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It was cold and wintry when Santa Claus embarked on Christmas Eve to do his annual round to deliver Christmas cheer throughout the world on his heavenly reindeer sleigh.

The bulk of gifts aboard the sleigh went to slow down its speed since the bulkiest of all to the island of Lebunka taxed the stamina of his reindeer pack the most, and the sooner it was offloaded, the faster would be the ride. With this in mind, he had listed the isle as the first pitstop on his itinerary.

“Poor chaps,” Santa sighed in dismay as he recalled the dreadful fate that had befallen the islanders. Years of economic turmoil had stripped the country to the bone. The last two Christmas Eves had revealed to him that no bleaker place could be found on earth than this godforsaken isle of wretchedness.

Dependent on food, medicines, fuel and every bare necessity from Samaritan neighbours to survive, Santa mused it would be, indeed, a miracle this Christmas Eve if he found the people still alive.

Fearing the isle might lie wrapped in darkness, he had borrowed Heaven’s Universal Positioning System, the latest celestial rage that all righteous angels wore around their necks to distinguish themselves from the fallen Archangel Lucifer’s corrupt angels of hell. Called ‘Mavila Compass,’ it helps one to locate any object anywhere in the universe when one is completely ignorant as to its whereabouts.

Santa switched it on and waited for the lights to flicker. As the reindeer-driven sleigh approached the likely zone, the compass emitted a buzz, and soon, a green light began flashing repeatedly. In excitement, Santa peered down for a peep—and, by Jove!—wasn’t he astonished to find he hadn’t needed some fancy compass to locate the isle. Lo and behold! For there lay Lebunka, bathed in glorious light, lit from its narrow top down to its rounded bottom like  a Christmas Tree on fire.

After his sleigh had glided to a noiseless halt on the lawn of his favourite watering hole at old Joe’s home, he was surprised to see the garden swathed in floodlights, giving it the distinct air of a carnival atmos. At the entrance, flanking the two steel gates, stood two giant, root-balled fir trees, blazing to high heavens in countless Christmas lights.

From inside old Joe’s home blared forth the sound of a rollicking party going on, which made Santa wonder how old Joe could indulge in such extravagance. On his visit last year, Joe couldn’t afford to have even a candle to spare for the night. And it seemed to Santa that the wheel of fortune would have stopped at Joe’s old home.

He piled a load of essential goodies from the bulkiest bag on the sleigh—not forgetting the XL cognac, of course—into his red-and-white-frilled sack that he always bore on his back. He tramped past the latest V8 to reach Joe’s door. At the entrance, he saw a plated plaque with letters etched in black stating, ‘Dr. Joe de Silva’s residence.’

The door was wide open, and Santa breezed in, and was about to hail his ho, ho, ho Christmas theme song, as he noticed a man, dressed in a black suit and a red power tie to boot, frantically dancing as if in a trance to the music.

He was alone, and Santa hailed above the din: ‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas, Joe’. He repeated it thrice for a merrier effect. Yet nothing but a blank stare greeted Santa’s arrival on Christmas Eve at Joe’s household.

The man stopped his feverish twirl and said in a pompous tone, “I’m no Joe to every Greek who comes bearing gifts. I am Dr. Joe de Silva.”

“Oh, is that so?” Santa laughingly asked. “If you are pulling rank on me, then my dear sir, I am Saint Nicholas.”

Dr. Joe swaggered up to Santa Claus and said, “But St. Nicholas, as a titled man, you can enjoy my best bubbly. It’s always better to drink with equals than with untitled hoi polloi. Come, let’s polish the bottle.”

While Joe played host and poured the celebratory champagne, Santa sat down on a plush new sofa and began to unwind. He gauged his surroundings and found he was amid a forest of fir trees. Whereas last Christmas Eve had boasted only one small plastic tree, the whole room was covered this year with Christmas and Christmas trees, dazzlingly lit in a galaxy of various colours.

“Let’s raise a toast for your new doctorate,” Santa said when he was given the glass that cheers. “Marvellous achievement. Never guessed you had one.”

