Mol
In my Fatherland of Cameroon, the countdown to Christmas is not different
from that of other parts of the Christian world and Poland; cleaning,
decorating, renovating and frantic last-minute shopping are done with such
vigour as inspired by December alone.
Shopping however harbours a slight difference; at this period no gift is
valued more than a piece of new dress, thereby elevating fashion to a major
spectacle. A child has no greater pleasure than to show his/her new dress to
mates. Women have no better subject of discussion than 'clothing', with such
passion that competition and comparison determine a family's state of
harmony.
Man, who by African traditional and religious rights is the family head,
comes under a severe trial as his pride is put to test. His victory is to
see his family elegantly dressed on Christmas day as they go about visiting
others... then he can beat his chest and boast to his friends. This is the
only compromise that guarantees peace. The consequences of failure to meet
this end might come with such irreparable damages as divorce in extreme
cases. This is no joke.
On Christmas day proper, each family prepares sizeable quantities of food as
friends and neighbours from far and near, come without warning or
invitation. They must be fed and given to drink in the spirit of Christmas.
Pagans too are fully involved in the 'free for all' Christmas party thereby
making Christ's birthday a veritable period of reconciliation and spiritual
reunion.
It is a norm for guests to come with stems of flowers, which they hang
outside the door frame; this is often the only present they bring along, yet
they come to take from the host... and the number of stems on a door frame
determines the number of visitors a family had during Christmas day. It is
not a problem with anybody as when the host goes visiting too, nothing more
is expected of him/her than a stem of flower.
Poor me! When I had a phone call from a Polish gentleman Mr. Pavelski
inviting me to spend 'Wigilia' with his family on Christmas eve, I thought I
was in Africa and went without any present... worst of all, without even a
stem of flower! I was completely blind to 'The spirit of Wigilia' that
reigns in Poland!
I had never known my host before. I had been told by an intermediary that he
had read about me in the papers and wanted to meet me. It was a surprise
invitation for me, and I was hoping that the climax of the surprise would be
to meet him and his family... Poor me! Little did I know that there was more
in store for me!
A friend of his drove me to his flat, which is situated a few kilometres
from the centre of Warsaw. On our way we both drank in the splendour of
crystal whiteness brought by the snow, which was late in coming. "I pray
that it would snow during Christmas!", the receptionist at the Warsaw 'House
of Literature' (Dom Literatury) had pleaded to me a week earlier as I made
for the office of Polish PEN. She had pleaded with such passion as if I
could do anything about the snow draught. She wasn't the only one with such
prayers as Christmas was fast approaching with no sign of snow. Everyone
prayed for Father Christmas as it appeared that he was in for a touch time!
Then a few days to the D-day, the suspense reached a happy climax as
Varsovians got up one morning to find everywhere covered with the 'breath of
Angels'.
As we drove to Mr. Pavelski's, we were talking about it... we were still
talking about it as we climbed his stairs to be welcomed by him with a broad
smile on his face as he opened the door.
We shook hands as if we had known each other all our lives. I was introduced
to his family; his mother, very motherly and caring, his charming wife who
wore a smile all evening thereby easing the tension of first-meeting
embarrassment with such flare as possessed by a dutiful wife alone, and his
beautiful five-year old daughter Zofia who carried a long chestnut hair. She
was at the centre of attraction all evening. My experience of the day was
the fact that all barriers erected by 'a first-time meeting embarrassment'
melted under the warmth of real family harmony. Immediately after, I found
myself with Zofia at a corner talking like long-time friends. She brought
her magic toy TV and started sketching maps of country after country. She
harboured a passion for the US and Australia that came up frequently than
any other country.
Her parents were busy putting final touches to the evening's event, which
was to be crowned with the arrival of two august guests; a couple from
Geneva. Their arrival was to be the climax of the 'Wigilia'. Two giant
Christmas trees stood in the dinning room, one was decorated in blue lights
and the other in red. Their peripheries were littered with packages of
beautifully wrapped presents. Between them were four logs of pine with ten
candles stuck on them - five were black coloured with gold particles, three
were in little cups, a green one was in the middle and 'a father Christmas-
shaped' one stood by.
As the host's wife set them alight, little Zofia in a state of blissful
excitement blew them all out amid shots of laughter. With motherly patience
her mother re-lighted them. Zofia repeated her blowing-out act with laughter
and jumps. She insisted that it was her birthday. Grandma told her it wasn't
hers but that of the baby Jesus. She said no way. After a heated debate with
her father, they came to a compromise before she would let go.
