Letter to Santa (Late)

Alípio Freeman "

This letter is born out of time, like almost everything that is sincere and honest. It doesn't arrive in December, it doesn't have ribbons or shiny paper, it arrives naked, raw, laden with dust and questions. It's a belated letter to Santa Claus, written to the sound and under the shadow of Boss AC's (my great idol) song, "Letter to Santa Claus," which is more than a song; it's a collective confession externalized in a European context, but which transcends oceans to reach the mistreated Africa. This is a lyrical examination of conscience, an urban sermon disguised as a simple text, which is anything but simple. I write to you, Santa Claus, because the world has lost the address of hope and someone has to call attention to the mailbox of oblivion. I write to you because, as Boss AC sings, there are letters that don't ask for toys, they ask for meaning.

Dear Santa, when I was young I believed in you with the unwavering faith of those who haven't yet learned to doubt. I believed without clauses, without fine print, without hidden clauses. And I had reasons for that. I had toys. I had surprises. I experienced that silent magic that happened in the early morning hours, when the world seemed to conspire to be good. To this day I believe I deserved those gifts, the fruit of good behavior, not because I was a saint, but because I was taught that being good had its rewards.

The family made a point of talking to you. It wasn't an empty ritual; it was almost a domestic cult. They thanked you, explained things, justified things. When I went out and couldn't find any sleigh wheel tracks or reindeer footprints, Grandma would appear as the guardian of the world's poetic logic: she'd say that, because of the distance, you were in flight mode. And that was enough. After all, as Boss AC says in a different cadence, it's not easy to reach everyone at the same time. It wasn't easy, and I accepted it.

But the questions started too soon. Why did some friends never receive gifts? Why did certain houses always wake up silent, without torn paper, without laughter, without anything new? In my naiveté, I thought it was a matter of merit or punishment. That some didn't deserve it. That bad behavior had a price. Boss AC's music, years later, taught me that this explanation was too comfortable to be true.

Today I know, Santa, that justice rarely enters through the chimney.

I grew up. And growing up is this: realizing that the world doesn't work as promised, but continuing to demand that it work better. And despite my age, despite the tiredness, despite the irony that life imposes on us, I continue to believe in you. As Boss AC says, and allow me to paraphrase, even when half the world doubts, there's always someone who insists on believing. Because if you're Santa Claus, you must be a father. And if you're a father, you're responsible. And those who are responsible can't turn their backs.

This letter, Santa, inspired almost line by line by my idol, is not an individual request. It's a call for attention. A wake-up call to the adult world that has failed, that fails, in caring for children. Santa, I earnestly ask you to look at those who have nothing to eat. At the children who have no parents and who have had to become parents to their younger siblings at a young age, and at those whose parents are alive but defeated by the violence of this life, they deserve your special attention, Santa. Fathers who work and whose earnings are not enough. Mothers who stretch what little they have as if stretching their faith.

May this year, Santa, bring work and food to every family. Because no toy can replace dignity.

I don't want to politicize this dialogue, but the world insists on playing politics with hunger, with misery, with hope. Therefore, I ask you to give wisdom to our leaders, so that they don't lose their humility. I don't ask for sainthood from these humans, only wisdom and humanism, so that they steal less, or at least know when to stop, or even steal to help those most in need. To the politicians, remember that governing is not about accumulating, it's about caring. Let more food be bought than weapons. Because no bullet kills hunger, but all hunger kills someone.

May Cabo Delgado be returned to the Mozambican people, and may the resources there not be used as a motive for massacres and planned migrations, so that the decapitated heads in this place may be linked to their bodies in the memory of their people, and that their souls may find eternal rest. Not as a slogan, but as reality. May politics cease to be a tug-of-war where the people are the rope that breaks. May differences not be an excuse for dehumanization. And, Santa Claus, remind the foreigners who arrive that this country is not a chicken coop. It has an owner, it has history, it has open wounds.

I know, Santa, that I'm giving you powers you may never have asked for. I know your sleigh holds toys, not national projects, not moral reforms, not the dreams of an almost old man who has seen too much. But as Boss AC sings in his Letter to Santa, there are requests that don't fit in a gift box, they only fit in conscience. I regret that few children today believe in themselves, as adults taught them, and children learn from examples and are molded by the disbelief of their own. It's a pity that we have more examples of wars, murderous idols for our children. How did you allow, Santa, that moral degradation reached children just out of nursery school?

Because to find these children next Christmas, there's a behind-the-scenes game that few want to see. There are parents who spend what they don't have to feed children who didn't ask to be born into a corrupt system. There's a system that fights the poor in secret, denying them health, education, a future. Children who grow up like those learning to swim in a constant shipwreck, clinging to whatever falls into their net, if anything falls at all.

When Santa Claus comes here, do everything you can to end the exploitation of child labor. If possible, request an audience with El Chapo, tell him to criminalize child labor, so that children don't have to sell things on the streets, so that they don't get lost looking for empty cans in the bars and stalls of this jungle.

Santa, this letter is late, yes, but I needed to write to you, my old friend. Because it comes at a time when moral decay has become normalized. When wrongdoing has become strategy, selfishness has become merit, indifference has become a lifestyle. Perhaps the blame also lies with you—forgive my audacity—for allowing our gifts not to transform us into better people. You gave us toys, but you forgot to teach us to share the world.

Like in the Boss AC song, this letter doesn't ask for luxury, it asks for humanity. To the elderly alone at home, it offers companionship. Not just protocol visits, but real presence. To the destitute, it allows them to dream of a home, of a family where love flourishes and is not the exception.

Santa, this letter is a chronicle because it observes, but it also accuses. It's poetic because it feels, but it's political because it doesn't shy away. It's inspired by Boss AC because he knew how to transform disillusionment into art and art into denunciation. Here, what rules this lyrical game is not fantasy, but truth dressed in metaphor.

Without further ado, Santa, I ask forgiveness for being a bad boy last year. Not for making mistakes…to err is human, but for sometimes remaining silent when I should have spoken. And if you forgive me, I ask something simple and immense: remember my girls. In the past, they fell asleep waiting for you. In the morning, their stockings were still empty. To this day they are there, on the chimney, as a silent protest against the unfulfilled promise.

They are not to blame for our bad luck. They are not to blame for a world that delivers weapons faster than bread. They are not to blame for adults who have forgotten how to believe.

This is a belated letter, Santa. But as long as there are those who write, as long as there are those who sing like Boss AC sang, perhaps there is still time to set the world right before next Christmas.

2025/12/3