Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Terez Rose
and homemade batiks decorate the walls. Candles line the aisles,
their smoke mingling with the smell of incense and cheap perfume.
People continue to mill about, not the least bit shy about demanding
that the bench occupants squeeze in even closer to make room. Even
goats and chickens play a part in the festivities, a handful of each
penned up next to the nativity scene.
Gabonese Christmas mass, Kate soon discovers, is a far more
interactive affair than the Christmas services of her youth. Everyone
here sings with gusto, sways to the music, and gives the priest their
undivided attention. During the sermon, they lean forward on their
benches so as to not miss a single word. The Gabonese seem to throw
themselves into worshipping the way life has thrown them into
living—wholeheartedly.
Catholics call the mass a liturgical celebration, which Kate
could never figure out growing up. It never felt like celebrating. The
adults around her always looked as bored and disconnected as she
felt. But here in Gabon, she finally gets it. The offertory procession,
in particular, is spectacular. Sixteen women accompanied by the
music of a dozen drums and several balafons—wooden xylophone
instruments—dance and sing their way down the aisle, gifts in their
hands, their hips sashaying to the beat. The women, in their attire of
identical dresses of scarlet, green and gold with matching headdresses,
look like tribal princesses. The drums are deafening, intoxicating. At
the foot of the altar, the women lay down their treasures—a wicker
basket full of collected monetary offerings, an earthen jug of wine, a
giant bowl filled with bread. The offerings grow creative from there: a
régime of bananas, the cluster of thirty still clinging together upsidedown;
six spiny pineapples; a dozen baguettes; ceramic dishes filled
with rice, with stew; an enormous bolt of colorful fabric. There is even
a wicker basket of beers.
The last woman carries herself like a queen, moving with broad,
sweeping, theatrical steps. As she dances, she lifts a doll over her
head. It is handmade, with baguette arms, a five-pound rice bag for
the body, topped by a hairy coconut head. A string of colorful beads
cinches the lumpy waist. The woman whirls and sways with it before
setting it down gently atop the bananas. Kate’s heart contracts. Surely,
she decides, this is how it must have felt when Jesus was born, with
the palms and animals and the locals heralding his arrival with what
they could: their music and organic pageantry, their hearts and the
fruits of their labors. Every member of the congregation is swept up
Crab Orchard Review ◆ 133