“It’s nothing new. Had it for years,” replied old Joe casually.

“You naughty boy, hiding your academic light under a bushel.” Santa peered through the foliage to see if the certificate was hanging on the walls.

“Oh, you won’t find it there,” said Joe. “To tell you the truth, I lost it. In fact, to be more precise, it got burnt.”

“What an almighty shame,” Santa exclaimed. “I can understand you losing it or misplacing it or if it was stolen, but not burning it. Heavens no.”

“I didn’t burn it, you fool,” Joe angrily shot back. “Do you think I am that stupid? No, it’s the missus who burnt it.”

“What, the missus?” Santa propped forward, taken completely by surprise. She had never come to the sitting room, and, having never seen her, he had assumed she was the retiring type. The news shocked him. Surely not her? Was Joe pulling his leg?

“I had,” Joe started to explain, “kept the certificate to get it framed with some old documents in our almirah stashed between her saris. She was rummaging through the almirah one day and came upon these old papers. Annoyed with me for cramming the cupboard with odds and ends, she burnt the lot in the bonfire she has every two months. When months later I wanted to take the certificate to the framers, I found it had gone missing, along with the other old papers, from the spot between her saris where I normally hid them for safety.

“When I inquired from her, ‘Yes,’ she flared, ‘I burnt the lot last month. And good riddance, too. They were taking far too much space and cluttering the almirah.’ I was flabbergasted. I shouted, ‘Do you know what you have gone and done? You have gone and burnt my doctorate certificate and my thesis to ashes.’ She said, ‘There was some paper written in some funny-looking foreign script. How was I to know it was your doctoral certificate? You never showed me the certificate. You only boasted you had one.’

“Two years of academic research, all gone to feed the pyre,” Joe told Santa with the pensive sadness of a man who had resigned to his fate. “Two years of academic work, all consigned to the flames. How could I face the neighbours or my club members? What could I tell them? What did I have to show them, and a disbelieving world, to salvage my honour, when all I held in my hands were the ashes of a doctoral certificate?”

Santa arose to comfort Joe, and patting him on his head, said, “Come, come. You have been crucified on the cross of shame, but this is not the end of the world.”

The pearls of inspiration, Santa cast to raise a depressed man, would have profited swine far better, for old Joe hardly heard them. He was still enrapt in his melancholic mood and bent on proceeding with his soliloquy and, as if confessing to his inner self, said, “I could not find solace, even in my favourite drink that night, and no matter how much I drank, I couldn’t drown my sorrow. How could I tell the world that my wife was the arsonist who had destroyed my life and reduced my scholarship to ashes? I knew I was like Cain, branded in shame, and would bear the stigma for life. And the parents’ sins will visit the children.”

“But there’s a way,” Santa interrupted to stop this endless monotonous flow: “You can redeem your honour and regain lost pride. Remember the resurrection. Unless you have done it already, you can request the awarding university to issue you a certified copy of your original certificate. Then you can show the new certificate as proof, as a testament of your prestigious doctoral degree to the infidels who now scorn you. Who knows? With your integrity regained, the club may even reinstate you in the old same position. Cross your heart, old Joe, for who knows? They may even choose you to play the leading role in next year’s Christmas pantomime, kitted in fancy dress.”

A little smile appeared on his crestfallen face at the prospect of seeing himself playing the leading role in a fancy costume, to move the audience to give a standing ovation each time he appeared on stage, and left after taking his bow, seemed to cheer Joe to no end.

But when Santa Claus asked, “Have you applied for a new copy yet?” his face fell flat again, and the slight smile vanished. “I haven’t as yet,” Joe said. “I’m thinking of applying now, though I have my own doubts whether it will serve the purpose for which it is applied.”

Santa was puzzled at Joe’s sudden pessimistic turn of mind. Had Joe begun to see the vanity of such baubles that men prize so much to possess? Seen the blackness of base carbon that earth and time moulded and bloomed to diamonds? Seen the hollowness of doctorates that men mistake for wisdom and not as mere expert knowledge for the moment? Seen babes born in their mothers’ pain only to perish in their own? Realised there is a Providence behind a sparrow’s fall? Had what was said of him in the grapevine, flowing enriched with added flavour and made more spicy, made him aware that if one were true to one’s self, one cannot be false to anyone else.

