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• The SUNDAY PUNCH wishes you all, a joyful and merry Christmas

The night thickens on Christmas Eve. I snuggle into bed, pull the sheet over my head and pretend to be asleep in expectation of Santa’s traditional visit. My stockings are ‘hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon will be there.’

Suddenly the doorbell rings. The carol choir has come and gone and it’s way too late for any tippler to make a last-ditch call for a quickie. It’s the time the world stands on the threshold and awaits Santa to herald the imminent coming of Christmas cheer. ‘Who can it be?’ I ask myself, annoyed at the rude intrusion, and I shuffle off to answer the door.

The ring is persistent and only stops when I open the door. Before me stands a man dressed in a black suit and black tie. Cleanly shaven. A gentleman. ‘Has my maker sent the summons for me?’ I gasp in shock, my pulse racing faster when the full import of the grim reaper’s modern-day uniform sinks in. 

“Who are you?” I ask the stranger nervously.

“I’m Santa Clause,” he says curtly, in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Oh no, you’re not,” I muster the courage to tell this phantom at the door.

“You can think what you jolly well please,” he replies sternly. “What you think is of little consequence. I’m Santa Clause. That’s it.”

“Prove it,” I shoot back. “Where’s your red sack, then? The one swung over the shoulder with the Christmas goodies?”

“I would look a sight, wouldn’t I, if I was seen sneaking out of people’s houses at night with a suspicious gunny bag on my shoulder? Now I carry this instead.”

He lifts something that resembles a red colour suitcase from the ground and, holding it up for my inspection, asks: “How is this for the new millennium? Designed it myself.”

It certainly has the look of a designer suitcase, a cheap painted imitation of the tanned, red-dyed real leather-covered wooden boxes, the sort — officially called red boxes — used to deliver official state documents to England’s monarch and his ministers.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he asks, anxiously, begging my approval. “Modelled on the one the Queen used on her visits abroad.”

Poor fellow, seeking validation. To humour this stranger outside my door, I nod.  But I’m still not satisfied with the new Santa’s credentials. He still seems to me to be an imposter. One of those smooth-talking smart-alecs out to swindle you or a raving looney, a Santa wannabe who has pined all his life to play the role and waited for this Christmas to make his debut.

“But Santa always comes down the chimney.”

“Pretty silly of me, isn’t it, to come down your sooty chimney and land with a thud on my arse when there is a perfect form of entry through your front door? Furthermore, with the burning of fossils banned since it threatens our old order — see the drop in air quality, the smog — many have got rid of chimneys to make way for solar panels and the front door is the only option. As for the ‘Ho, ho, ho’ drivel, that’s old hat.”

“What about the reindeer? The one with the shiny nose and the rest?”

“Animals have rights, too, you know, not just humans,’ he snaps. “I freed them to go forth and multiply. Now I charter a private plane from Uganda. It’s cheaper than feeding the caribou.”

Well, that makes sense.  His explanation has an element of truth. Perhaps, he is the new Santa. Perhaps Heaven’s important decisions are now revealed only on a need-to-know basis. Grudgingly, I realise that Christmas will not be Christmas without Santa. I am glad that he has arrived, even if he is as fake as my plastic fir tree. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I welcome Santa in.

“Thought you’d never ask,” he says, as he flops down on my favourite chair and puts his slushy boots on my coffee table. “Now I know why my predecessor didn’t wait to be asked but just barged in. I’m too polite for that but, who knows, I may have to follow the same style. I‘ve all the powers to enter your house even against your will and next year, I might do just that.”

“You mean, you’ll be here, next year, too?” I venture to ask, somewhat surprised. “I thought you were just a fill in?”

“Good heavens, yes, I will be here,” he replies instantly, “though they all thought otherwise when they appointed me, having no choice since I was the only applicant for the job at that critical time. But I will tell you, I’m no stand-in, come to fill Santa’s old bootees. I will be here, sole reigning at Christmas, without rival or friend to challenge my dictates. I know the law.”

Well, this was certainly not the old Santa I had known all through my life, who had breezed in the Christmassy feeling with his merry laughter and ho, ho, ho welcome; who left us all with a glowing feeling that every little thing was gonna be all right.

Changing trends, I muse, perhaps demand an updated Santa to suit current fashions, especially when faith itself is straying towards a new birth, with many seeking mammon’s dome to find miracles stashed. But who are we, mere mortals, to question the Divine?

He brings me out of my deep reverie by suddenly asking: “I say, haven’t you got a shot around here? Perhaps, something to enjoy the moment?”

I feel deeply ashamed that I, the host, have been so thoroughly engrossed in the expectant joy of receiving my Christmas gift, I had totally forgotten the reciprocal act of giving, in the true seasonal spirit, the minimum expected of me in return: decent hospitality to a guest.

I feel dirtied, like a politician, a social leech that sucks on the life blood of the people and leaves them drained, giving them nothing in return but more majestic laws to quell any protests they may stage against the injustice of it all.

I dash to the bedroom, fling open the wardrobe, uncork the glass vessel, extract the ingot of distilled liquid gold, pour it, double quick, into two snifters and dash back before you can sing glory, glory hallelujah. Now that Santa has come to cheer, my smoggy Christmas seems brighter.

He looks at me and cheerfully raises his glass, “Let’s toast the taste of my success.”

There is a lull while he savoured the devil’s brew. “Divine,” he drools. “One fine thing — to give the devil its due — the fallen angel got right in his workshop.”

“Whatever happened to the old Santa?” I ask, naturally curious to know his fate.

“On ice,” he replies with a wry snicker, “in cold storage.”

