A Letter To My Wife:
African Short Stories.
Simosami Ndlovu
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, incidents, and events are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Disclaimer:
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the author except for quotation purposes be it reviews, scholarly referencing or otherwise.
Copyright ©2023 Simosami Ndlovu
Book design by Marbellous Designers
ISBN number EH0886352578
Contents......................................................Page
Contents……………........…………...3
Introduction..................................4
Footprints in The Sand.............................07
Will you marry me, Jack Mabaso?........11
Paying for the Sins of their Fathers......32
The Broken Arrow.....................................45
Marrying Zinhle..........................................54
Betrayal.........................................................69
Man of the House.......................................79
A Letter to my Wife...................................111
The Ex-Convict...........................................140
To Think I Had the Bird in the Bag!......166
Ntobeko………......…....168
Fatal encounter...........................................200
Mostly penned from the personal experiences of the author, directly or indirectly, A Letter To My Wife isn't just another short story collection but deliberate research on and observation of various behaviours of social institutions and individuals.
It is a book for the scholar, the learner, for one who wants to pass the time, for the preacher and for everyone from all walks of life.
It is the author's sincere hope that this book not only entertains but also helps readers widen their scope of understanding the basic principles of life that are vital in the maintenance of morality and an empathic approach to every day to day circumstances. The author also firmly believes this will be of paramount help to those who seek to grow intellectually and spiritually.
Through stories like A Letter to My Wife; Thicker than Blood; Man of the House; and The Ex-Convict; the author seeks to bring hope and sanity to the said to be defunct marriage institution with the hope the reader can get to understand the fundamentals of love, successful relationships which ultimately definitely lead to a successful marriage. It is a book meant for young men and women who are about to enter the thresholds of love. It is for the husband and wife who are finding it hard to endure the pains and pleasures of marriage and it is also for those who celebrate the beauty of marriage and family.
Paying For the Sins of Their Fathers will be deemed as controversial by some, unChristian by others and read by many. Before going to the press, the author was given the option to leave the story out however, it was and always will be the author's wish that this story reaches all, readers be allowed to exercise their right to draw their conclusions, however, the reader is greatly enticed to bring his attention to the voice of the Chronicler on the preceding pages of the story to fully understand and follow the true meaning of the narrative.
Some of the stories, of course, are meant to tease although the author can safely say they all carry strong moral lessons.
Last but most importantly, the author takes the time to express his heartfelt gratitude to the reader for choosing to read A Letter To My Wife which happens to be the author's maiden publication.
Your feedback to the author will be greatly appreciated. The author's contact details are availed below.
simosamisithole@gmail.com
+27 78 825 7357
Footprints in the Sand.
The sea; beautiful and calm, rose gently to caress the beach, whispering soft-sweet nonsense only lovers who'd heard the same whispers from the wind while walking slowly hand in hand bathed under the moonlight on a warm night would vehemently defend before it rolled back into the heaving swells with an audible watery sigh. Content, beautiful and gentle as a mother's love. One would have sworn vehemently it had not lent a hand to the travails that'd beleaguered the man who was now inert on the water's edge with parched and broken lips; a result of exactly one hundred and forty-two long, cold and miserable minutes swimming mechanically in seawater without a sense of where he was heading until with infinite relief, his feet struck the bottom.
It was a short victory for the man's calamities took a new twist: thirst! He couldn't remember the rest. He believed he had fallen asleep afterwards with exhaustion after the past days of fighting to stay afloat and of course, alive. His need for water drove him senseless until his vision became distorted with lights that danced sharply in kaleidoscopic patterns to explode violently into a darkness so thick he could reach his white, bloodless fingers and scoop handfuls of it into a cup.
He'd then blissfully lose consciousness until another wave would reach higher, breaking past the preceding one, its salty fingers jerking him back to life. He'd awaken with a start, croaking a name that did not make any sense to him (for he'd long lost a great part of his voice and most of his memory. He knew he was supposed to have a name but he couldn't remember who he was or where he came from. The loss of memory didn't trouble him, the cataclysm at hand dwarfing that of his lack of recollection.
