Hunger Eats a Man (8 page)

“The men asked her who she was and where she came from. She told them she was sent from above to ‘sweep away' the youth because they have lost the way. Or, should I say, we have lost the way? She said the youth no longer have respect for God and the elders and therefore they have been condemned to death. She was sent to sweep them off the face of the earth.”

Sandile pauses and Priest says, “How does the blood come in? I'm more interested in what you said about the blood. Just tell me about blood!”

“Hmn,” Sandile feels tired now, “this is a bit complicated, Father, and you came when I was about to fall asleep.”

“Just tell me what you were going to tell me.” Priest does not budge.

“The thing is that I have just written a short story.”

“And?” Priest's impatience is almost visible.

“I wrote a short story that tells a story exactly like the one of the woman I have just told you about. Only it was our neighbours, the people of Canaan, who were swept away. All those who get fat out of the blood of the poor.” Sandile pauses and looks at his father. He notices that his eyes seem as though they are going to pop out.

“I still remember that when I wrote that story it was about half past three in the morning. I just woke up and started writing. I do not know where such great inspiration came from but it was like I had to write or else … I just had to write, and I was not sure what I was writing. At times I want to believe that I dreamed the story, but if you dream you have to wake up and remember. I did not remember anything when I wrote. I was sort of possessed.”

Priest gazes at his son accusingly and says, “What-about-the-blood?”

Sandile continues as if his father has said nothing. “Now the same thing happened the day before yesterday. I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote a story. I did not know what I was writing until I had finished and read it.” There is a sense of sadness in his voice now. “I can feel that the story is a representation of what is really going to
happen, Father. The title of the story is ‘River of Blood'. I did not name it. It named itself!”

Priest passes a distrusting eye over his son.

Sandile continues, “In the story so much blood is spilled that people end up having to drink it instead of water. All the wells and taps ooze blood. It's blood everywhere. Blood! Blood! Blood!” Sandile sings the last words.

“Shut up!” The image of gulping a glass full of blood his son has managed to conjure up makes Priest want to vomit. “Don't say that! I don't want to hear it!”

“But, Father, I thought you craved blood.”

“What?” Priest shouts and stands up, as if wanting to thrust his fist at Sandile. “What did you say?”

“I don't mean like drinking it, Father. I thought you wanted to hear the word.”

Sandile looks at his father and pities him. He still doesn't know what brought him to his room, but he can see that something is worrying him.

“I regret I came here in the first place,” Priest says grudgingly as he makes to leave. “I shouldn't have come to you. You've made me feel worse.”

He bangs the door behind him, leaving Sandile still wondering what he should have done for his father. Maybe he wanted me to ask him if he had had a bad dream and then soothe him? Just like a father does to his son.

It is a Monday morning at Bambanani High School and Bongani is alone in his office. His fragile mind is not only troubled by the hangover – which he suffers every Monday anyway – but there is something particular on his mind as he paces up and down in the office. Some inaudible sound issues from his mouth that is rarely completely shut.

At some point in his life Bongani came across an expression that “cleanliness is next to godliness” and made it his personal motto. Now, every day before he starts work, he spends time making sure that his office is one hundred per cent neat. Everything has to be kept in its correct place. But today Bongani has forgotten about the filing and is concentrating on something that has caused him much worry.

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?”