Hunger Eats a Man

by Nkosinathi Sithole

  Right now on his desk there are two books that he has been reading, or trying to read. One of these, red in colour and therefore symbolising danger and spilled blood in Bongani’s eyes, is Counter Communism. The other, not opened, is Progress Through Separate Development: South Africa in Peaceful Transition. The former text is opened on page eight, proof that Bongani had been reading it in the last few minutes.

  But what wrought his mental torture is caught under his armpit. It is a manuscript: a collection of poetry by Sandile Gumede. Initially, he was enthusiastic about honouring the poor boy’s creative attempts by taking his precious time to read his simple words. Now, simple as they may be, he wholeheartedly regrets he ever set his eyes on the filthy words. Yet he is also glad because, had he not read the poems, he would not have been aware that Sandile is a menace to society.

  And he has the snobbish Ma’am Mchunu to thank for that because she is the one who brought him the poem that Sandile wrote for her granddaughter. Ma’am Mchunu’s condescension coaxed her to do all she possibly could to prevent her granddaughter from having a relationship with someone from as hopeless a place as Ndlalidlindoda. One of the things she did was to confront the principal of the boy’s school and make him stop the Hunger-Eats-a-Man creature from ever communicating with her granddaughter again as he was ruining her prospects in life. When she visited Bongani at his home – because she maintained it was unhealthy to go to him in Ndlalidlindoda – she even advised Bongani to threaten the boy with expulsion from school if he did not stop his silly advances towards her granddaughter.

  But what is considerably more important to Bongani is that he has learnt about Sandile. When he read the poem Ma’am Mchunu brought to him as proof that the good-for-nothing boy has a crush on her granddaughter, Bongani told Sandile to bring all his poems so that he might “peruse” them whenever, and if ever, he got the time. This was before he even spoke to him about his relationship with Ma’am Mchunu’s granddaughter. Now he is completely disappointed in the boy. Sandile and his diabolical ideas will cause trouble and he needs to be halted by any means. Hence Bongani has borrowed Counter Communism from the library, to take a leaf out of the late government’s book. How did they deal with the terrorists? That is what he wants to find out.

  “The little vampire is over-expressing himself!” Bongani mutters.

  Why on earth does the boy write all this nonsense instead of writing about the beauty of nature? Can’t the little weasel take a glance at the sun and find inspiration there? A mere glimpse of the moon and the stars can trigger a creative mind and issue quatrains and sonnets of outstanding beauty and purity. Not this nonsense! Why does he not listen to thunderstorms and the deafening thumping of hailstorms on to the iron roof of his house and then write about that? Or the colourful rainbow after such a storm? But the boy chooses to write unpatriotic nonsense about our government, turning a blind eye to all the good that has been done and accentuating – even exaggerating! – all the little shortcomings of our leaders. What did we do to him? Is he so ignorant as to not even know that the time for this kind of criticism is over?

  “But what can one expect from someone who lives in an area that is predominantly IFP?” Bongani asks himself and his anger is half healed. What Sandile’s poems are saying may be true, but no patriotic son of the country is supposed to notice that. Is it not true that we have a black government now? Isn’t our Premier as black as this asinine weasel? But that is to be expected from someone who belongs to such a party. A party whose shitting days are numbered anyway. And if he is not IFP, why would he write this nonsense? Because what he has written is utter rubbish. Look at this! He looks again at the manuscript and begins to read aloud, trying hard to utter each word with as much rancour as he possibly can:

  Where has my sweat gone?

  As I was running and struggling,

  Singing he will come; he is coming,

  Hoping soon dawn will come,

  And all darkness vanish,

  While no belly grumbles.

  But still there is mud

  On my plate!

  Words like these need not be articulated. No. Had they not been mere words, he is sure that they would stink. In fact, they do even now. This boy is rotten inside and he wants to putrefy other people’s brains. But he will do that nonsense somewhere else, not here! Not where Bongani Hadebe is in charge of community development and is working his way to becoming a mayor. No ways! No Nkatha will cause trouble in this area.

