THE CHRISTMAS THAT CAME A LITTLE LATE

Of my six Christmases in Africa, the one I remember most vividly was my first in Niger, the Christmas I thought wasn’t taking place.

In an overwhelmingly Muslim country like Niger, Christmas is not heralded by the imagery of the northern hemisphere—the fir trees, the holly and the ivy, Rudolph and Frosty. No jingle bells or ho, ho, ho, no fake or real snow, no seasonal specialties and holiday wines and spirits in the market. In Africa, even Christian countries like Malawi are too poor for such excesses. Poverty enforces a certain purity; and attempts by expatriates to introduce the standard symbols at their holiday parties always seemed to me to fall a little flat, merely calling attention to the absence of both the good and the bad aspects of Christmas.

Ironically, in Niger, a country in which Christmas scarcely exists, the images of the first Christmas, so blunted and debased in America by commercialism, can be seen everywhere in North Africa. If the citizens of Niamey wanted to stage a Living Nativity, it wouldn’t take long to assemble the props or the costumes. No cow shed with a straw roof would have to be constructed, nobody’s mother would have to stitch up cloaks and turbans, no sheep and goats would need to be trucked in from a nearby farm. Many women even today wear the garments we associate with the Virgin, a long, simple dress with a big scarf covering the head and shoulders. One sees plenty of men who could play shepherds because they are shepherds, wearing the rough garments, rope belts, and sandals that American moms must improvise for their little pageant actors. Everything necessary for a Nativity reenactment in Niamey is richly and readily available on the streets of the town.

The few Christian churches in Niamey, with the possible exception of the Roman Catholic Cathedral, did not seem to emphasize the holiday. Even there, the approach seemed rather casual. I remember driving through town on that Christmas Eve afternoon with the American Ambassador’s wife. She asked her chauffeur to drive by the Cathedral so she could inquire about the times of Christmas Eve masses, as she and Excellence were thinking of attending. We pulled up at the imposing structure, went into the reception, and asked the young woman at the desk for the schedule of Christmas masses. She looked puzzled and said she didn’t have one: we would have to ask Pere Bonnard for those details. We hunted down a sleepy little French priest who also told us he wasn’t sure about the times. He rummaged around on his desk and produced a scrap of paper that said Midnight Mass, 11:00 p.m.

I went to Mass that night and found it an interesting cultural event but not a worshipful one, at least not for me. I was too fascinated by the theatrical elements. Nigerienne women and girls danced up the aisles and presented themselves at the crèche just to the right of the central aisle. Mary and Joseph followed, walking slowly. Mary sat down by the crèche with Joseph standing beside her. When someone stepped out and proclaimed the birth of the Savior, the Bishop, an imposing Frenchman, appeared with a baby in his arms and held it aloft. And said commandingly, “Regardez” It was, I must say, a thrilling moment. As he walked up and down the aisle holding the baby above his head, he passed by my place on the aisle and I saw a tiny brown arm dangling limply from the blanket. When he returned the baby to the Virgin, she took it and put it into the cradle. It looked lifeless and never stirred or made a peep for the duration of the service. I decided it must be a doll. “Poupee?“ I whispered to the man sitting next to me. “Mais, non,” he replied, “c’est un bel enfant.” I concluded that if it were a real baby, it had been drugged for the occasion, an unsettling thought.

I went the next day to dinner at the home of the American Deputy Chief of Mission. He and his Australian wife served a lovely repast, with many dishes on the buffet, each accompanied by a card announcing what it was. The meal was a greatly expanded version of the traditional American holiday feast, but nothing else acknowledged that it was Christmas—no reference to it as we sat down to eat, no Christmas toast when the champagne was poured, no Christmas blessing. No children running around saying, ”He broke my truck,” or “This thing doesn’t have any batteries,” or “Can I have my pie now?” I went home feeling out of joint and thinking that for the second night in a row, Christmas had passed me by.

The next morning, I left for the office before sunrise, relieved to put The Christmas That Never Was behind me. The town was mostly deserted, and the dust of the Harmaton had turned the sky an unimaginable shade of salmon. I drove through the dawn along the wide boulevards lined with palms, the kind of avenues the French colonials built wherever they went. When I saw on my left three men on camels, not an uncommon sight on the streets of Niamey, I stopped the car to let them cross. Only as they passed directly in front of me did I see them clearly. Two looked like light-skinned Arabs or Tauregs, the third was a black African. All were majestic in full desert regalia. The image suddenly took my breath. “Ah,“ I thought, “Exit the Kings.”

Excerpt from a work in progress to be entitled The Color of a Lion’s Eye
Copyright (C) 2002 by Jane F. Bonin