It’s the week before Christmas and we’re in the midst of dry season so the sun has a piercing hot-heat known for turning my particular shade of Scottishness, pinky-red.

Thankfully I’m sitting under a open-sided white marquee and the breeze from Lake Victoria is most welcome.  We are located on the edge of the “sports field” in front of the manufacturing plant as I’m attending the Uganda Breweries Christmas party. Guests are made up of management and their families, and all staff, first wives and first wives children.  Uganda is still fairly polygamous and to make sure we don’t end up with half of Kampala here, HR have been quite strict in managing numbers.  Even so, the sea of children outnumber the adults at least 5 to 1.

We’ve all enjoyed the matoke, ground nut sauce and goat stew and with bellies full, we await the arrival of the Big Man himself.  (In this instance it’s not Yoweri).  After a considerable period of time and much muttering from the East African Breweries MD, a flatbed truck appears and there indeed is the star attraction.  Decked out in black welly boots, and rubber gloves,  his velour red suit tightened by his shiny black belt and his cotton-wool beard firmly attached, the bell announcing his arrival is still clanging in my ears.

He balances precariously on the back of the truck as it starts to slowly make its way around the edge of the playing field.  The children seem to appear from everywhere in that magical way that African children can – emerging from the earth in a smiling burst of humanity.  The swell of children are beginning to shout and taunt Father Christmas, they are keen to know what he is planning next. In a fit of madness, or fear, he decides to start throwing the gifts from the mound of sacks piled high on the back of his flat-bed truck.   Of course the larger, stronger children can catch and whoop, the smaller ones start to cry.  The South African MD who has stood in silent shock, galvanises and begins to try to make his way to help Santa, but he cannot get through the sea of children. Now off script and besieged by a flood of children, the flatbed truck comes to a shuddering halt and in three seconds flat Father Christmas disappears under a tidal mass.  It is chaos.  Then, almost as soon as it starts, it is over.  Father Christmas is lying on the ground, naked apart from his underpants.  Red velour suit,  gone. Welly boots, gone. Stuffed tummy and cotton beard, gone. Rubber gloves, gone. Presents, all gone.

I look to see the older children charging away with shirts untucked and full of gifts and the littlies begging them for small morsels.  The parents seem unconcerned and return to their conversations and their beers. 

The remains of Father Christmas clambers back onto the flatbed truck and it roars off in the direction of the Brewery.

I’m not sure if he’ll volunteer for the job again….