We were joined by another friend. Everything was in place; the table was
set, our hosts had dressed up, it was time for the show to begin, still...
the august guests were yet to come. They were already a little behind
schedule and suspense was mounting. We all stood up anxiously... waiting,
some stood by the door, hoping for the bell to ring to signal their arrival,
still nothing.
Suspense soon reached the pitch of a patience-consuming crescendo with Zofia
shouting "where are the guests! where are the guests!" It was almost ten
minutes to the top of the hour. A consensus was reached to wait till the top
of the hour and if they didn't show up, (which would mean that they probably
wouldn't at all), then the Wigilia would be set on course
If it had been this way things would have boiled down to an anticlimax and
probably, an emotional tragedy. I wonder how we would have felt and what
kind of air would have reigned for the rest of the evening. Certainly the
'Spirit of Wigilia' would have been absent. It was seven minutes to the
dead-line, everyone was pacing up and down restlessly as minutes died down
to seconds...
Then at exactly five minutes to the dead-line, grandma who was standing by
the window, pulled back the blind and started with a shout: "look everybody!
There they are!" She had smelled them metres away! Everyone heaved a sigh of
relief and ran to the door.
A charming lady walked in, bringing with her a tide of smile and happiness
as well as her husband - a charismatic gentleman whose hair was as white as
Father Christmas. She is Polish, her husband is Swiss. They were with a
beautiful maiden.
Without any waste of time, we crowded on the table after the initial
introductions and the feast started. Wine went round, grandma had a special
announcement for each of her repast before it was served. I learnt that
during 'Wigilia' meat isn't eaten... a sharp contrast with the norm in my
native land where everyone, especially children, would be seen clutching,
biting and tearing lumps of meat.
As the evening progressed I perceived the Swiss gentleman. It dawned on me
that he was very fond of kids from what transpired between him and little
Zofia. He maintained an authoritative silence that attracted admiration -
talking only when necessary. At one point we exchanged view points on global
politics with myself at the listening end as I saw that he was schooled to
the rhythm of global politics. He has a glamorous disposition, with a body
language quite identical to that of the famous American comedian - Bill
Cosby, which he used to entertain little Zofia and everyone enjoyed it.
We were entertained to a variety of fish dishes, deliciously and Polishly
prepared... a mistake on the part of my hosts as they didn't know that I
harbour a passion for fish. I was particularly merciless with the bones,
which I crushed to minute particles, as back home we believe that in them
lies the real flavour. Little Zofia went round offering from her 'Baby
Christmas basket' a rare, tasteful fruit from Vietnam.
Then came the climax of the evening... the distribution of presents. I was
restless all the while, as I hadn't brought anything to put under the
Christmas tree. Our host proceeded with calling of names, which were written
and stuck on each packet. Each call was greeted by shouts of gratitude from
happy recipients. Heart beats accelerated as recipients unwrapped their
gifts to see their presents. By the time the show ran out 'Simon' had been
repeated five times and I left with a bag full of presents! I was enraptured
by the generosity of my hosts; I returned with a diary for the coming year,
a silver pen of high scholarly standard encased in a magnificent blue box
and worthy of signing a peace and reconciliation treaty, a poetry pamphlet
of Polish poet Czesaw Miosz, a CD of Polish Christmas carols, a key holder
and an umbrella.
The joy generated by the session of gift-distribution opened the final phase
of the evening - charting and chanting with plenty of fine wine; there was
plenty of tasteful soup, wine and vodka. There was singing too, and I was
taught a popular Polish Christmas hymn, 'Lulaje'. My host wrote the lyrics
in my new diary and I had no problem singing with everyone else. Zofia's
voice rose in thunderous frequency. In the height of the feast the host
brought out a twenty-centimetre long bottle, written on it was: 'wedding
wine of Jerusalem', "I have kept this for three years!" he announced. It was
passed around. The red coloured stuff apparently severed the last chord of
cross-cultural barriers as I was asked to sing a carol in my mother tongue.
After a few sips of 'wedding wine of Jerusalem', there wasn't a better
time to sing 'Di ma longo Jerusalem', (we are singing Jerusalem). It took
next to nothing for guests and hosts to memories the lyrics and join me in
singing. This was how 'Wigilia' presented a unique opportunity for
cross-cultural exchange.
It was early morning - past midnight and the baby Jesus had already been
born. As we made to leave each guest was presented with a long, dried stem
of rose coated with gold. I made for the snow covered street asking myself
what I had done to deserve such an experience. It stood still in these
words...
I ... the fourth unwise pilgrim
behind the three wise men
that followed the star to Bethlehem
hereby confess my presence;
... I went with nothing.
But, returned with a pen,
and paper to write this for you.
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