Hungry Even in Death - By Asanda Hlongwane

Written By: Asanda Hlongwane

Category: Short story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the compelling short story "Hungry Even in Death," author Asanda Hlongwane delves into the complexities of human compassion and societal neglect. This work, featured in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, examines the harsh realities faced by the marginalized through the eyes of a community witnessing the struggles of a man named Andile. Hlongwane's narrative offers a raw and intimate portrayal of life on the fringes, encouraging readers to reflect on the themes of poverty and empathy.

About the Work

"Hungry Even in Death" is a stark narrative that captures the harshness of societal indifference. Through vivid imagery and a poignant tone, Asanda Hlongwane paints a grim picture of neglect and desperation. The story's mood oscillates between apathy and fleeting compassion, challenging readers to confront uncomfortable truths about humanity's response to poverty and addiction. It's a powerful commentary on how easily the marginalized can be overlooked, even in death.

Hungry Even in Death

Original Submission by Asanda Hlongwane

Hungry even in death by Asanda Hlongwane

I'm interrupted from my cooking by the familiar sound of a jangling chain. I wipe my hands on the damp dish towel and grab my phone out of my dress pocket to check the time. 12:08, it reads. Right on time.

The current bane of my existence stands at the gate with one hand and the other shielding his eyes from the hot glare of the sun. He's very thin, almost sickly thin. His dull tattered clothes hang off his shoulders and engulf his slight frame. He's also very sweaty and very dirty, and his hair looks like it hasn't felt the gentle tug of a comb in years. It's almost shameful how thoroughly this young man disgusts me.

A part of me wants to just ignore him until he eventually leaves, but I can't bring myself to do it– not today. It'd be of no use ignoring him, anyway. He's a very persistent man. Hunger will do that to a man. In dire times desperation trumps dignity. With a sigh I step away from the window I was peeking through, and got to face him. Let's get this over with.

"Saw'bona Andile," I greet, my hand gripping the kitchen security gate. I wonder if he can read the irritation in my voice. I wonder if he cares.

"Yebo saw'bona, ma! I was wondering if you had anything you could give me. Anything at all. An egg, a tomato, bread…anything will do. Please, I'm so hungry. I haven't eaten in days."

There's nothing I can do to hold back the annoyance that rises in me. He irks me, this boy, he really does.

"Andile you know I can't. I've told you over and over again that I can't give you food. I don't live here, I just work here. Come back around when the owners of the house are back."

"I- I know ma, but please. I'm begging you. Anything, anything at all." His voice cracks on that last word. He sounds like he's going to cry.

"No."

His head drops in defeat and I feel triumphant. My shoulders sag with relief at the thought that he'll finally leave me alone and I can get back to work.

"Well, uh, could you at least fill this up for me?" He pulls out an old, dirty 5l Oros bottle. Shit. "Please?"

It takes all I have in me to not groan out loud. I don't have time for this, I really don't. I have my pots to get back to, and ironing to get started on. I have half a mind to deny him, but then I ask myself why. Water is a basic human right. Who am I to deny him what even stray dogs have access to?

I step out of the kitchen and march down the gravel path leading to the gate. He looks even worse up close. I can see every scab and crack on his chapped lips, and can count the beads of sweat that cover his face. When I take the bottle from him I do my best to not touch his grubby hands.

The sun is just beginning to set when I see Andile again. My boss and her children are pulling into the garage and he's lingering just outside the gate, probably hoping to get some money from them. The children don't even look at him as they hop out of the car, just run straight into the house, throwing careless greetings as they pass me in the kitchen. My boss, a tall and elegant woman with fair skin, walks down to the gate to talk to Andile. He begs her for money. My boss, Mrs. Dlamini, tells him she's got nothing to give him, tells him to come back on Sunday because she's got some yard work that needs getting done. She'll give him money then. I watch the whole interaction from the safety of the kitchen door. Andile is not deterred. He carries on pleading until eventually my boss gives him a few coins from her purse. I wonder what a few coins could possibly get him, then I remember that these people's drugs are dirt cheap.

Mrs. Dlamini walks into the kitchen with exhaustion written all over her face. She greets me with an empty smile and moves past me, heading straight to the fridge to get out her bottle of water.

"That man can be such a nuisance sometimes," she sighs.

"Honestly," I say, nodding in agreement. "He came here today, at around twelve, asking me for food. I told him that I only work here, I can't just give him your food. He wasn't hearing it. He wouldn't leave until I poured him some water."

"Oh shame, poor thing. You must give him the leftovers from the fridge. It's not like anyone's eating them anyway, they're just taking up space." She lets out a sheepish giggle. "I feel bad, you know? We throw out half our leftovers because they've gone off, but there are people starving on the streets. It's shameful. And the poor guy," she shakes her head. "He wasn't always like this, you know? You should’ve seen him back when we were in high school, you'd never recognise him. He was smart and clean. He was the kind of boy that was supposed to become someone, you know? But then his mother died and…well. He never really recovered from the loss."