  “This boy will have to be stopped, one way or another,” he mutters, and some evil force pulls his attention to the poem in front of him. Why should he care about this rubbish? But somehow he does care. There is something about the poems that makes him want to read on, despite the mistaken views of the boy. He hurls the whole bundle against the wall, to prevent himself from reading through them again. Pieces of paper scatter all over his office. His breathing accelerates and his nostrils widen. He waddles back to his seat. The red book is still there, opened. But before he picks it up, he contemplates the papers scattered in his office. If only it was Sandile’s brains scattered like this! Yes. How much he would like that. Sandile’s brains scattered all over his office. No. Not his office, but scattered for sure. The thought of a dead Sandile with his crazy brains open for the whole world to see is a gratifying antithesis to reading the poems. Has the silly boy ever heard of Proudly South African?

  Now he returns his attention to the book he has only just started to read. There must be something here to help him. Them. All those who love our country. And peace. He reads aloud from the book because he cannot at all read without pronouncing the words. He gave up on trying to learn that art when he was young. There was a time when he saw this inability as a weakness. But now he has realised that it is in fact a gift. Perhaps he is the only one in the whole world whose nervous system recognises the importance of sound in conjuring meaning. Words can only have meaning if they are allowed to speak, and they speak only through the voice of the reader. Not the reader’s heart or mind. Never! As he reads, these words pass before his eyes: General Malan … black nationalism … decolonisation … Soviet-inspired … total onslaught … Marxist.

  Bongani shudders as he reads. “Bloody Karl Marx!” he feels like spitting. “What a fool! I wonder why he got so famous with his empty skull. But fame is not only for smart people, even if it should be.” The idea of Marxism is most appalling to Bongani. What would be the point of living if there is no competition? If there is no rich and poor? Reading further revives him a bit: South African response … total strategy … political … economic … psychological spheres … military.

  Yes. This is exactly what is needed. Total strategy to counter total onslaught. He suddenly stands up. He beats his forehead with the palm of his hand. This is what you do to the public phone if it swallows your coins. He knows that he is familiar with the term “strategy”, but somehow it eludes him. The problem with these English words is that they are easy to forget. Sometimes you can feel that you know the word, but when you think about it you realise that you don’t. Or you are not sure. “It has to do with a plan,” a voice in his head tells him. Maybe it’s the phone responding after the beating. He smiles when he thinks this. But if so, why didn’t they just say “total plan”? This would have made his life easier. Sis! They should read Complete Plain Words.

  Since he can’t be completely certain, he decides to consult his dictionary. “Better safe than foolish!” he tells his book. “Woordeboek!” he announces. If there is anything he likes about Afrikaans it is that the words sound like music. If only he could speak it!

  He removes his thick, blue dictionary from the shelf and, as always, starts by weighing it. This reminds him of his boyhood days when he used to buy live chickens. You choose a chicken by weighing it. Looks can be deceiving. The fact that the book he is holding now is so thick is gratifying to him. It is proof that he is a wise man. Having assured himself that his dictionary has lost no weight, he places it in front of
himself. “English–Zulu, Zulu–English,” the rhythm in what he is reading triggers a little smile. The anger engendered by reading Sandile’s profane poems is replaced by the enchantment of hearing good, uncorrupted words. “Amasu namaqili okuphamba. Empini,” he reads. The mention of empini (in battle) brings him back to the poems. Yes. He will fight this little brat if it’s the last thing he does! No Nkatha moron will sow evil ideas here!

  “Good morning, sir,” a voice says softly and Bongani almost jumps.

  “Oh! It is you, Sandile.”

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course. I want to speak to you.”

  Bongani looks at Sandile, whose eyes are fixed on his intellectual property scattered around the principal’s office. Bongani does not care that Sandile has seen his work floating everywhere. He cannot be scared of some boy in his own school. His eyes move around, trying to locate a particular poem, which is fortunately not on the floor because he put it aside earlier for discussing with the boy.

