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Santa's Coming for Us

Can We Await Santa’s Coming?

  • December 22, 2023
  • 11 min read
Can We Await Santa’s Coming?

Hope is the thing with feathers, perching from Act to acts to be devout is to turn the other cheek, forgive your offenders and pray for your daily bread, this way–we labor with faith of what our future hold that we cannot fathom, we count our strength every night before we sleep, how often we become the injury we heal –,how swiftly we rise each morning to pray for a better day and comes back wounded in the heart

In this life of ours, so full of mystery, so hung about with wonders, so written over with dark riddles, where even the lights go off before it’s purpose–hopes are weak and sanity are lost too, and then we hear merry Christmas, what right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry?–a broken soul who craves for joy, for the coming of Santa Claus who brightens the mood, to die is to lose hope


The breeze is gentle and the wind is dusty, dry and intense, the mountains covered in haze, the seas are warm and the trees are drying ,leaves circled with dust, the sounds of the school band is heard no more what bustles is only the movement of a cool dry wind transporting dust as it’s passenger.

The kids on an adventure of hope, telling the tale of their happiness, of how mummy will buy Santa’s cloak, of the new outfit somewhere in the depth of their bag, of the new foot wear, enclosed with a wrapper inside a rack.

Tell me who knows Santa more than the kids? The time every house chores is finished before the arrival of dusk,” Woe to you if the house is unkempt before my arrival, I will take your new clothes back to the seller” mom would say.

What could be a worst nightmare for the child? than taking his newly acquired outfit specially made for Santa’s visit, the streets are decorated with a tiny light of hope, with flowers, reindeer, at the edges of a house a garland are hung the glistening ornamental lights ,most of which in addition has the Christmas tune at the center of the walkway usually stands a Christmas tree, bells ,flowers and lights and tunes of Christmas hymns oozing out, what puts you in the mood of Christmas other than waking up to the tune of the Nowell.


Prepare, make a way for humanity; how often we forget this line replacing it with God.

But somewhere in our life a voice, not that of Santa’s cries ; prepare a way for love to reign. To begin, here is the message ;to welcome Christmas is to become an icon–of love ,of charity ,of hope–this is the way we become a gift to our life ,how else do we see Santa’s coming?

The village elder seated at the corners of the village square asks for nothing but that early morning gathering with palm wine ,with bottles of gin and kola, reminds them of two things :if it’s not a marriage ceremony it can only be Christmas, this way they welcome the Santa they are never going to see.

Remember to heal is to be broken more. So to receive is to give out the excess occupying the spaces of our possession.

Dear Santa, there is a hole in the depth of my heart where humanity once lived –fill

a woman at the point of delivery –assist

A beggar down the street– feed

The man with a broken heart –heal

The weak ,make –strong

The oppressed –uplift

The lost –retrieve

The weeping –console

The dying –comfort

Sufferings – Alleviate

Oh Santa, there is a light of hope at the start of harmattan, this hope is not only the joy of year end, it’s also the spirit of Christmas, look there is a boy sitting at the end of the world, where hope is only a statement, injuries and damnation besieges his soul, that each night he dies hoping to live ,in my nation everyday is a miracle –survival is not guaranteed, say –dying is hope lost– but we await thee that you come and cheer us up, look how we celebrate thee, oh Santa; on the eve of Christmas, the gift we got from Santa is massacre /a police beating to pulp a fellow citizen / a boy held at Ransom / the rise in the prices of food items and our land, the battleground of mighty warriors, tell me, who go on empty stomach raising his white and red Santa’s cloak, this is our usual way to say, Santa’s coming for us.

And each morning at the break of dawn ,our houses also break, and our vital items are gone, call it insanity or theft, but…

On bent knee we still offer our grief stricken state to his throne of grace, we cry, we weep and in tongues we speak, offering our litany of pain, to the little glimpse of hope we bear, but we still die hoping to live and God silent and quiet he is ,maybe the best way to say Christmas in my nation is in grief, nevertheless we expect Santa’s coming, in our places of worship, the Bible we read, fasting we made, in grief too our prayers we offer ,but who answers this kind of prayer?.

Who needs Santa more than us, I want to tell you Santa ,had you been in my nation ;we hope you do, to see how swiftly our dreams are maimed, the boy of hope who dreams to become a light at the end of our tunnel now requests for our light, the way we became mourners to our youths, but which parents buries their children and not shed blood? this is how short our lives becomes

In my illusion, remedy is only a word, but let’s God see and wonder how a body would hold fire and not burn…

I was termed a fanatic for running to church all day long, for healing when the hospitals are there, I was there too for praying Instead of working, but this church is the only place I was told of safety unopposed, do blame not and I don’t want to know the lie, I found out that here is not a place of living–but no one understands this, but Santa’s coming for us, and this too will become a fantasy, the ode to my desperation is the coming of Santa Claus, but in my village ,I heard that visitors are not welcomed, even Santa too because there is a lockdown…how do you heal with your coming, oh Santa Claus?

