Sikaman Palava

To the hell-bound unbeliever, it doesn’t matter whether Jesus died on the cross or kicked off while in the wheel-chair. What they would forever be grateful for is that Judas did his job perfectly, sending Jesus to Golgotha so that Easter can become a yearly celebration, anoint­ed with the flow of palm wine and tots of Alomo.

Many natives of Sikaman normally do not celebrate Christmas. They see Christmas as a bother. The kids won’t stop reminding them about their new shoes and dresses, hats, watches, and every nonsensical nonsensicality under the sun, moon and stars.

And the kids will not relent wheth­er you are financially anaemic or generally ‘kpokpomatic.’ It is not so with Easter. It is only on Palm Sunday that the kids start whining about palm branches they would use to herald Je­sus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. Loud Hosanna!

When I was a kid, I used to look forward to Palm Sunday. After we went to Jerusalem and back, we were welcomed home with Rice and curried chicken. And little Kwame Alomele would be seen dialoguing with a chick­en wing in a most graceful manner, while eyeing a chicken thigh that is waiting to be peer reviewed.

PICNIC

I realised that the kids did not celebrate Easter in any definitive manner apart from the Easter Monday picnicking during which we drank a mixture of Coke, Fanta, Asana, Sprite and Mirinda and accounted for it very miserably and dishourably around midnight. The super- holy mixture turned the stomach at the eleventh hour and the result was one hell of a voting bout.

But it wasn’t only the children who vomited from mixing drinks. The big folks sometimes ended up in the gutter having mixed beer, stout, palm wine, akpeteshie (better known as sodabi). When they happened to eat kokonte and groundnut soup before drinking all these, what they threw up was a side attraction in itself.

The whole mess could be some­thing amazing. But you are sure to see a crab’s claw somewhere, and you’d wonder whether the man swallowed the crab whole. The truth is that some people do. They don’t like chewing.

They are used to swallowing fufu and kokonte so much that they swal­low virtually anything edible in sight. So to them swallowing a crab whole is no big deal. Just one of those things, if not a hobby!

To most folks, the celebration of Easter itself is not as exciting as the preparation for the event. Most guys would want to celebrate at Peki or Kwahu, the two accredited and gazetted Easter celebration points endorsed from heaven. Any woman whose husband goes on trek during Easter should be informed that the trek is not a genuine one. You can locate your husband swinging at Peki or Kwahu with a fair-coloured lady. I can bet on it!

Others would want to go to their own home towns to show off their moustache. But it all requires cash because while exhibiting your stylish upper-lip you must also “do show” to attract the attention of the ladies. You’ll need one to warm your waist when the cold comes at dawn. AIDS or no AIDS. All die be die!

So the preparations must include moustache-trimming, latest hair-shap­ing, cash saving and of course study­ing the latest dance style. Normally, you’ll not be expected to repeat the style you displayed a year back, otherwise you’ll be branded as not trendy. You must storm the stage dog-style and behave like an animal.

That is how the ladies will offer you “scholarship.”

LATEST

What has fascinated me most is the Easter Sunday church service. That is where the ladies release the latest or imported kaba styles. They come to church not to hail the resur­rection of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, but to prove to all and sundry that indeed, they know how to dress.

And the way they strut to the church service is something I have never believed could ever be possible. But they accomplish it effortlessly.

You wouldn’t know whether the ladies want to fly like a vulture or glide like a crow. But they all, without exception, behave like a peacock. The men folk wonder at the ladies’ elegant clothing and their affected pomposity. With measured steps, they enter into the church hall, and instead of sitting the ladies perch like birds. They are possessed with the spirit of the occasion.

The Easter sermon is normally predictable. Judas will be condemned a bit, but not too much because the man is credited with betraying the messiah through which the redemp­tion of man has come.

The pastor himself is normally in high spirits. He is expected to an­nounce that Jesus has indeed resur­rected after three days; and all eyes focus on him.

“His blood is what you Christians must strive for. It can redeem you from sin,” he’d wail.

SECRECY

If he is overzealous or happens to have taken some wine in the secrecy of his bedroom to loosen his tongue, he can say it exactly as it is, and risk offending the congregation.

“Jesus’ blood is for people like you sitting right here in front of me. You are fornicators, adulterers, crooks and common thieves. It doesn’t matter how well-dressed you are. After all, a decorated donkey is more or less an ass.

“Some of you are murderers, idolaters, rapists, armed robbers and car-jackers. With some of you, it was out of criminal activities that you had money to celebrate this Easter. It is for people like you that the Lord Jesus shed his blood. You need to repent and believe in his gospel.”

Everyone will be sure the pastor wasn’t referring to him or her. Of course, every Easter Sunday service is also attended by people who declare themselves village tramps and drunks. Once in a year, they come to the altar to ask God to free them from the witches who put pots into people’s bellies. They are expected to fill the pot with akpeteshie, but it never gets filled.

“Did Jesus die for me too,” a com­mon palm wine drunkard would say aloud.” Pastor tell me something.”