"That's terrible. Poor boy." My heart aches at the news. To lose a parent so young is a terrible, terrible thing. I would know.

"It is, it really is. But that's life, you know? It has this terrible persistent nature, and if you don't go on with it you get swept up in the current and drown. Poor Andile is still drowning."

"Yho."

I say a little prayer for him when I go to bed. It's the only thing I can do for him. Leave it to God.

…

"Ma–"

"Andile no."

"Please–"

"I already gave you food this morning! What more could I possibly give you? What more could you possibly want?"

"Anything, ma. Anything."

I don't answer him, just slam the door shut. I hate greedy, ungrateful people. You give them your pinky and they take your whole hand.

I shake off my annoyance and get back to work. Some of us have to work for our money. Unlike some people.

…

I'm just about to settle down to watch TV when I hear a commotion outside. Samkelo, Mrs. Dlamini's daughter, pauses her show, and turns to me with a questioning look. I shrug. Just as she presses play the commotion starts up again. It's louder this time, and it sounds a lot like…laughter? What?

"What is that?" Samkelo asks me.

"I don't know."

Samkelo walks up to the window and peers outside. After a moment she decides to unlock the front door and step onto the veranda. Curiosity gets the best of me and I follow her out. It doesn't take long to figure out where the noise is coming from.

The neighbours line the street, pointing and laughing as Andile fist fights air. Samkelo is in stitches next to me but I'm too shocked to laugh. Samkelo calls on the rest of her family to come see, and soon the whole veranda is full. The oldest boy, Bongani, guffawes loudly and takes his phone out to record Andile. The rest of the family is laughing along with neighbours, practically in tears. I'm still frozen in shock. How can anyone laugh at such a spectacle?

"This," Mrs. Dlamini laughs. "This is what happens when you do drugs, kids."

"Shame," Samkelo says. "Maybe he's just sick in the head—youknow, like mentally ill?"

Bongani scoffs. "This isn't a mental illness, idiot. This is nyaope."

As I watch Andile restless with thin air and lose, I feel I'm inclined to agree.

…

His death comes as no surprise to anyone. I think secretly we'd all been holding our breaths, just waiting for the day the news came. I hear he stole something, that's why they killed him. That's why they smashed his kneecaps with a cricket bat. That's why they tied him up like a dog and beat him until his pleas for mercy turned into begging for death, throat coughing up blood all the while. For men like Andile aren't death and mercy one in the same? Apparently theft in this neighbourhood comes with a death sentence. We must be in Biblical times.

Now he's lying on the street with broken limbs and blood pouring out from every orifice of broken skin. No ambulance or police van has arrived yet, so no-one's covered him up yet. The neighbours line the street, shaking their bowed heads and lamenting. Poor boy, they cry. Poor, poor boy! I stand beside them, shaking my head and lamenting with them. No-one will go near him, though. No-one will cover up this terrible sight.

I figure I might as well be the one to do it. I run back into the Dlamini yard, passing through the garage to the back yard where my little outhouse stood solitary on the faded grass. I rush in, tearing through my bags until I find it. A thin, browning, white sheet. I hold it close to my chest as I walk back to the murder scene. I can feel the neighbours' eyes on me as I approach Andile's lifeless body. I unfold the sheet with quivering hands. He looks even worse up close, younger too. His cracked mouth wide and gaping. Hungry even in death.

I cover him with the sheet.

Somewhere behind me an old woman is crying and praying. I don't know why, but it irks me. What's praying going to do when the situation is so dire, when the damage is already done and there's nothing left but rubble and blood and broken bodies? When there's nothing left to save.

Author's note

If anyone ever asked me about the kinds of people that live in my neighbourhood, I would tell them about the family across the street from me. Good, kind, church-going people who caught a homeless man trying to steal from them (he'd hopped over from the house next-door and held the matriarch at knife point, demanding she give him the car keys). I would tell them how the men in the house detained him and called all the neighbours to their house. I would tell them about how they beat him and smashed in his kneecaps before they called the police. I would tell them about how the thief cried out in the ambulance, begging for death. I would tell them how the neighbours laughed at him.

In memory of Mhlo Phungula, the homeless man who inspired this story.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious event celebrating diverse voices in literature. It showcases original works in poetry, short stories, and creative writing, encouraging participants to explore and express their unique perspectives. This platform serves as a beacon for emerging and established writers, fostering a global community of literary talent.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Asanda Hlongwane for sharing "Hungry Even in Death" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This profound short story invites reflection on vital social issues, leaving a lasting impression on its readers. We appreciate Asanda's contribution to the competition and look forward to more impactful narratives in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.