When the old, rugged cross beckons…
I believe it is trite knowledge that Easter is spiritually more significant than Christmas.
Primarily, this is because it was the death and resurrection of Christ that symbolised redemption for mankind through the ultimate sacrifice, and thus, constitute the very fulcrum and essence of Christianity.
Of course, his death could not have taken place without his birth in the first place, but that does not in my view change the dynamics.
On the social, fun front, however, Christmas is far more pronounced, perhaps because it also ties in with the end of the calendar year, thereby giving us more cause for celebrations — a double whammy of sorts, hence ‘Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year’. My Christmas holiday calendar is usually full back-to-back with events before we even step into December.
On the other hand, whilst Easter Sunday heralds the resurrection of Christ and therefore is cause for celebration, the evocation of the bloody and sweaty events of Good Friday tends to mute things somewhat — at least for me.
This makes the whole weekend experience a two-stage one as far as I am concerned, whereas Christmas is fun all the way from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Day.
I even struggle to go out for a drink or respond to ‘Happy Easter’ greetings on Good Friday because there is nothing ‘happy’ about the day, even if it is supposed to be a ‘good’ day despite the gory bits associated with it.
‘Kwahu Bronya!’
Perhaps as a result of my reticence over Easter, I think I have resigned myself to the fact that somehow, I am never going to make it to the Kwahu ridge for the famous ‘Kwahu oh Kwahu!’ Easter weekend experience.
The idea of partying on Good Friday and Holy Saturday does not quite sit with me. Consequently, I have been procrastinating on ‘Kwahu oh Kwahu!’ for as long as I can remember.
Apparently, the conventional wisdom is that anybody who is serious about Easter has to make the pilgrimage up there a few times in their lifetime.
The branding of the Kwahu ridge as the Easter destination to die for, has been a very successful one, and everyone knows what ‘Kwahu Bronya(Christmas)’ means.
A long fun weekend in Kwahu is as much an integral part of Easter as church conventions have been over the years.
As for the allure of the paragliding experience, I am sure I can enjoy the fun of it all from a safe distance on social media platforms.
I gave up on the fantasy of gliding over the Kwahu landscape quite a while ago.
This year in particular, I had no excuse. My friend Deborah, who hosted me for a few days in Geneva, Switzerland during my European expedition in October last year and hails from the ridge, is in town and invited me to visit for the Easter weekend — with accommodation and everything guaranteed. I mumbled a weak excuse of response. I simply did not have the fire in me.
Weekend solemnity, Hallelujah!
Perhaps my view on the solemnity of Good Friday and Holy Saturday would have made more sense if I had spent Holy Thursday in contemplation to reflect Jesus’ experience in the Garden of Gethsemane as he awaited his destiny.
As a good but slightly rusty Catholic with a few rough edges, the Stations of the Cross all the way to Golgotha should have been my portion on Good Friday, rosary in hand, topped up with planting myself firmly in church awaiting his crucifixion.
Of course, Holy Saturday would be spent in prayer and reflection as he lay in the tomb owned by Joseph of Arimathea awaiting his glorious resurrection.
Alas, none of this came to pass.
I spent half of Good Friday in bed and the other half catching up with some work. I refused to eat red meat or step out of the house, even though my regular bar in Ashongman, Accra, had a live band session ongoing, along with juicy kebabs and mortuary-grade, ice-cold beer.
Live band? I found that strange, if not outright macabre, on the night of Jesus’ death when we are supposed to be reflecting and mourning, dressed in black.
On Saturday evening I decided to step out to see how the world was awaiting the resurrection.
A random stroll took me past my regular bar, and out of curiousity I decided to grab a seat and observe the ongoings.
The live band was in session again. I ordered a glass of wine.
They did not have communion wine, I am afraid, but I could not just sit there.
Water was not really an option, neither was Coke, Sprite or Fanta.
At the stroke of midnight, the DJ announced the resurrection, and for the next one hour or so, the crowd cheered and danced happily to hit gospel tunes in celebration, yanking out handkerchiefs hitherto concealed in trouser pockets and handbags to wave about as if that had been the plan all along.
It all looked and felt quite surreal, almost ironic — gospel music in a bar, with bottles of beer and other alcoholic beverages crowded on tables and some skimpy shorts, skirts and low cleavages on open display.
But who was I to judge?
I suppose that ‘For where two or three gather in my name, there I am with them’ (Matthew 18:20) did fully manifest itself in the one hour or so of non-stop popular gospel hits in the name of God at a drinking bar.
To Golgotha via Jerusalem
As expected, Easter Sunday morning rolled along. The stone had been rolled away and he was no longer where he lay. He is risen. Halelujah!
With my black apparel swapped for white, I could now get into the groove of the fun bits of Easter - the hefty celebratory lunch with family and friends, exchanging celebratory messages, the partying and the live band sessions complete with ice cold beer and juicy grilled meats.
The beach also beckoned on Easter Monday for a suntan I clearly do not need.
Of course, even if I still wanted to do the Kwahu ridge, it was rather too late to summon the energy and the logistics, because the Accra revelers were actually on their way back home.
Now that my ‘Kwahu oh Kwahu!’ ambitions are a distant echo of an abandoned ambition, perhaps it is time to renew and then redirect my Easter ambitions further afield.
The Holy Land will not be a bad idea come Easter 2027, God willing, with Jerusalem and Gethsamane as key stops on my pilgrimage, all the way to the site of the old rugged cross on Golgotha.
It would be a great spiritual experience to retrace the steps of Christ in the week leading up to his crucifixion.
I suppose it is time to look for my ‘susu’ box and dust it down.
Rodney Nkrumah-Boateng
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