Hunger Eats a Man (15 page)

“Why don't they use the money to create jobs for the poor? Or help people do things to make ends meet?” MaDuma had asked angrily of Priest, as if it were all his fault.

“I think they are too busy driving fancy cars to remember that there are some people who live in abject poverty. Or maybe they do not care,” Priest had answered his wife.

When Priest's mind returns to the present, the Premier is about to give his address and everybody rises in honour of him. Priest, and a few people as dissatisfied as he is, do not stand up. The Premier may be rich and powerful, but he is not more human than Priest and everybody else. Besides, he is where he is because of these people's votes.

In his address, the Premier itemises the unfortunate happenings in the country, not failing to brag about his party's greatness in bringing the computers to the school. “Many of our youth are without employment because they are computer illiterate. Today we have made it possible for them to learn new skills that they otherwise would have been forced to go without.” The Premier pauses, and the people applaud when they see he is asking for it. “A number of colleges are closing down because those who graduated from them cannot find jobs, especially those with education qualifications. Ezakheni College of Education has closed down, Mpumalanga College of Education has closed down, Esikhawini College of Education has closed down …”

People get themselves involved by murmuring, “Hmn!”, “Ohh Hhe!” and “
Awu Nkosi
!”

“This means people who were teaching in these institutions lost their jobs.”

As Priest listens, he is amazed by the fact that the Premier is only listing the problems facing the country, without any suggestions in terms of solutions. “
Uyacula
!” – he is singing! – he says to himself.

“Many people wrongly believe that the government has got piles
of money waiting to be distributed to people. Unfortunately, it is not like that. I should know. I am from there.” The Premier smiles and common men and women clap their hands and laugh at his joke.

Even Priest cannot help laughing. His eyes dash to the fancy cars and words slip out of his mouth, “No. There is money. It's just that you do not keep it in piles but divide it among yourselves to use for your personal gain.” Fortunately, he is not heard by the leaders and the party fanatics, otherwise something bad would happen to him.

After this Priest gets bored of listening and the sweltering sun, so he decides to go outside and join the many who have opted to hear no more of the Premier's speech. He is lucky to find an abandoned chair under a tree. As he sits there, he is able to hear only the ululation and the clapping from the dedicated followers. Just then he notices two young men holding one sheep each. The principal appears behind them, followed by the Minister and the representative of the company that donated the second-hand computers. When Priest hears that the sheep are to be given to these two rich people to take home and make themselves soup, Priest decides he has seen and heard enough. He even loses his appetite and leaves, muttering, “Our country is mad! Nothing is sane in our country!”

“I only wish we had another child younger than Zandi,” MaDuma tells her husband as they are seated in front of their house.

Priest cannot believe his wife. “What? You wish we had another child? Another mouth to feed on nothing? No. Say you are joking.”

“If we had another child younger than Zandi, we would get R200 every month.”

“What?” Priest's face betrays confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“For a long time now people have been getting money for free from the government. The government gives R100 for every child under the age of seven, if the parents of that child are unemployed, like we are. So, you see, if we had another young child it would be R200.” MaDuma cannot hide her happiness.

“Is this another of these people's lies?” Priest asks.

“It is true.” MaDuma removes her eye-glasses and places the half-finished beadwork she is making on the coffee table. “I have spoken to many women who have actually got the money. Tomorrow, I'm going to register Zandi. R100 for free is better than nothing.”

“Yes. It is indeed better than nothing,” Priest agrees.

“It would have been better if Zandi had a twin sister or brother,” MaDuma keeps thinking about the ways to increase their prospective earning. But she knows that nothing can be done. “At least we can hope we will get the R100,” she adds.

“Hope!” Priest exclaims. “How long has one hoped for the things that do not happen? I wish there was a better word than hope. I hate to hope.”

The sound of his voice tells MaDuma that he has already lost hope. This frightens her. “If you lose hope,” she starts in a trembling voice, “I will not be able to get things done tomorrow. You must have hope!”

MaDuma leaves early the next morning, armed with all the documents she has been told are required for her purpose. She has the birth certificate of Zandi, her own and her husband's IDs, and the proof of her husband's unemployed status – the unemployment card. She arrives at the Welfare Department at about half past six. She is amazed to see so many people already waiting outside the building.