Sometimes I lay my head on my bed and become a demon/melody/a bet —rolling dice to my bad luck one-by-one…

The only miracle I can tell if, is hope, and hope is no longer a friend to a moment where humanity is only an example, imagination that occurs each time I become a grief stricken…

That each morning, misery becomes the reason for my smiles ,whoever harbors fire ,surely will burn

But this fire has become a companion, a trophy won for my taking sanity away

And meanwhile, grief finds itself in my poem today, the way a body becomes a stranger in the diaspora, God’s grace has eluded me or should ask if his Grace still remembers my name? How is misfortune the only story in my poems?

 What imagination transcends Reality?

Dear Santa Claus, our only dream in this land  is waking up in the morning, our rulers are oppressing the ruled

I believe Santa is foreign, maybe European, but here in Africa we traded minerals for the Bible, and our traditions too were held hostage, and Santa too was in the picture, he who called our masquerades fetishism clothed A symbol of Santa in the same costumes… but this is not our problem now.

The ants named the anthill and betrothed misery the same way grief always finds itself in My nation’s history.

I’m sure you know me or at least you know how I bathe with blood, thousands of souls languishing at the foundation of my church, each morning we stand in the church laid over human corpses to shout in Jesus’s name, claiming a prophet, and now let me ask ,who answers this kind of prayer? Why do we cry for our abolished customs and traditions if the only good it does us is harm.

I’m not too orthodox but my priest carved a cross on my chest during baptism and said; son here is the instrument of your atonement, but…

Each morning I kiss this cross , troubles shoot, I awaken to a nightmare and I am terrified to open my eyes, because the only way to die is becoming faithful while truth is sent to exile.


on swearing in of office ,my president pledged for care and support, love and progress ,unity in diversity, protection of human rights, independent judiciary, freedom of speech, regard to rule of law, and freedom of the press, while placing his right hand on a Bible on the day of his Handover but here lies the corpses of countrymen awaiting the reality of these promises ,just tell me that public office is an immunity for criminals and nightmare for the oppressed, how our nation becomes a burial ground is a puzzle yet to be answered,

But can we await Santa’s coming? Like a soldier in a war, whose only choice is the order from the commander, even if you are dying, obey the last order they were told ,and now let me ask; who stands still at the point of death?


I rushed to the consolation of this passage to tell myself to become the Santa Claus we await, but our flesh are now weak to become pure this is why we become a torn in the flesh in places where human courage should be uplifted, because how do I raise my hand in worship to God in his church only to bring it down and the phone in my pocket is gone?

To carry fire is to be filled with the holy spirit now let me ask ;how do you get the holy spirit when you pray on contract? Did you Buy your own God for Charging a huge sum to pray for a sick fellow? How much would it cost to buy drugs?

But Santa’s is coming for us to fix our broken homes, to encourage our failing strength, to enlighten our hopes ,to support us in our frailties– to liberate our human life ,and we have prayed and we have tried but I didn’t forget that God is still same as dog spelled in reverse


Santa’s coming for us to illuminate every dream ,to enkindle every zeal that each day we light candles to pray that we would find hope ,the voice of the one crying in the wilderness do not want our weaknesses but the acceptance of our failing self, hence to prepare a way ,can be explained ; oh he that thinks he stands take heed lest you fall and I’m not too orthodox but during my upbringing I was told that the only miracle of living is believing –should I not believe that you would come oh Santa Claus even if it’s in my dream ,I would like to know how you walk on the places and spaces we decorated for you ,how our heart will feel at the sight of ,how every pain will cease in the expectations of you .

Do we heal on your arrival or do we become more broken the more ?

Should we just feel the coming of Santa the way we look out of our houses to embrace the cold of harmattan or do we go into advent ,to obtain and purge the frailties that we become ,but Santa’s coming for us ,the day he comes we know not but in doing good we expect the coming of the one who will take away our grief –and tell us to go that he too did not condemn us.

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Ebube Amah

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  • It’s an art of words with references to the figures of speech being explored,the tiring and unpleasant memory of a nation is on a balance while trying to measure up to the mood of the seasons also hoping that the nation gets better ,the writer used a vicious deep African writing pattern which is nice but then ,there is grammatical errors and tactical drop off of points which changes the readers mood and spirit but it still a nice art.

  • This is a nice story. Kudos to the writer

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