Still Waiting
Christmas came to Chililabombwe,
a misdirected card; Scrooge and frost
delivered to the wrong continent.
In the fan-cooled haven of the school reception,
a bosomy secretary, head shaved of lice,
spooned excretions from the playground‘s termite mound.
A red paste pile –
African caviar posed in a napkin.
Close by a mother and I seemed uneasy.
She slid one ebony gloss shin
over the other like a deaf cricket.
She was lost for good words.
Whatever she said it would sound stupid, she knew,
but she would say it anyway – fish eyed
like the kapenta threaded with small bones
that she could afford on Fridays.
“It was that saint man what was he called
Saint Claws? Santo Claws?
You know – he’s the one that goes down the chimneys.”
Chimneys? Every year, white bearded and hot
he would visit the school, waving,
his costume the same flame tree hue as the fire engine,
from which he hung in the sun of blue heat,
banana, jacaranda and rattling black seedpods.
“But on that Christmas night, he goes to the other kids -
always to the other kids.
For each of my boy’s eight years we waited.
We listened for the Santo Claws bells,
but only heard the crickets and frogs of Africa.”
By Graham Burchell
More about Graham
'Still Waiting' remains a very important poem to me. It was my first major win in a poetry competition, and it was the first win of this competition. It is based on a true story that I heard shortly after arriving in the copper mining town of Chililabombwe in Zambia in 1980 to teach at Konkola Trust School. It was also influenced by the bizarre picture of seeing Santa Claus arrive on the back of a fire engine in the baking December African sun.