Ah, Easter. While for non-Christians it is a just another holiday, for the faithful it marks the end of Lent. To the heavenly people the season is generally known, colloquially, as “uGudi”.
Tee-hee, black folk can… well, appropriate. The term “uGudi” is borrowed from “good” in Good Friday. It doesn’t just mean Good Friday, but the entire long weekend until Easter Monday. Which recalls the oft-told story of a Zulu labourer who once told his white boss he was “going home for good”. Only, he meant he needed time off for Good Friday.
Imagine the poor boss’s reaction when the country bumpkin reported for duty after Easter Monday.
I have mixed feelings about this period. I am excited and sad at the same time. I’m excited that the season of penitence, prayer and fasting is drawing to a close, but also I’m sad reflecting on the pain the Son of God bore at the cross.
Most importantly, I am glad about the resurrection.
The prospect of breaking the fast from partaking of juicy meat morsels is mouthwatering. Forty- odd days is a long time to live on “grass”, as carnivores say of a vegan diet.
I have to hand it to the missus for her creativity. She has been whipping up a variety of appetising, scrumptious and life-giving veggie dishes in the past six-odd weeks.
The prospect of savouring single malts and red vine again makes me salivate. Forty days is a long time to emulate the monks of the Middle Ages by just surviving on premium ale. They lived on beer during the fast after it got the papal nod, thus earning the moniker “liquid bread”.
For those who couldn’t be bothered with things religious, Easter means a break from grafting, spending time with family for migrant workers and generally making merry.
Sadly, Easter also means road accidents and visible policing, albeit for PR-exercise purposes.
Today being Good Friday, my chums and I found ourselves sharing about our plans, experiences and recollections of a typical Gudi.
For Mavovo the season, like all holidays, has lost its meaning.
“All I know is that I’m going to be swigging spirits the whole Easter weekend.”
Not to judge Mavovo, but sies. You don’t guzzle down spirits, you sip them. Which is exactly what I am going to be doing at the men’s fellowship Braai Day on Easter Monday. Under the tree on church premises with our teetotaller mfundisi breaking into his characteristic cackling.
Not for us the quibbling over whether hot-cross buns bear the halaal stamp of approval.
“Everything is permissible for me, but not everything is beneficial,” it is written.
Man of Letters, the wind chaser in our midst, said: “I’ll be in Cape Town running (the Two Oceans marathon).
“But I will miss a typical Good Friday back in Msinga, where all my migrant-worker cousins and neighbours normally congregate. We feast on meat and quaff traditional beer.
“Loose-lipped men regale us with stories of past generations. And there is sure to be lots of imemulo, with lots of maidens coming of age,” said Man of Letters.
Biggs said: “My fingers will be doing the walking on the keyboard because people will still want to read newspapers on Easter Sunday, if it’s still called that.
“Not that I care. Growing up, uGudi was like a mini Christmas because there was plenty of food to celebrate His resurrection in the Methodist family I was born into.”
My abiding memory of Easter is that of casual Christians packing up churches.
And men are the biggest constituency here. It would be, well, good if men became a regular fixture in church to take their rightful place.
