Priest used to tell his wife that he could not help smiling when he looked at her like that because she was so beautiful. MaDuma was really flattered by this. But in reality, Priest has an easy smile. He has a sense of humour. Until a few years ago, it was hard, or even impossible, for Priest to look at his image in the mirror and not smile. When MaDuma learnt that her husband smiled when he looked at himself as well, she was angry. She wanted her face to be the only one that made him smile.
“This is tantamount to masturbation,” she growled at Priest when she finally caught him. “You know that masturbation is a sin.”
It’s eighteen minutes past five now and MaDuma finally decides that she is not going to win this one. She wants to tell Priest about her journey. She clears her throat twice and looks for a smile on Priest’s face. There is none. There is neither smile nor anger. He is absolutely expressionless. MaDuma cannot hold herself any longer: “Okay! You win.”
“I win what?”
“The battle. What else?”
“Ohho!” Priest waves a dismissive hand at his wife.
MaDuma pauses and then says, “Khumalo says you won’t get a job because you are bewitched.”
“You see? I told you that sangomas tell lies,” Priest says triumphantly.
“Listen to me, will you!” MaDuma says sternly. “He said they bewitched you to be disagreeable with the oils of a wild pig, now your blood is not flowing.” She pauses. She wants to take her time. “And he is right, you know. I have always wondered why I sometimes hate you so much.” MaDuma waits for her husband to speak but he doesn’t. She carries on, “I think you will have to see him and get some herbs.”
Priest is shocked. “What?”
“I am saying,” MaDuma shouts, “you should go to Khumalo so that he will clean your blood and free you of the evil spirit.” Then she laughs. “Shit! I almost forgot. He said they bewitched you with the female tokoloshe when you were young and she is growing with you. Sis!” She spits on the floor. “That is why my body is always so weak. It’s the jealousy of this woman of yours.”
MaDuma is angry now. Priest can see the sweat sparkling on her face and nose, especially her nose. “I have always wondered why you sleep as flat as you do. You are having fun with your lover.”
Priest is speechless as he watches his wife wipe the sweat flowing down to her neck. He does not believe what he has just heard. Not that he did not expect such nonsense from a seer, but he never thought that his wife would believe it. When MaDuma has finished mopping her face and neck and her breathing speed has returned to normal, Priest asks her, “Do you believe all this nonsense, MakaSandile?”
“Of course I do,” MaDuma responds readily. “He said something I can see with my own eyes – that your blood is stagnant! If it is not, then where do you work?”
“This is crazy!” Priest is angry now. “How can I live if my blood is not flowing?”
“The question is,” MaDuma starts defiantly, “the question is how do you live as your blood is not flowing? The answer is that I do not want to know!” MaDuma feels deep satisfaction when she sees Priest blink repeatedly. He is on the verge of crying. She has won. She pushes on the television and is pleased to see her favourite character: Stefano DiMera!
Priest leaves his wife, but has no idea where he is going. He just wants to be away from MaDuma and her nonsense. It is one thing for her to go to the seer, but it is crazy to think that he, a man of God, can go to the sangoma and use his medicine. No. He is a priest and he wants to be promoted to a bishop. How can he become a bishop if he visits sangomas? People who are destined to go to hell? No ways!
Priest decides to visit his friend Sithole at Phanekeni. As he walks, he thinks about how the land he lives in is deteriorating economically. Things are getting worse as more and more people lose their jobs and come to add to the number of the unemployed at Hunger-Eats-a-Man. Two big stores, Intuthuko Store and Mpumalanga Market, could not hold out against the depression. These are the oldest stores in Hunger-Eats. They have been great in their time. Now Intuthuko Store has closed completely, while Mpumalanga Market is still trading, although it is clear to everyone that the owners are losing their battle dismally.
Across the road, on the left if you come to Hunger-Eats-a-Man from Blood River, there is a spaza shop that many think has helped to bring about the downfall of Mpumalanga. Sinethemba Spaza Shop, as it is called, is now the main trader in groceries in the Manhlanzini and Mafikeni sections. It always fascinates Priest how suddenly everybody goes to Sinethemba without even thinking about Mpumalanga, which was so great in its time. He is guilty of it too. Two months previously, when he wanted to post a letter, he went to Sinethemba to buy the stamp and then went to the postbox, which is outside Mpumalanga. He hated himself later for doing this. Why didn’t he buy his stamp from Mpumalanga? The next time he needed to post a letter, he made a point of going to buy the stamp at Mpumalanga. But when he saw how empty it was, he realised there were many chances that there would be no stamps there. To avoid disappointing the lady who ran the store and hurting himself for doing it, he decided to ask for anything he could see. “Can I have one pack of King Kong, please!” he had said. There was no beer being brewed at his home, but sorghum was the only thing that caught his eye.