“But why?” I persist. “He seemed a jolly good Santa. That’s what we thought.”

“That’s what Heaven thought, too,” he says, “until it discovered he was a pure humbug who had his hand in the kitty and even stole Christmas candy from kids. Said he had kleptomania. Now he’s better known by his anagram Satan.”

“What?” I ask in amazement and shock. “He seemed the epitome of virtue and generosity. So eagerly did we await Santa’s coming. I just can’t believe it.”

“There’ll be no more comebacks for him,” the new Santa hit out at his predecessor, “nor for his little red elves. And you better believe it’s true. It is the gospel truth.”

“So, who are you, who suddenly popped out of the blue?”

“Heaven’s Phenomenon. What the world prayed so long to see. Law’s loss for Humanity’s gain. Who else?”

Overwhelmed by this breathtaking revelation, I rush to get us a refill to relive the moment. When I return, he is standing, looking around, with the suspicious air of a tax inspector searching for evidence of money laundering.

“I see you have bought dozens of candles,” he says, taking the snifter from my hand. “Must have cost a packet, Waiting to light them when Chrisman dawns tonight, I suppose?”

“No, not really,” I reply sheepishly. “I bought them to get through the power cuts.”

“Oh, yes, the power cuts,” he says, shaking his head, “I have heard about them and the other problems. All old Santa’s fault. He was the one responsible to see that you guys lived happily and content. But he went and quivered the pitch, pretended all was well with his laughter and Ho Ho’s. He had the people fooled wholesale. He hid the truth from the people, behind his fake geniality mask to conceal his failures.”

He was right. We were completely taken in by the old Father Christmas’ charm that we hadn’t noticed we were tightening our belts further and further till we had run out of notches.

“But I won’t be like that,” the new Santa asserts, after pausing to take a swig. “Since I took the reindeer reins of power five months ago, you have a people’s Santa. I will keep the people informed. I’ll serve the bad news raw. I will tell them the truth. For starters, ole Santa has made a pig’s breakfast of the economy. And you can’t make an egg from an omelette without a miracle.  And I’m the one who’s going to make it happen.”

“Will egg prices come down?” I ask anxiously, suddenly remembering I   hadn’t had an omelette for ages.’

“Egg prices!” he flares. “Here I am promising you that I am the goose that’s going to lay the golden eggs and all you can think of are egg prices. Next, you might cook my goose and have me for your Christmas lunch.”

“Sorry, no offence,” I say, timidly. “Any hope with the lights?”

“There will be light,” he assures, “once you come out of the darkness of satanic worship and swear faith in the one true God I represent.”

“How long will that take?”

“God knows, it’s all in your hands. One year, two years, five or ten, who can tell? You will have to suffer plenty of bad news, bad news and more bad news. But if you take it without a murmur, pay your sins without a grumble, then power cuts will be over.”

“The rest? Will they be over too? We are finding it rather tough down here, existing on one meal a day.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he glares at me. “Complaining, complaining, complaining all the time. Count your lucky stars you have so much to be thankful for. I just finished watching that heartbreak series about that poor couple, chased out by their own family and forced to live abroad in their multi-million buck mansion. So poor, they now have to shed tears on TV to beg for a pittance of hundred million dollars, pleading ‘don’t exploit our children, leave that to us to do.’ Now that’s tough.  Have you seen it?”

“No,” I said. “No TV. Sold it to buy my medicine.”

“What the dickens, man,” he admonishes, “it’s the Christmas carol of the century, with a real scrooge at the head of the family. Real tear-jerker, it was. I cried buckets before I puked. Watch it. Then you will know there are people worse off than you. Poor folk like them, in abject poverty, living on charity to survive day to day. See it, and you’ll be counting your blessings that you have what you have, the small mercies heaven still grants to fortunate ingrates like you.”

Needless to say, I am at a loss for words, and look at it.

“But don’t worry,” he says commandingly. “For the last five months, I have been working on my master plan, and have made good progress. I had expected to announce good results tonight but the plan has run into some teething snags. Sorry, can’t tell you yet since they are still at a delicate stage and must be kept hush-hush.”

I feel a dread descend when I hear the old refrain repeating. The needle seems stuck in the same old rut, in the same old record. Funny how one can be generous with the truth when it comes to revealing others’ faults but can remain miserly with one’s own.

“Don’t look so glum, man,” he blares. “Don’t look at me as if I created this mess and caused your ruin and misery. Blame old Santa. It’s all his fault.”

“Where’s he?” I venture, wondering if I should write a scathing letter, expressing my angers.

“He’s in Heaven,” he says casually, “doing splendidly, I am told, at a rehab clinic for the misguided elderly. Everything found, of course, out of Divine Kindness and Divine Forgiveness.”

“Heaven does indeed work in mysterious ways,” I mutter under my breath, musing that the meek and weak do, indeed, inherit the pains on earth.

“Oh cheer up,” he says, impatiently. “Look what I got you for this year’s Christmas to make next Christmas be even whiter and merrier. Hear thou, abide with them and they will bring thee nearer to thy miracles and save a wretch like thee. Follow my motto, be patient. Everything comes to those who wait.”

He opens his branded red bag and drops a whole load of boxes that crash on me like a ton of red bricks. I’m floored.

Later, still dazed, I see some large boxes, neatly gift wrapped, with a different tag on each that reads: “higher taxes, higher food prices, higher electricity bills, higher water bills, higher fuel costs”. A small box lies far off, stamped ‘hope’.

Then and there, on my knees, I pray for Divine Grace to grant me strength to suffer these burdens and live in hope to see a Christmas, white again.