Free Hunger Eats a Man by Nkosinathi Sithole Page A

room with Lucifer is no easy matter. Sandile seems to be blind to his father’s anger. Or doesn’t he care?
    “No, Father. I haven’t turned to the dark side. As for the books I read, the Bible is still the first among them.” He pauses again, lest he begins to laugh. He then continues, “I am pleased to tell you that I enjoy its poeticality. Whoever wrote it is a genius. They had great knowledge of literature at its best.”
    “Oh God, what have I done?”
    “But why do you lament like that, Father? Don’t you know that the character who is Jacob in the Bible fought with the other who is God and won?” Another laugh disturbs him. “Well, he did not actually win. It was some kind of a draw,” Sandile says, and watches in wonder the transformation in his father.
    Priest’s face looks as if he is going to explode. “You know what?” he says, when his breathing has slowed. “Let’s stop this conversation because you certainly are someone I do not know.” His voice is full of sadness as he stands up, getting ready to leave. “If you want to go to Gehena you are free to do so, but please don’t take me with you. I do my best to be able to get to heaven when my time is over. So, as theysay, ‘Stay away from me, Lucifer!’” He rushes out of the living room. Mentioning Satan’s name makes Priest believe that he may indeed be with them.
    Sandile laughs when his father has disappeared down the passage. I wonder why people like Father claim the Bible is God’s Word but when you mention some verses they act as if you have become a follower of Satan, he thinks.
    After a while Sandile leaves the living room. He goes to his bedroom, but this is no time for him to sleep. Instead, he decides to read his poetry. Reading his own work completes him somehow. He may not be published, but that doesn’t matter. He will always write, because for him the act of writing and reading what he has written is therapeutic. He often wonders how people who do not write fiction manage to deal with the complexities of life and their suffering.
Although today I’m like this;
    Clad but in tattered sacks
    My butt’s laughing behind my back
    Torches telling everyone I’m a hobo.
    Don’t look down upon me.
    I was not born like this.
    Although now I am like this
    Have no education, no civilisation
    The languages of power
    I do not speak.
    Do not laugh at me.
    I too am of blood.
    The fact that he is the one who wrote what he is reading makes it even more of a diverting read. Even hunger shies away if he is reading his work. Perhaps one day he will be published, but for now his writings are for his own amusement and healing.
    It is ten minutes to eleven when he finally retreats to his bed. The worries of the day are now out of his system. He can have a nice, peaceful sleep. But before he falls asleep, his father’s knock disturbs him. “Sandile! Wake up! Open the door.”
    Sandile can tell by the sound of his voice that his father has been in a deep sleep. Whatever has woken him up? An unpleasant dream perhaps? But his father has never come to him for comfort before. He hurries and opens the door for his father, whose eyes are reddened by sleep.
    “Tell me about the blood,” Priest says, still groping to find Sandile’s bed. The words come as a great surprise to the boy.
    “Father, are you sure you have woken up?”
    “Yes, Sandile,” Priest answers. “I’m here in your room. Just tell me about the blood you said is going to be spilled in the area.” Priest is now seated on his son’s single bed.
    “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Father …”
    “Just tell me!” Priest snaps, and Sandile realises that this man who is half asleep means business.
    “I don’t know where to start,” he begins, and then stops again, his mouth showing that he is trying. “Is it okay if I start by asking about the woman of Hlanzeni? Have you heard anything about her?”
    “No,” Priest says proudly, “I know nothing about her and I want