It takes Priest about eight minutes to arrive at Sithole’s home. There are two buildings at Sithole’s. The five-roomed house is near the gate while the rondavel is on the other end. Priest knocks at the living-room door after bracing himself for what he will see inside, or what he will not see. Sithole is in so much debt that he has lost all his living-room furniture. He borrowed money from the stokvel and could not pay it back. The women of the stokvel came to claim his furniture when they realised Sithole was unable to pay. By now the money he owed has multiplied greatly. Money borrowed in this fashion is generally called mashonisa, but some call it zaliwe because it can give birth. It is also called zanxapha (click-of-annoyance), because people are always angry when they pay double what they borrowed. But Priest prefers to call it “give birth and multiply rapidly”, a phrase he has borrowed from the Old Testament.
As Priest enters, Sithole is seated on a bucket that is turned upside down. His wife, MaXulu, is seated on the bench near the door. “Here is a person, Sithole,” she says.
“I see him,” Sithole responds sternly.
“It’s Father Gumede, Sithole, don’t say you see him!”
“Now what do you want me to do? Lick him because it’s Gumede?”
“Tell him to sit!”
When Priest has sat down on the bench beside MaXulu, all three in the room feel comfortable. It doesn’t matter that there is no furniture. They talk about many things. They blame their leaders for not doing enough to help the common people.
Two hours pass in this fashion before Priest announces that he is leaving.
“Thank you for visiting us,” Sithole says kindly.
Priest’s voice and face change as he says, “You don’t even have water in this house?” Priest looks at Sithole and MaXulu alternately. “I came here a long time ago and you have offered me nothing!”
Sithole smiles. “But you did not tell us that you are thirsty.” He looks at his wife, who reads the unpronounced command and heads for the kitchen, only to be interrupted by the men’s conversation when she is halfway.
“Water is what we have,” Sithole smiles again.
“I am not talking about ‘pure’ water!” Priest says calmly. “It’s clear that you are a pagan Job of Matshana. It is not right for the representative of God to leave your house without even drinking tea when he has come to visit you. The angel that is responsible for planning my journeys will be angry. This will make that angel prevent me from visiting you again, saying you kill it with hunger.”
“Did you come here to visit or to eat?” Sithole shouts.
“That question of yours is meaningless, Sithole,” Priest says loudly. “Do you think I could come all this way for nothing? No, Sithole! Don’t p
lay like that.”
“You came all this way to waste my children’s food? Cha-ke! You won’t get it. Now it is not like when I was driving at Putco and earning a good salary there.” Sithole laughs and then continues, “Now a person who visits me should bring his lunch box if he likes.”
“You are mad!” Priest bellows. “I’ll rather not come at all.”
“It’s your choice.”
17
“The time is nigh,” the Book of God proclaimed many years ago. It still does. It is referring to the time when the Kingdom of God will come and His will shall be done on earth as in heaven. But occupying Priest’s mind as he utters the words is something different. He is meditating on occurrences in his community and the fact that towards the end of the year the kingdom of some people on earth will be strengthened in the local elections. Fat cats like Hadebe will be voted to yet higher reaches, while those who vote them in will plunge further down into the pits.
Still ruminating on the elections, he recalls with wonder the enthusiasm and glee that characterised many blacks as they went to cast their first votes ever. So many people who voted! So many hopes shattered! That is why it came as no surprise at all that many people lost interest in the same liberating process five years later. Was it a realisation that voting did not guarantee a better life no matter who you voted for?
Some still held the right to vote very high:
“You must vote. It’s your democratic right.”
“You must vote to ensure that you play your part in putting the right government in place.”
But others argued that a vote was meaningless:
“The most important democratic right for me is the right not to vote. What is the point in voting if you know all the candidates are only bent on bettering their own lives and empowering their relatives at the expense of all?”
“You should not talk like that. People will hear you,” some replied. “And then you will no longer get your pension.”
Even in the remote places like Skebhe and Place of Power people knew well the necessity of talking in whispers about the election:
“We must tell our children to vote, my husband. You know that this is the chief’s land. If he says we must vote, then we must.”
“What if our children go there and vote for the Xhosas, people who are not of our tribe?”
“Our chief is IFP. If he says we must vote for the IFP, then we must do just that.”
“They will be fools to vote for somebody who does not belong to us. We were taught very well how to vote.”
“Yes. We must put a cross next to a small elephant.”
“Exactly.”
That was back in 1999, but Priest is certain that those feelings have not dwindled over the years. If anything, they have escalated. More than ever, feelings of fear and distrust are dominating people’s minds when it comes to politics. In fact, Priest recalls a man from one of those upper regions, Place of Power to be precise, who lost his life because he happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
If he remembers correctly, the man had been in exile for many years, but when they were allowed back he did not come home. He stayed in the city. The place of his birth and his family and friends, where his umbilical cord was buried, had become the land of his enemies. This place where he had grown up shepherding his father’s cattle, engaging in stick fights and fisticuffs with his mates.
Place of Power was famous for its peace and tranquillity, while other places were torn by internal violence between members of different political parties. But this tranquillity was tested when the exile’s umbilical cord began to pull him to his birthplace despite his family’s warnings that his birthplace need not become his death place as well.