“Did you people sleep here or what?” MaDuma demands jokingly from the people. They range from old women to young girls of about twenty onwards. Many young girls have two children, one on their backs and the other walking on his or her own. Some who have mothers or grandmothers to look after their children have not brought them along. They have all come to register for the “money of the spinal cord”, as the grant is referred to.

When MaDuma asks her question, many simply laugh. But one woman, who is huge and shapeless, with a big, almost four-cornered stomach, takes offence. The woman is about sixty years old or more. She seems to have had a beautiful face as a young girl, but her good looks are disturbed by her legs, which get thinner towards her ankles, ending in quite large feet. She is eating a fat cake for breakfast. When she hears MaDuma's joke she tries to swallow everything that is inside her mouth, which is much, but in vain. Her food is not well chewed so it cannot pass through the pharynx. She is choking. Her eyes look as if they will come out of their sockets. It takes about a minute before the fat cake is finally released down its path, thus rendering the woman able to speak and breathe freely. By this time everybody has forgotten what MaDuma said when she arrived. But the fat woman hasn't.

“You,” the fat woman points at MaDuma. Her arm seems quite small on her huge body. “You have nearly killed me!”

Everybody is astonished by what the fat woman is saying. MaDuma has just arrived so how could she have tried to kill her? Is this some family feud or matter of their neighbourhood?

MaDuma is even more perplexed. This may be a case of mistaken identity. “I beg yours?” she asks. “I don't even know you.”

“Don't say you beg mine,” the old woman says angrily. “You almost killed me with your uncircumcised tongue.”

“I still don't follow you. Speak Zulu, old lady!”

The fat lady starts angrily, “When you came here, you insulted us, thus causing my fat cake to choke me.” She is trembling with rage now.

“Ohho! I thought you were talking. Somebody show Magogo where the toilet is. She needs to fart.
Uphisiwe
,” MaDuma laughs and turns her head away from the fat woman, who tries to get up and charge towards MaDuma, but her health fails her.

“I wish you do not succeed in what you came here for. I wish those fine young men shout the hell out of you,” she curses.

The clerks who work at the Welfare Department arrive at around half past seven, but the place only opens at eight. Before the opening, MaDuma and the others see through the windows how the clerks are answering phones and clearing some paperwork. At the same time, the cleaners are sweeping and mopping the floor. When this is done, which happens exactly at eight, the people are allowed in.

It takes about an hour before MaDuma is close enough to the table to hear clearly what is said.

“Whose children are these?”

“They are mine,” answers a young lady.

“Do they have one father?”

“No. They have different fathers.”

“Where is the father of this one?” the clerk asks, pointing a finger at the boy of about four years.

“He stays at his home.”

“Is he working?”

“No.”

“Did he lose a job?”

“No. He has never worked.”

“This one?” The clerk looks at the birth certificate in front of him and the child on the back of the young lady. “Where is her father?”

“I don't know.”

“Not working again and probably never worked before,” the clerk smiles and continues, “Did he ever work?”

The young lady is angry at the clerk's attitude. She tries to control herself for the sake of what she has come for. “When I fell in love with him, he had a spaza shop and earned a fortune from the dagga he sold.”

Many people look at the young woman in astonishment.

It is another thirty minutes before MaDuma arrives at the table. She is frightened but tries to control herself. “I have come to register my daughter for the grant.”

“Where are you from, Mother?” the clerk shows a strange politeness towards MaDuma.

“I stay at Ndlalidlindoda but I'm not IFP. I voted for the ANC. It's bad nobody saw me.”

The young clerk laughs, “You didn't have to tell me that. It makes no difference at all.”

“Oh! How can we know? But that is good,” MaDuma smiles. The fear she has felt diminishes as she hears the clerk's words. The clerk starts to write and MaDuma interrupts him, “Now tell me, my brother, why does the government not increase this money to at least R300? R100 cannot support a big family of four people.”

“This is not for the whole family. It's for your daughter of four years.”

“Do you mean,” MaDuma is aghast, “do you mean this has to be used for her only? This is crazy. Don't they know we are all hungry? It's not our fault we got older than seven!”

As MaDuma is in town dealing with the Welfare Department, Priest decides to attend the meeting that was announced yesterday, being described as urgent and calling on all the unemployed men and women to attend. Priest leaves his home at quarter to ten, yet the meeting is said to start at nine. He knows that these meetings do not start on time. As he trudges along the street to the courthouse where the meeting is to be held, Priest meditates on his wife's journey. He wishes his wife will be successful. He imagines her waiting in those long queues and feels a tinge of fear. He knows the attitude of those clerks very well. They are rude and unhelpful sometimes. He cannot forget how difficult it was for him to get his ID. He went there four times before he was able to get things sorted out.