Death was coming swiftly. He could smell it…almost touch it and he was ready to embrace it. But suddenly his vision cleared with a clarity so strong he'd swear he'd been touched by a witch's magic wand. Then a new feeling overwhelmed him. He would live, yes he would live!
Water, where was water? He sobbed! Pushing drunkenly on both his elbows, he trembled himself upright until his eyes could take both stretches of the endless masses of the beach's sand that went far to both his right and left, then disappear around some bend, then reappear until it met the hazy, distant horizon which was as far as his dilapidated vision would allow him. It was then he spotted the footprints on the sand.
Water, screamed his mind!
The footprints. Footprints meant people and people were sure to have water. He heaved himself up and for the first time felt the sharp, stabbing pain on his left ribs, turning to inspect this new source of trouble he saw with a sinking feeling the blood that had seeped into the greedy sand, forming a frothy and grainy puddle. He felt himself swept into a deep abyss of despair as he saw the broad blade of a crudely homemade knife, with its shaft broken sticking from his ribs. The knife was immersed deeply into his side. He had been stabbed and probably left for dead. Whoever had plunged that evil-looking blade had meant to puncture his lungs or maybe his heart. He felt immense relief whoever had done him had been too hasty to beat a retreat before making sure he was a really dead man.
But why? He stupidly asked, staring at the indifferent heaving masses of sea water as if honestly expecting for a revelation from its swells. Whoever had left these footprints, had tried to kill him or least known something about what had tried to kill him! Of course, waves had erased the telltales of activity around where he lay. But casting his eyes at where the footprints began, he could only make out one set, deep in the sand and barefooted. Someone large and heavy. A man? He had no doubt they belonged to whoever had tried to kill him. He slumped back onto the sand, momentarily defeated yet determined to gather once more some strength and go after the footprints, to seek water...water and answers.
Will you marry me, Jack Mabaso?.
If the girl who stood against the bar negligently toying with an untouched glass of Coca-Cola she was obviously not interested in drinking at the expensively furnished Vintage d’Leroy Sports Club had any inclinations of getting the anticipated signal to the man who had a large withered cloak draped negligently across his shoulders then she had to make the move for the man acting like a complete idiot and drinking merrily from a frothy, tall beer glass sent her the signal that he was ready. She sent the message. She let out a high-pitched girly shriek that was simultaneously accompanied by the sound of glass shattering on the hard floor.
Still maintaining engrossment in the game of chess with the swarthy-looking fellow with a long, squat set nose and black masses of curled hair that went cascading over his shoulders, he let out a string of curses that would have made an American's swearing sound like a child's ranting at the clumsiness of young women in African societies.
The swarthy-looking geek ignored the curses and suddenly seemed to have brought down a winning move or something akin to that for he suddenly let out an unmanly shriek of his own that amused the girl as she bent to pick the glass shards, pleasure written all over his face and stood up to triumphantly dance about a bit. The other eyed him unenthusiastically with a coy smile spreading across his finely chiselled face. When the swarthy man was done with his rather dramatic celebrations, he sat down to the game, gleefully flipping his great coattails from under him with such comic relish in preparation to deliver the winning blow. He reached out for a piece, then with a look of disbelief etched on his face, he slowly let go. He looked at his opponent and looked at the board again and back at his opponent, growing disbelief cast on his face. The cheat was obvious.
With a cry of anger laced with disbelief, he grabbed the small table between them and sent it flying into the other’s face. The other calmly stepped up and delivered a chopping blow on the table, the force splitting the board in half. Both men sprang out from their chairs. They circled each other warily. The swarthy-faced guy raised one boot and calmly extracted a knife tucked into his left boot. The knife suddenly went into a frenzy of twists and turns with so much speed that would have hypnotized his opponent had he kept his eyes on it. The man who stood before Curly Hair with a smile as calm as death itself never smirked a brow. His eyes rested easily on his opponent's.