  “Oh, here,” he tells both Sandile and himself when he has located it. “I remember now why I called you.” He tries to sound wiser, but the words are, as always, devoid of life. If only he could speak Afrikaans!

  Sandile looks at the principal and says nothing.

  “See this?” Bongani orders Sandile, handing him a piece of paper. Sandile takes it and reads it absent-mindedly. His attention is still on the papers on the floor.

  Bongani speaks, “Now tell me, do you have an idea who may have written these nice words?” He releases a mocking smile. They both know he knows Sandile wrote the poem.

  “I wrote it, sir.”

  “Oh! You wrote it? Who is the lucky lady, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “It’s the girl I love, sir.”

  Bongani laughs wildly at this. Is it possible to laugh in a foreign language?

  “Wow! The girl you love, hey? Where is she right now?”

  “She is at her school, at Grey’s High.”

  “And Grey’s High is where?” Bongani tries to sing the question.

  “It is in town, sir.”

  “And where are you?”

  Sandile wants to strangle him now. “I’m here.”

  “Tell me the place,” Bongani says portentously. “Where are you?” he shouts.

  Sandile takes a moment to consider. He knows, like everybody else, that the principal is far from being smart. But this is too much even for Hadebe. “I’m here in Ndlalidlindoda,” he says, as if in pain.

  “Yes.” Bongani likes this name, but prefers to say it in English, “Hunger-Eatsssss.” He glances around the office, as if there are other people besides the two of them. Some people say even the walls can hear. Let those in his office hear him now. “Hunger-Eatssss,” he repeats, in case either Sandile or the walls did not hear the first time. “Now don’t you think it will make more sense if you found the one you love, as you say, here in Hunger-Eatsss? Where you live? Where you belong? Don’t-you-think-so?”

  “That is a difficult request, sir. It’s impossible,” Sandile says without thinking.

  “What?” Bongani shouts. “Did I say it was a request? Hhe?”

  “I thought you did, sir. But either way, it’s impossible.”

  “Are you challenging me, boy, or what?”

  “I’m telling the truth, sir.”

  “Hey, son! Hey, son!” he points a finger at Sandile and stands up. “You don’t know me!”

  “I know you, sir,” Sandile says calmly. He is unaware that he is being impolite.

  “Maybe you do not know that I am not afraid of you. It’s not too much for me to wait for you after school to have a fairer fight.”

  This is really funny and Sandile struggles not to laugh. He touches his mouth and says nothing.

  “You are doing all this because we are no longer allowed to cane you.” Bongani is overwhelmed by the desire to kick and box. “Why don’t we do it after school when no law prohibits me from beating you? Hhe? Man to man, after school?”

  “Oh, you mean boy to boy, sir?”

  Bongani blackens with rage. “I’m going to kill you, poor Hunger-Eateeeaan!” He says the last word louder than the others.

  10

  In the area that is the buffer between Hunger-Eats-a-Man and Canaan is built Gxumani Community Hall, and this may be said to be the Rainbow’s earnest attempt to bring together the two communities whose racial difference has given way to class difference. Gxumani Community Hall is mainly used by the community of Canaan. They use it for functions like weddings, meetings and beauty contests in which people from Hunger-Eats-a-Man are allowed to participate, although they seldom, if ever, win.

  Some lucky people from Hunger-Eats-a-Man got themselves employment in Canaan. These are normally women who work there as domestics, cleaning and washing for their masters and also taking care of their children. Sometimes these lucky women can be seen taking their young masters to school or crèche. Many people from Hunger-Eats-a-Man tried but failed to get employment in Canaan. In fact, it is hard to find employment anywhere.

  MaDuma seldom goes to Canaan because she does not work there, and she does not or cannot have any friends there. Yet she sees a lot of it from her home or when she is going to town via Canaan. MaDuma has a relative there, her cousin Victor, but his wife made it clear from the start that she does not want to have anything to do with people from Ndlalidlindoda or any relative of Victor’s for that matter, because she only married him and not his family.

