Liberian Christmas Child Style; Precious Memories of My First Christmas

Memories of my first Christmas as a child in Liberia are most likely a combo of several Christmases. Since I am reminiscing from the context of Christmas grandeur in the United States, let me begin with what was glaringly missing from my first Christmases while growing up in Liberia.

I don't remember ever seeing a Christmas tree, Christmas ornaments, or Christmas lights in our house or yard. The only homes that featured such overkill were those of Liberians who had traveled abroad, specifically to America, England, or some other Western country.

Also, we did not know of present-delivering Santa along with elves, rein deer, carriage or snow. Christmas in Liberia comes during the dry season of the year. Believe or not, no Liberian child or adult could be "dreaming of a white, white Christmas". Nor do I remember singing or hearing Christmas carols.

Whereas Christmas in America is primarily about shopping, for us, Christmas was mainly about the biggest eating sprees of the year. But there was no traditional Christmas dish. Liberian families cooked various dishes, from palm butter, potato greens and collard greens to fufu with pepper soup and palava sauce.

Perhaps the only other thing that topped food in Christmas anticipation was the dream of wearing new clothes and shoes or new shoes. Throughout the year, I wore ragged clothes and went barefooted at worst or wore flip flops at best. Christmas was the one day I would climb into brand new clothes, if my behavior was really good, especially two weeks or so before December 25th.

On Christmas Day, an adult - Uncle Topoe, his wife or one of the older guys - woke us up before dawn, something like 4:00 AM, or a similar vampire time. The next three to four hours would be spent helping my aunt-in-law cook the biggest meal of the year for a house filled with extended family members of siblings, cousins, and informally "adopted" children, of which I was one. After food had been dished up and divvied up into what seems like tens of bowls and plates, the teenagers were loaded with food trays to deliver to family and friends in other homes near and far.

Then it was dressing time. Total ecstasy as we kids compared and contrasted outfits to see who should win the best-dressed award if there was one. The real treat was my cowboy toy gun, strapped around my waist and hanging, with bullets neatly tugged into the strap. Pop on the cowboy hat, a cone hat, or a circular hat, and the time had come to go showing off, determined to rob the attention of chicks in their new dresses, some of them, having flashy toys to deck their Christmas beauty.

The next big deal was visits to the homes of family members, relatives, and friends of family to eat what they cooked for Christmas, and to get spending money from the generous ones. A nickel or dime from Uncle Juah, a quarter or two from Aunt Nyonnie, and a little boy's Christmas pocket was soon flush with cash, buying him even more show-off rights.

Throughout the day, we watched Oldman Beggar or Old Lady Beggar dance for money. But the real dancer that every kid yearned for was Sanny Claw (Santa Claus), who is not a present-delivering Santa. Instead, the Liberian Santa is a slake, skillful dancer, armed with incredible foot works that kids will be mimicking months after Christmas. Santa rounded the community and city with his entourage of zealous singers, drummers, and clappers. It was not uncommon for some kids to follow Santa until they could not find their way back home.

Christmas night led to one or more of the little bars in Topoe's Village, our subdivision of Monrovia, the capital city of Liberia, West Africa. Perhaps the hardest thing on Christmas night was when to quit the dance floor and bring Christmas to a peaceful grind, free of parental quarreling or spanking for coming home late.

If I made it home in parental time I was asked to report how much money I collected from the family and relatives I visited. Never did I turn in all the money to Aunt-in-law. It was an open secret in the kiddohood that you never give Parent or Guardian all or most of your Christmas money. I hid some of my money so I could enjoy in days to come, and to that I added whatever amount my guardian chose to give back to me.

The final business of Christmas Day was to return my new clothes and shoes to my guardians to be washed and kept. From that point on, I would be allowed to wear those almost new clothes as church clothes, or when Uncle Topoe and I would travel. At last, I went to bed as the first step in the lingering wait for the next Christmas peering at me from the distant future. But don't pit me; my toy gun would make the wait less tedious than you think. ~mogama~