This was Jack Mabaso, Captain in the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police Department (JMPD). Easily standing with legs slightly apart, he never let his eyes off those of his opponent. He had not earned the black belt in Kyokushin by succumbing to hypnotic knife games in the hands of amateurs. He had earned it through hours of shedding blood, sweat and a split shin bone.
An hour later, he dabbed at his eyebrow in the car where the knife-welding fellow had taken a swipe at his face and honoured him with a small cut that was nothing much but was smarting a little. He pulled out his phone and dialed a contact saved as ‘Mbali’ which is Zulu for flower, in his phone. The call was answered on the third ring as usual. He smiled to himself at his girlfriend’s habit, something she had gleaned from one of her chain of 'prominent motivational speakers.'
“Hey, s’thandwa! I’m on the way”, he said.
He couldn’t understand her obsession with motivational speakers. On those rare days when she was a few inches high from the wine she took ‘to rejuvenate my blood and keep it healthy’ after a quote from some prolific dietitian and nutritionist from Canada who did this study on the benefits of taking a pinch of the red wine once in a while, she would crawl up to him and quench his protests on the never-ending stream of people who set the pace and drove every inch of her life. She would whisper that he need not be piqued as he was the most special, handsomest and wisest man she’d ever met. He had been one to intensely abhor being patronized but he would of course have to admit that the words coming from her mouth did mean something to carry home proudly and he somewhat wholly believed her. Why not? Was he not Squad Captain in the police force of Johannesburg? Was he not a ‘force to reckon with’ as fellow policemen would whisper when they thought he was not listening? He was and he was not disillusioned to believe that.
“Hey hey handsome, was about to call you! Make sure to get here early!" Cooed the voice on the other end lovingly.
"Well, they'll never nominate me for coming home early, but I always do", he teased.
"I know s’thandwa sami, just that today is kind of special. I have some amazing news to tell you and I can hardly wait!” she bubbled excitedly.
"News huh?" Now there's a good reason for a man to be home early to his woman…amazing news!" He mused.
News, hau! She always had news but this time he couldn't help but notice the huskiness in her voice. He couldn't point a finger exactly, but he could swear something larger than Tshaka, son of Senzangakhona, king of the ancient Zulu people, was brewing.
“Well, I am almost home”, he chipped in.
“Oh really, does that mean you are driving and calling again?” she accused.
“Err...well, you may say I am talking while driving, yes. It is not like I am holding the phone to my ear with my other hand and gesticulating with the other. I actually have both my hands on the wheel…” he protested defensively.
“You know I don’t like it when you do!”, she said. Cluck-cluck Mother hen, he thought.
Aloud, “You were going to be upset if I did not take your call too!” There was a worrisome, short laugh on the other end of the line.
“Well, it is not against South African laws to park by the roadside to make a call, is it?” she asked all giggles.
“Not so sure about the highway traffic laws on that, but I'll ask the next patrol car I'll meet along the highway”, he replied.
“Well get your sweet self over here and stop haggling with me like an old man,” she said, as an afterthought added, “This house always gives me a scare when I am alone”.
“Rest easy Mbali yami, your faithful Zulu warrior will be with you shortly to serve and protect you as always," he said.
She chuckled, then added,
"Well, see you soon, my faithful Zulu warrior...!" There was a pause, as if she was waiting for something and he knew what it was, but took pleasure in not saying it a little too promptly.
“Well…?'' she queried, drawing a chuckle from him.
“I love you, my Queen”, he said earnestly.
“I love you too, my King”, and she meant it, her voice heavily pregnant with love.
