The Christmas Welder-- our annual christmas story

The Christmas Welder

A Christmas story by Mark Shaw

Wellington closed his Ngong Road welding shop at dark. There were only two weeks to go before one more Nairobi Christmas came and went.  Unfortunately business was slow. He was not an artist with the welder. His daily task consisted of making endless bed frames and iron shelves just like all the other Jua Kali furniture makers along the road.

As he closed the padlock on his metal door he heard rapid footsteps behind him. He heard the voice of Julius, his landlord.

"Wellington, Wellington. You are a hard man to catch.”  Wellington said nothing.  “You know why I am here," Julius continued, his heavy face puffing from his exertions.

"I know," Wellington answered, head down, voice a whisper.

"Your rent must be paid. You are over three months in arrears. I have been patient with you. Too patient. Only because of my cousin, your late mother, may she rest in peace. I am a Christian man but even Christian men reach their limit. Unless I get full payment by Christmas day, and I mean every shilling, I will not only close your shop but seize all of your property for repayment. Try welding your monotonous beds and book cases without a welding machine."  Julius smiled as though he had made some marvelous joke. Then his face turned sour. “I will be here on Christmas day to collect. Don’t disappoint me.” Julius turned on his heels and left.

Wellington’s head pounded as he finished closing up the shop and headed towards home. Where would he get that kind of money?  He was not making enough now to make ends meet, let alone make up for back rent. 

And what would he tell Winnie?  She was a good wife but she worried a lot.  She worried about where the next meal would come from. About how they would pay the rent.  And above all, about Shiku.  Shiku was five and sickly.  The doctor who came to their local clinic had told Winnie a month ago that Shiku might be able to walk someday but she would need an operation.  He had already borrowed so heavily from family and friends to keep his welding business afloat that he had nowhere else to turn.

 

As Wellington made his way through the muddy streets he heard another voice from behind him.  "Wellington," the voice thundered above the din.  Wellington knew the voice. It was Njoroge, his rival.

"Hey, I heard that Julius is going to close down your workshop.  Tough break, Wellington.  I would love to try to squeeze you in somewhere. Unfortunately I don't have any openings just now.  And, man, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when you tell Winnie. She will hit the roof.  Can't blame her though.  Her life has been one disappointment after another since she got married. Gotta go.  And Merry Christmas." 

Wellington watched Njoroge get swallowed by the deepening shadows. Njoroge had been a rival for Winnie’s affections six years ago.  Wellington had won that contest.  Njoroge had been trying to get even ever since.  When a fire broke out at Wellington's workshop a few years back, he had little doubt who was behind it.

It was dark now as he hurried through the garbage strewn alleyways just minutes from home. What would he say to Winnie? How could he hold little Shiku in his arms tonight and tell her that everything would be alright when he knew that was just not true? 

As Wellington rounded the final corner, his eye caught the new sign on the "Cross of Iron Apostolic Church," recently founded by one of Kenya's many self-appointed prophets. Spotlights shot up into the darkness directing all eyes to the cross that gave the church its name.  The illuminated cross was made of out of black nails, thousands of them. The nails were welded together to create the massive form of a cross.  It was a cross of iron, a cross of nails, thought Wellington.  Just like my life.

His childhood been hammered together by the spikes of poverty and death. The deaths of his brothers and sisters was a nail in his heart, as was the death of his mother. His attempt to find work and a career was one hard nail after another.  His marriage to Winnie felt more like blood and iron most of the time than milk and honey. Her sharp words, her steely looks, her dark moods, so many nails.

But hadn’t it always been so, thought Wellington? As he stared at the cross of nails a shooting star broke across the sky rimming the iron cross in starlight.  Wellington thought of the star of Bethlehem and the hard birth of Christ.  No room at the inn. A poor family travelling to a strange city far from home.  A mad politician trying to hunt them down. And the sharpest nail of all-- a world around him that didn't care.  Wellington knew that there were a few angels and shepherds that cared about the baby king who would one day die on his iron throne but most of the world stared on in cold indifference.

Christmas was never intended to be soft and syrupy, he thought. The one who came from heaven knew the sweat Wellington known, had felt the spikes of rejection, deprivation and indifference that he had felt.  What made this day a day of beauty was not the prettiness of it but the message that it gave to the world.  God entered our iron world, absorbed the nails of our existence, sat upon our iron throne of pain and in so doing traded places.  After the iron, a green shoot would grow. After the nails, the shooting star of a new creation.

As the comet faded from sight, Wellington had a vision.  He continued to stare upward at the church sign.  But he no longer saw a cross.  Instead he saw a Christmas tree.  One made out of iron.  Out of nails.  Out of blackness. The cross and the Christmas tree were but one tree. He knew what had to he do.

After he returned home he told Winnie about the eviction notice. She cried.  “What will we do?” she asked.  “What about Shiku?” He hugged her for a long time before she pulled away.

Then he set to work. He pulled out a broken pencil and a piece of paper.  Carefully he sketched out the vision.  He told Winnie what he planned to do.  He would make this iron Christmas tree and he would sell it.  He would sell it for a lot of money and people would come and many would buy. At first, Winnie laughed that mocking laugh that he hated so much.  But then she stopped.  She looked at the sketch.  She looked at her husband’s determined look. The tears came back but this time she was crying in his arms, sobbing gently even as hope mingled with tears. 

Wellington had a meager supper and retired early.  He slept little, dreaming of his iron christmas tree made from nails.  When dawn broke over the slum Wellington was already at work.  He had thousands of nails. His welder burned hot hour after hour.   Sweat poured from his face.  Cuts, burns and black stains covered his arms. When he was finally done he took it to the road side and waited.

An hour went by, then two.  But during that third hour a car pulled up.  It had United Nations plates on it.  A Korean man came out of the car and asked Wellington about the tree.  Wellington explained the meaning of the tree. The man stared at the tree for what seemed like twenty minutes and then asked him how much he wanted.  How much? Wellington had no idea.  In all his adrenaline rush he had failed to think about price.  Without thinking he spoke. "Ten Thousand shillings" he said.  "That's too much, that’s almost $120. I will give you eight thousand instead.”  Wellington agreed.  The man loaded the tree into his Land Cruiser and left.

Wellington went back to work and had ten iron Christmas trees by dark. The next morning he sold them all in an hour.  The next day he sold twenty. He recruited more help.  Even Njoroge started working for him.  Cars from everywhere pulled up in front of his workshop.  They left with black iron Christmas trees sticking out of their trunks.  A reporter for the newspaper took a picture of Wellington and his trees. It appeared the next day in the Daily  Nation, with a small story  Wellington and the meaning of his “sculpture” as the article called it.

With a week to go before Christmas, Wellington had enough money to cover six months rent.  By Christmas Eve he had enough money to cover a year’s rent and pay for Shiku's operation. He walked home late on Christmas Eve with bags of food purchased at Nakumatt and some small surpise gifts for both Winnie and Shiku. 

As he turned that last corner into the gathering darkness, the spotlights came on illuminating the iron cross.  Ugly, really.  Not much beauty in it as an object.  But what was beautiful, truly beautiful about that first Christmas tree upon which Christ had been nailed, was that it had less to do with appearances and more about productivity.  Beauty, at least the nail-hard kind that lasts forever, was strong like iron.