Everybody was aware of the tantalising stories of a hero who had been in exile for years and returned to his place of birth where everybody had married with the enemy. Who did not know that the hero of the Nation’s Spear was allowed three days of quietude by the leaders of the other party before they paid him a visit? It was certainly not an amicable welcome because the three strongly built men of the party had their rifles hanging threateningly on their shoulders as they went to greet the prodigal son of the land. It was not amusing to the party men that the sheep that was lost and found was as fearless as ever.
“Long time no see,” one of the rifle-holders said foolishly, when the ritual of greeting had passed. Only then did they realise they were not quite sure how to say what they wanted to say to him.
“Yes. It’s been a long time,” the Nation’s Spear responded. It was only the four of them at the Spear’s home. These men had known one another well when they were boys growing up, but now they had become strangers.
An awkward hiatus lasted for a full minute and then one of the three party men reconnected with his vocabulary. “You know that things have changed around here since you have gone?”
“I know that, but I do not know how it concerns me,” the Spear said without care. “I don’t have a problem that you have chosen your way.”
Another troubling pause.
“We came to tell you that if you want to stay here, you will have to join the party.” This was the deputy chair who spoke. It’s been years since the incident but nobody forgets that on that day his mouth was triple its size due to a lump on the inside of his lower lip. It was a difficult job for him to speak. It was therefore doubly annoying to hear his audience respond with a wild laugh.
The grass, the earth, the fences and the walls that were listening did not hear what happened next. Except that the Spear said some strange words and the three men left with their tails between their legs. The Spear said: “I don’t like to be provoked, especially if those who provoke me are unarmed.”
This had a weakening impact on the party men. They had gone there knowing quite well that their target was a trained soldier and only God knew what kinds of tricks these soldiers learnt in all the countries they went to. The men had expected he might want to give them some coins that might metamorphose into destructive bombs and blow them up. Their friends had carefully and worriedly warned them, “Don’t touch anything he offers to you.”
“Yes. And, please, no handshakes.” Anything was possible with these defiers of death.
“Just hold on to your guns.”
“If he tries anything stupid, shoot him!”
Even so, the Nation’s Spear had described them as unarmed, and somehow they felt like they were indeed. It was like their guns had gone from their arms to the unarmed man.
All these thoughts invade Priest’s mind as he considers the strangeness of our democracy and freedom. Now that the elections are near, our leaders remember that we are indispensable participants in the Rainbow Nation. That is why so many things are being promised and done for the people who have less to gain from the outcome of the elections. That is why today the Premier of the Province is coming to Bambanani High School to ceremoniously present computers to the school. It is a way of opening people’s eyes to the diligence of those they have voted for and to make them see clearly that there is no other party worth their sacred crosses than the ruling party.
Priest spent time disputing within himself whether to go or not. Now he has decided and is unsure whether or not to honour the occasion with his priestly regalia. Not wearing his priestly garb will help if he is to be invisible, as he wants to be, but the problem is that he also knows that the regalia will come in handy since the main cause for his going there is to get food. Being identified as a respected priest will make his life easier when food is served. He decides to go without the priestly wear. If he gets the food, he will get it as the ordinary man he is.
Priest arrives at Bambanani High and is greeted by the pathetic bodies of the starving people from Hunger-Eats-a-Man roaming about near the tall gates of the school. A plethora of cars decorates the space between the main road and the school’s tall fences. Inside the school premises teachers’ and politicians’ cars occupy different spaces and somehow
it is clear which group owns which cars. The principal has obviously realised that his car is misplaced in its original parking space and has opted to move it to a space reserved for the politicians. “Funny guy,” Priest thinks.
The Premier’s silver-grey Mercedes-Benz C-Class is parked nearest to the tent erected for the VIPs. Just behind it is the black Volvo of the Minister of Transport, who is also the Master of Ceremonies. There are many other fancy cars and it pains Priest to look at them.
He proceeds to take his seat in an open space where chairs have been arranged to face the VIPs who are seated in the tent. He smiles within himself when he supposes that the main reason all these people have come is for the food. There is going to be plenty of it. They all know. Seven oxen have been slaughtered for the occasion. From all over the region people have come in large numbers. There are not enough seats for everyone. The students are forced to stand as more and more people keep flocking in.
Priest’s eyes steal to the VIPs and his mouth is watering when he sees glasses of orange juice and saucers filled to the brim with snacks and sweets. The only thing available to Priest’s group is the sweltering sun.
“Can you tell those ladies with umbrellas that we also want to see our leaders,” one man announces, loud enough for the MC to catch his words. The MC pleads with the ladies who are trying to shield themselves from the scorching sun. The man who voiced his complaint is gratified when he learns how effective his words have been. So good to live in this new democracy where people’s voices are heard!
“We too have our umbrellas,” the complainant starts gleefully, “but we closed them for the sake of those behind us, who also have a democratic right to see their leaders. The Premier is like a father to us; we don’t want to know him from TV screens only. We deserve a clear view.” Although the man continues, the ladies have long since closed their umbrellas.
Hunger Eats a Man Page 12