Priest arrives at the meeting place at five past ten. There are many people waiting for the meeting to begin. Priest joins those who are seated on the grass. He greets them and allows them to continue with their conversation.

“Our leaders are only concerned about their own well-being.” This is a tall man with greying hair. He has been unemployed for eight years now, having lost his job at Narrow-Tex. “They only remember us when it's time for the elections, as it is now,” the man with grey hair continues. Priest decides that the man looks older than he actually is.

“Yes, that is what they want from us. Our votes,” a young man of about twenty-seven agrees. He is short and dark, with large teeth. He is unable to pronounce some sounds properly, making it a daunting task to listen to him. Priest has heard that the young man could not take his schooling further than Grade Three due to his weak state of mind. He has heard that this young man does not have a fully developed mind because he once ate an
ingobe
– the part of the third stomach of a cow or goat, which the Hadebe clan is prohibited from eating.

“Who is it that actually called this meeting?” Priest asks, to end the silence that has ensued after the weak-minded man has spoken.

“We don't know for sure, but rumour has it that it's the chairman of the Catch-the-Wall Council himself. The one we always hear on
the radio talking about how much better they have made our lives,” the tall Ndlovu answers. “And they have indeed bettered our lives,” he continues, after a pause. “We no longer have to wake up every morning and go to work.”

“But we are hungry,” another man starts. “In no time we will eat each other like cannibals.”

At exactly twenty-five past ten, a Datsun 1400 van arrives at the courthouse. The people look at the car and realise that their host has finally made it. But the car they see discourages them. They were expecting to see a very expensive one.

“We came here for nothing. This man is as poor as we are!”

“Look at him!”

From the Datsun comes a slim, light-complexioned young man of about thirty. As he walks towards the hall where the meeting is to be held, the people continue to speak.

“Look at him. He is thin.”

“Too thin for anyone who brings good news.”

“He should wear a size twenty-six.”

“His car. Even those who were foremen at Blood River Textiles bought better cars than this when they were retrenched. Not this!”

“This is not the man we are waiting for. This one came to attend the meeting like us. He needs a job.”

As the people voice their lack of confidence in the man who has just arrived, he calls them in because the meeting is about to begin.

“Oh my God,” the grey-haired man complains, “another day wasted. It is truly this thin, poor man who has called us.”

“Yes. It's him. There are so many things I could have done at home rather than to come for this,” the boy with large teeth adds.

The host of the meeting introduces himself as an employee of the Department of Agriculture, something that alienates him from his audience even more. The people are outraged.

“Why did I come here in the first place?”

“Does this man think we are Afrikaners or what?”

“He is lost. He wanted to go to Mbhavuma's farm.”

As the noise continues, the agriculturalist hears and waits for the speakers to finish. When the noise has subsided, he begins, “I may not be rich and big, and I surely do not drive a fancy car. But I think you should listen to what I have to say, now that you are here.” He pauses and listens to the quietness that has started.

“The department wants to help people who would like to do farming but do not have the means. We want people to form an organisation and decide on what kind of farming they want to do.” The people are listening but become more attentive when they hear the next sentence: “The government will offer funds to start work.”

The mention of funds attracts a lot of attention from the people. Many do not like to farm, but it is better than nothing. Here and now it begins to seem like the best option.

The host briefs the people on what they can achieve if they take up farming as a career. “There is a great demand for farm produce in this country. If you take this opportunity, we will ensure that you get access to the market and sell your produce profitably. The government is willing to buy you the land that used to be a game reserve from Place of Power to Upper Gxumani.” The agriculturalist realises he has won the hearts of many people.

“I have always liked being a farmer.”

“Me too. Farming is my great passion.”

“When I was a boy,” the grey-haired man starts at length, “my father gave me a cow, which multiplied rapidly. Cows like me very much. It's my late father who brought this smart young man here.”

“He is wise indeed. That is why he has no expensive car. He hates beautiful cars, just like me.”

“When you've gotten used to him, he is not too thin. He is just medium.”

“I think he is on a diet. He is maintaining.”

Priest listens and laughs as these people suddenly change their views.