Was that the enlightened reason behind Joe’s nonchalance? Santa asked him.  “Nothing of the sort,” Joe replied instantly. “It is, what you may call, being practical. Unlike the top brass in any country, who can—in such an event—request the university head to issue a copy of the certificate and have it issued in double-quick time in order to prove academic credentials, I am merely just another member of the doctorate club. My request will take years to process by the university bureaucracy. By the time I get it, the circus would have packed up and left town.” Throwing his hands in despair, he said, “it’s not worth the effort.”

With doubts arising in Santa’s mind, his curiosity was aroused, and he ventured to ask, “What was the title of your PhD thesis?”

“Considering all the research chapters, I summarised them as, ‘Analysis of the Scientific Art of Successful Deception’.”

“Sounds impressive. Have you got a copy with you, one for me to read and return next Christmas Eve?”

“Hell no, the only copy I had was lent to a friend who never returned it. He might have learnt a trick or two from the thesis, for when I asked for it back, he said it had disappeared from his bookshelf and was probably stolen by one of his countless acquaintances. I believed him at first, but not when I found out it had become a ‘must-read’ initiation tome for new members of cult groups and the underground bible of conmen.”

“After writing all those chapters for your thesis,” said Santa sarcastically, “you must be a master con man yourself, the guide, the guru, the Supreme Maestro of all master conmen.”

In answer, Joe declared with fervent zeal and steadfast faith, “I am as sharp as the serpent but harmless as the dove.”

But the biblical saying, cut no ice with Santa, who asked, “Apart from that doctorate fiasco, I notice that there’s been an extraordinary change in your fortune. Last Christmas Eve, you could hardly spare a candle to light your Christmas tree. This Christmas Eve the entire room is packed with Christmas trees, each one bedecked with Christmas gifts, all lit with splendorous colours. Did you win the Lebunka lottery by any chance for you to afford all this extravaganza?”

“Not only I,” Joe boastfully declared, “but everyone in the country is hosting an extravagant party. The only drawback is with everyone hosting a magnificent Christmas Eve party, none can attend another’s magnificent Christmas Eve party. Thus, with no guests, each will have to find company in one’s own self. We will radically change the present corrupt system so that everyone can host a grand Christmas Eve party while everyone can, at the same time, also attend another’s grand Christmas Eve party.”

“What a transformation,” exclaimed Santa, genuinely surprised, “what a fantastic miracle has dawned on Lebunka. You only pedalled a cycle last year. Now you drive a V8.”

“No, no, not only I,” said Joe proudly, “everyone drives a V8 now.”

“So what’s the secret of this miraculous change?” Santa quizzed in wonder, yearning to know.

“We prayed for a miracle from heaven, but none did come our way. So we prayed for a local home-bred team of miracle makers, and, bless them, we now have a new outfit running the show that delivers miracles after miracles by the dozen. No tax, no VAT, no power bills, no water bills, no shortages, no queues, and, above all, no corruption, no bribes, no rogues, no theft, no lies, no crimes, and no fuss to grant a rich, beautiful life to all of us, instantly delivered as sworn, with just one stroke of the miracle pen.”

Santa arose to go. He had heard enough of old Joe’s glib talk to be. It all seemed too good to be true. He curtly said, “Must rush to the country next door to feed more than a billion people, starving for Christmas cheer.”

Old Joe stood up and said, “Please convey my thanks to Archangel Lucifer for sending me the thoughtful gift through Heaven’s Christmas courier.” Santa bore the insult in scrupulous silence.

In return, Joe untied a
gift, hanging on a nearby Christmas tree bough, and gave it to Santa. It was heaven’s new fad, a “Mavila Compass.”

As a peeved Santa left in a great huff to his next hot spot on his planned route, sleepy Joe went to bed—with lights switched on since everything was free—praying that
the good times will always last in Lebunka.