Short Fiction: The Tragic Tale of Sudan’s Santa

The Tragic Tale of Sudan’s Santa

By Hassan Aljizouli

Translated by Lemya Shammat

Since my earliest days, the image of Santa Claus has been inseparably tied to a story—simple, true, and unforgettable. Whenever the memories of Christmas, Santa Claus, Baba Noel, or Saint Nicholas come to mind, this tale returns, as vivid as ever, like a cherished refrain of my childhood.

There once was a humble worker, a man of modest means but boundless kindness, who roamed our bustling neighborhoods with his four-wheeled wooden cart. Laden with basta and kunafa — a type of sweet, flaky baklava — it was a moving treasure chest, bringing delight to young and old alike.

Pushing his cart with steady hands, the man hummed a cheery tune. His raspy voice wove a melody that seemed to dance through the streets, gathering children in its spell. They flocked to him, their laughter and voices merging with his, until the song became the music of the neighborhood. Each note and verse was etched into their hearts, and it carried the same sweetness as his treats.

The memory of him—his cart, his song, and his generosity—endures like an heirloom passed down through the seasons. Each Christmas, it awakens anew, a golden thread that spools out from simpler times, when a man’s kindness and a humble melody could bring magic to an entire neighborhood.

“Line up! Line up!” he would command, his voice firm yet gentle, restoring order to our wild excitement. Obediently, we formed a line—sometimes short, sometimes stretching down the street—each child extending their cupped hands like a bowl, eager to receive their share. Into those small hands, Al-Batahani would ladle the remnants of basta and kunafa, dripping with honey as golden and sweet as the memories he left us.

Every day, we waited with breathless anticipation for the creak of his cartwheels and the hum of his familiar tune. In his simple presence, there was a magic that transformed the ordinary into something extraordinary, a fleeting moment of joy that lingered long after the honey had been licked from our fingers. His kindness became a story we carried, a cherished thread woven into the fabric of our childhood.

And so it was that Obaid Al-Batahani, after finishing his work and sharing his “gifts” with the children, would hurry to the indaya — a place where men gathered to drink the locally brewed arak — on the edge of one of the lively neighborhoods. There, surrounded by other men, he would spend the rest of his evening savoring the warmth of the drink and the quiet camaraderie.

As the night grew late, he would return to his cart, pulling it with a slow, unsteady pace, his movements weary yet familiar. His lullaby, though soft with fatigue, still echoed through the streets, reaching the ears of the children who awaited him. He continued, weaving through the winding alleys, his song guiding him until he reached his humble home at the far end of the neighborhood, where night would settle quietly around him.

What I remember, as if it were a tale passed down through the years, is that a great unrest swept through the land. The people, rising in defiance, filled the streets with their voices and their cries. To silence them and halt the tide of demonstrations, the rulers — who were as oppressive as the darkest nights, with hearts hardened by fear and power — resorted to a cruel measure. They decreed a curfew, one that would shroud the land in silence each night, specifying the very hour when the streets would empty, when no foot would dare wander under the watchful eyes of their authority. The curfew became a shadow over the people, casting a dark veil over the once-lively streets, as the oppressive rulers sought to quell the spirit of the masses.

It was a time much like ours now, when the countdown to the end of the year mingled with the festive celebrations of Christmas and New Year’s, and the signs of the people’s suffering seemed to fade into the distance, like a waning shadow. At this moment, Obaid Al-Batahani returned from his evening, unconcerned by the curfew or the unrest that gripped the land. His heart, full of joy, poured out the loud, familiar strains of his lullaby for the children. His voice, rough and raspy, filled the streets with warmth as he repeated the song, his spirit alive with happiness.

The neighbors, tucked inside their homes, listened as they had every night, their ears familiar with the sound of Al-Batahani’s hoarse melody. It had become a nightly ritual, a soft lullaby to end the day. But that night, as the last notes of his song danced on the air, a sudden burst of gunfire shattered the peace, heavy and sharp, followed by an eerie silence that settled over the neighborhood. The familiar sound of Al-Batahani’s voice was gone. He no longer sang his lullaby, no longer called out to the children to share in the sweetness of his goods. The streets were left in a haunting quiet, as if the very spirit of the neighborhood had been silenced, swallowed by the unrest that had seized hold of the land.

The next morning, word spread throughout the neighborhood like the wind before a storm. A patrol of harsh soldiers had found Obaid Al-Batahani in the streets. Without a moment’s pause, they had filled his fragile body with bullets, punishing him for defying the curfew that held the people captive.

And so, Al-Batahani lay upon the earth, his life snuffed out like a flickering candle. His voice, once a sweet lullaby, was silenced forever. The song that had echoed through the nights was now lost, fading into the silence of a world that could not comprehend the joy he had shared.

In the evening, as the children eagerly awaited Uncle Obaid Al-Batahani, their hearts sank when his familiar voice and cart did not appear on their streets. They lay in their bed, puzzled, wondering where their kind uncle had gone, why he had not come.

As the years passed, and I grew older, I found myself asking the same question, though now with a deeper sorrow. I, too, wondered in the quiet of my heart: What dark force took away the life of our beloved Sudanese Santa Claus? What caused the joy of his songs to be silenced so cruelly? These questions lingered in the air, unanswered, like a forgotten lullaby carried away by the winds of time.

Hassan Al-Jizouli is an acclaimed short story writer, author, and political writer, born in Omdurman. He has made important contributions to Sudanese literature, with numerous articles and short stories published in Sudanese, Arab, and international newspapers and magazines. Al-Jizouli is regarded among the notable figures of the 1970s generation in Sudanese short story writing. His talent was recognized early on when he ranked among the top ten finalists in the 1975 short story competition organized by the Omdurman Literary Symposium on the occasion of its silver jubilee. In addition to his literary work, he has authored several books and remains an active voice in Sudanese journalism.

Lemya Shammat is a writer, translator, educator, and editor who resides in the UAE. Find more by her in our archives.