  MaDuma has only once entertained the possibility of seeking work in Canaan but soon decided against it, realising that she cannot manage to work for a black person like herself, especially not for another black woman. She believes that black people, especially black women, oppress other black women if they have the privilege of being their employers. But it hurts her to see the women who work in Canaan come with their groceries when they have been paid their wages, which, as the employers in Canaan have agreed, will never be more than R800 a month. Although she does not like this amount, she envies those who come handling plastic bags from Spar and Shoprite and longs for the smell that these plastics have. However, when that longing makes her feel sad, she consoles herself, “It will be finished in one week!”

  Sometimes she spits forcibly and goes to hide inside; sometimes she forgets to spit and just runs inside.

  It is a cloudy Sunday morning as MaDuma leaves her home for Canaan Hall, as the people of Ndlalidlindoda mockingly refer to Gxumani Community Hall. The last time she went there was three months back when she attended a meeting of the Grinding Stone, the Gxumani Women’s Organisation, of which Nomsa is the leader. The Grinding Stone was started as the Canaan Women’s Organisation, expanding only in 1995 to include the starving community of Ndlalidlindoda. Many women of Ndlalidlindoda were very pleased when they were called upon and encouraged to join their well-to-do and educated fellow women in the Grinding Stone. MaDuma was not interested at first because of the pride and self-centredness of the people of Canaan. But now she has become a dedicated member and has noticed, with a bit of concern, that she is gradually getting fond of Nomsa despite her hatred of anything Canaan.

  It is 8.50 a.m. as she arrives at Gxumani Community Hall and the meeting starts at exactly nine o’clock, as scheduled. Nomsa is very strict about punctuality, and many women love and fear her. She has said many times that she wants to put an end to the silly notion that if a meeting is said to begin at nine, it means it will start at ten. MaDuma fears Nomsa just like the others, although she tries by all means to deny it. When Nomsa is angry and shouting, everyone does not feel well.

  “Okay, women!” Nomsa hits the table in front of her as she calls for the attention of those still whispering to one another. “Let’s begin!” she says loudly.

  MaDuma thinks Nomsa is pleased to hear all the women keeping quiet, as if the angel of death is close at hand. The little bitch is indeed the angel of death! Why is it that even I am frightened by her? Maybe sh
e uses some spells to frighten us. MaDuma remembers a story she heard in the news on the radio about a woman who stole a child and cooked him in order to enhance her position in the church.

  Nomsa asks – or rather orders – Ma’am Mchunu to open the meeting with prayer, and MaDuma has a feeling of déjà vu when she learns that the woman is from Canaan. Ma’am Mchunu is a retired teacher and her title of “Ma’am Mchunu” has remained with her as some kind of an emeritus title. She taught for about thirty-eight years at Thuthukani Primary, acting as principal in sixteen of those years. All these thoughts run through MaDuma’s head as Ma’am Mchunu is praying, balancing herself on a walking stick without which she cannot stand on her own.

  “We also pray that you liberate us from male oppression and protect us and our daughters from men who have become animals who rape and kill us.”

  Many women cry “Hmn”, and even MaDuma comes back from her mental wanderings.

  “We ask all this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen!”

  “Amen!” the women say in unison.

  When Ma’am Mchunu drags her leg to her seat in the first row of chairs, Nomsa goes to the front and again addresses the Grinding Stone. She starts by thanking the women for their presence in what she thinks is the most important meeting they have ever had. “I am saying that because today we are going to discuss what I call ‘the bestiality of men’.” The wording interests some women so much that they feel obliged to ululate and others concur by saying, “They are beasts” or just “Yes”.

  “But before we begin, I want to read you some of the newspaper clippings I have got with me to show you what I mean when I say these men are nothing but animals.”

  She takes about twenty minutes reading these excerpts, each of which involves a story of some kind of violence against women. Some of these stories are about rape and others about other kinds of domestic violence. She reads all the stories that are short and summarises the longer ones, underscoring the main points.