Solomon's Prayer

When the Boer ate my dinner that evening I watched in sullen silence. I had learnt to suffer my hunger with a certain acquiescence. The fact that he ate my food was a part of my daily existence and there was no remedy apart from challenging him and I knew I couldn’t. The boy who sat on the Boer’s left was a constant reminder of the likely outcome. His meal was now shared between the Boer and the boy on the other side of him. He had never recovered from the fight; his speech was still slurred and he seldom spoke; he was older than I was and bigger than the Boer. But I was angry whereas before I had been scared. It was more than anger; there was some part of me emerging of which I had previously no awareness. I was no longer prepared to accept that the Boer ate my food.

The next morning at breakfast I stared at the Boer’s hand; I couldn’t take my eyes of the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, which protruded where he gripped his knife. My hunger consumed me with rage. I felt my body trembling and a force growing within me. I knew I was going to do something. It was as if some other boy who had entered my body was watching, planning, waiting and examining the Boer’s every movement minutely. At lunchtime it was the same. I stared at the Boer’s hand. I never took my eyes off the same spot, the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

That evening I watched the Boer as he picked up my plate and shovelled my food on to his and then took half the other boy’s food and settled down to eat two and a half school dinners. I loathed the Boer. It was a total hatred. I watched his podgy fingers gripping his knife and fork and stared at the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was as if some cycle of rage within me had reached a crescendo. My body was starting to tremble again; I could feel my legs and arms shaking, my face was twitching and my eyes constantly blinking in some sort of spasm. I was in a cold sweat, trembling despite the fact we were sitting on the balcony on a warm, Rhodesian evening. My left hand tentatively moved towards my fork and my fingers caressed it, as if discovering for the first time the shape of a fork, the feel of the metal; gradually my right hand joined my left hand. I was holding the fork with two hands and staring at it intently. The trembling became worse; all my limbs were shaking. Then there was whiteness; it was as if the basic textures of colours had changed and I saw the world as an over exposed photograph, my legs propelled me from my chair, the fork was clutched in both hands, my arms went over my head and I stared at the flesh between the Boer’s thumb and forefinger. I propelled the fork downwards with all my body weight; I seemed to have gained inhuman strength.  I plunged my fork into the Boer’s right hand between his thumb and forefinger. I felt the end of the fork tear into the Boer’s flesh.

Then there was a feeling of triumph and exultation. I felt like a wild animal that has made its first kill. I stared at the Boer’s face, relishing the pain and shock in his eyes. He was staring at the fork sticking out of his hand and at the blood gushing from the wound. The women were trying to pull me away from the table; they both had their arms round me, but I was fighting, kicking and punching them. I wanted to get back to the table; I wanted the ultimate prize; I had tasted my own and I knew it was delicious: I wanted to lick the blood from the Boer’s hand.