A Christmas Allegory

Early one Christmas morning, a friend of mine, John James, decided to take a leisurely walk round the Savannah. He started at the Archbishop’s castle and strolled in a clockwise direction. When he reached the Hollows and was relaxing on a bench for a moment, he heard people shouting, “Bolee, bolee, beat the bobolee!” He was dumbfounded. This was Christmas Day not Good Friday. He saw what appeared to be hundreds of people — a true cross section of the population, with big sticks of all shapes and sizes, raining blows on a life-size dummy bedecked in a white suit, lying on the ground. The motley crowd was having a wild frenetic time. Raucous laughter, indecent dancing and endless imbibing of all sorts of intoxicating drinks were the order of the day. This Savannah was one big open bedroom with the green green grass for the mattress. On the other hand violence, brutality and murder were also evident. Husbands were beating their wives, drunkards were vomiting all over the flowers, cars were driven by maniacs and criminals were having a field day.

John could not believe his eyes. The whole scene was one of utter chaos — indescribable mayhem. Clambering down the incline, he almost suffocated in a cloud of marijuana smoke. Yet, all this time the beating of the bobolee continued mercilessly. As soon as one flagellator became exhausted, another quickly stepped into the breach. Apparently more than a million spectators were witnessing this panorama and they all had their arms folded with their fingers on their lips. Only a small number of persons were trying to pacify the recalcitrants. John recognised several friends he knew well but when he tried to communicate with them, they neither saw nor heard him. He was non-existent. Someone started singing, “Drink a rum and a poncha crema. Drink a rum.” The others shouted, “Is Christmas morning!” The rhythm section followed with bottles, spoons, dustbins and sticks. For the first time the beating of the bobolee stopped but, as the revellers left, jumping up and shouting in high spirits, they trampled and flattened out the bobolee into the dust.

John was the last to leave but strangely, he simply stepped over the bobolee. When he looked for the mad mob, they were nowhere to be seen. They had disappeared into thin air. Suddenly, he heard someone crying softly behind him. He turned quickly round to see the bobolee wiping the tears from his eyes while lying on the ground all covered in blood. John was speechless. Very slowly, the bobolee rose to his feet in great pain and started to dust off his clothes. John was scared stiff. He asked in a trembling voice, “You... you ... are human?” The bobolee replied, “Of course I am.” John enquired, “And how come you did not die after blowes?” “Some things never die,” the bobolee answered. John questionsed him further.” But what made those people beat you like that?” The bobolee responded, “I told them it was my birthday. I am 43 years old. That’s when I started to see about myself, here.”

John said, “Here? You mean, elsewhere you are a different age? Who are you?” The bobolee’s response was, “My birth was foretold by several prophets in the Old Testament hundreds of years before I took human form. Check them out.” As he was speaking, he started to fade away slowly right in front of John’s eyes until he was completely gone. “John, get up from that dirty bench! Why are you sleeping there?” I said as I shook him. He stuttered, “What? Ah, boy. I just sat here for a minute and I fell asleep. I had the strangest dream. Merry Christmas.” “Alright, alright! Merry Christmas. Come. Let’s go. Tell me the dream!” I insisted. As he related this story, with lots of gesticulations, I noticed that something was written in red ink on the palms of his hands. When we checked it, the left hand read, “Isaiah 7:14” and the right, “Micah 5: 2-3”.