The inspiration for writing The Boy in the Barrel did not arrive as a single moment of clarity, but rather as a quiet persistence: a story that refused to leave me.
My father, uncles and aunts had constantly told me jaw-dropping stories about their father — my grandfather, whom I knew as a child until he died when I was six years old. With all the family stories, there was something unsettling and unresolved, as though a voice had been silenced too soon and was still waiting to be heard. Over time, that feeling deepened into a sense of responsibility. I wasn’t just drawn to the story — I felt compelled to follow it, to understand it, and ultimately, to tell it.
What went into the writing was far more than research or craft. It became an emotional excavation. I found myself immersed not only in historical detail — the textures of Cape Town in 1899, the looming shadow of the Anglo-Boer War — but also in the inner life of a child: the confusion, the fear, the fragile hope. Trying to inhabit the perspective of an eight-year-old boy, alone in a foreign land and believing he had been discarded, required a kind of imaginative empathy that was both demanding and, at times, overwhelming.
What surprised me most was how the story began to mirror elements of my own life. The fact that my grandfather always did magic tricks and entertained people reminded me that I unintentionally followed the same path as I am a magician who understands the art of illusion. My other claim to fame is that I was a drummer in one of South Africa’s top bands in the 1980s when I joined Hotline with PJ Powers.
There were, of course, difficulties. Piecing together fragments of history is never straightforward. There were gaps that could not be definitively filled, moments where the record went silent, and imagination had to step in carefully, respectfully. Striking the balance between truth and storytelling — between what is known and what is felt — was one of the greatest challenges. There were also practical frustrations: chasing down elusive details, verifying conflicting accounts, and occasionally realising that a beautifully written passage had to be cut because it strayed too far from the emotional truth of the story.
I wasn’t just drawn to the story — I felt compelled to follow it, to understand it, and ultimately, to tell it.
And yet, amid the gravity of the subject, there were unexpected moments of lightness. At times, the characters — particularly in their small, human details — would surprise me. A gesture, a turn of phrase, even a scene that unfolded with an almost stubborn insistence on humour reminded me that even in the darkest circumstances, life retains its unpredictability. There were moments when I would step back from the work and find myself smiling, even laughing or crying, at something I hadn’t planned but somehow felt entirely true.
Ultimately, writing this book was not just an act of storytelling — it was an act of witness. It was about giving shape to something that had lingered for too long in silence and about honouring my grandfather’s life that might otherwise have been forgotten.
If the story resonates, if it lingers with others as it has with me, then perhaps it has found its way home.
• The Boy in the Barrel by Eric Lieberman is published by Batya Bricker Book Projects.
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