After going to midnight mass with my host sister, the scent of incense still on my clothes, Vanessa told me that it was “time to start cooking”. I looked at her in bewilderment, and asked her if she was joking. But low and behold, a 15-minute moto-ride later, found myself grating cheese and falling into a state of delirium. By 1:45am, I had grated half a kilo of cheddar, and also cut up green beans for soup when Vanessa told me to go to bed, because this sort of work wasn’t normal for me. I was too tired to argue that it wasn’t the type of work but the time of work that wasn’t “une habitude”, so I went to bed.
The next day I learned that the reason we had prepared so much food was because Christmas here meant visitors. And then more visitors. People coming and going from our house all day, Muslims and Christians alike, rendering visits to neighbors, family members, friends of friends, cousins twice removed. People came and went, eating, drinking, exchanging stories about recent deaths, births, and gossip from a few nearby villages. “How do you know if you’re the host or you’re going to other houses to be hosted?”, my friend Lauren asked. Good question, I said. “How do you know when it’s over?”, my sister asked. It kind of just ends when you lock the door, I said. I missed Christmas with my family in the States. I exchanged cozy sweaters for sleeveless shirts and weird tan lines, snow and a chance of freezing rain with 90 degrees and a chance of dust, and my grandmother’s apple pie for papayas and poulet biciclette (google it). But I thoroughly enjoyed experiencing Burkinabé Noël, where it was, at it’s foundation, about loving neighbors well. I’m learning a lot about that here. Radical hospitality is something Burkinabé people are known for, and that’s thrown into sharp relief on holidays. There weren’t lights or a Christmas tree at my house. My family didn’t play Christmas music or exchange presents with each other. But they did feed every person who entered our compound, children and adults alike, and made sure everyone felt welcome regardless of who they were, even if they happened to be complete strangers. There was no schedule, and no one knew how many people would show up. But we were ready for them.
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AuthorThis year, I'm living in Burkina Faso with the Mennonite Central Committee and learning more about art, development, and peace. You can follow my journey here as I seek to tell many stories. ArchivesCategories |