The house to the Mabaso residency rests on the hilly suburbs of Johannesburg's Eastgate just north of the Eastgate Mall, directly opposite the Taxi Rank. It is a beautiful yet archaic structure that consists of five bedrooms and a magnificent kitchen majestically sitting adjacent to the large lounge. Flora of all sorts is strewn strategically about the yard. Artemisia, a perennial plant grown more for its silvery flirt throwing beautiful and scentful white foliage and Anemone also known as the Windflower ranged the pool. Also gracing the immaculate walkways is the tuberous Cypress Vine which throws up poppy-like blooms in early-to-mid spring. The demarcating hedges which line the walkways and other various stone paved patches are largely of the dwarf-sized Box Wood, a versatile evergreen hedge plant which is a popular border plant for both formal and informal gardens. In other places, these are allowed to grow taller to create a dense green wall to block out undesirable snoopers where sits, deep and large, a giant swimming pool lined with beautiful blue and white striped resting bleachers under large fallible umbrellas that range the pool.
The furniture in the lounge is that of Victorian style, for the man from whom they bought the house was a full-blooded Englishman through and through and had maintained that through the furniture that spoke English loudly. Of course, he had spent a huge part of his lifetime basking in the African sun hunting lions and elephants and gallivanting all over the bushveld with that enthusiasm typical of the white man’s obsession with nature that baffles most native Africans. It wasn’t until a wounded buffalo had decided to waylay him and render to him a taste of his own medicine, leaving him with both legs fractured and four broken ribs that he was dragged by the wife and his sons back to England in the year 2017 in the fall of the summer to have his broken ribs put to order. Those present on the day would tell of his ferocious anger as he turned on one of the Park guides who raised his Enfield rifle to stop the animal. The guide had escaped with a mangled hand himself when the gallant old man had shot the gun out of his hand and the buffalo, satisfied with its mission of vengeance, had disappeared with triumphant bellows never to be identified again into the thick Kruger National Park bushes.
There had been hell to pay too afterwards, from the media. The old man was accused, by the media of course and subsequently by those who read grapevine news, the juicy news, of being racist. This in fact was true of the old geezer for he hated his fellow white man for what he felt they had done to Africa but not so true in the case of the shooting as those who accused the old man were neither aware nor cared to be, that he had shot another white man anyway. The old man had to be protected from the marauding gangs of grapevine journalists and racists who hated with a vengeance anything the white man did, good or bad. These took a knack in waylaying him at various areas he frequented as they all tried to get to the core of the story of what had transpired. His family of course soon took into account the peril the old man was in and decided it was time he bade farewell to the healing African sunlight and return to the land of his forefathers. There had been a deadly cold war, naturally. The old man had put up a formidable terror attack which included mundane strategies such as refusing to eat and talk to anyone which he couldn’t maintain for too long to outrageously daring war declarations and battle tactics that involved disowning them all, including their mother, he'd add pointedly. Sense would prevail at the end of course. He had begrudgingly agreed to move back to England after a petrol-powered missile exploded onto the portico, nearly setting the old man ablaze. The two sons had approached Jack, who was then nothing more than a rookie in the police department and offered him the house. Jack had always been considered family and the price had been fair enough for a novice in the police department. It had taken him a full three years to pay the house off. He was proud of this beautiful two-hundred-and-forty square feet house with its high ceilings and the gentle swaying chandeliers that were as majestic as the gardens. His favorite spot; was the floor-to-ceiling shelves that held books produced by the minds of the world’s finest literature creators ranging from the great works of H. Rider Haggard, Herman Malvile, Michael Crichton, even Christopher Columbus and his volumes of the great African expanses and novelist, Wilbur Smith who cared not much for the proper use of the local languages, a mistake he is affectionately pardoned for. A study table that must have once served in Winston Churchill's office back in the late 1880s stood against the far wall. A taxidermied large male feline with snarling fans that promised a terrible death and yellow fierce eyes focused on nothing in particular that made one shudder in their own skin was propped just an average standing man's height next to the table. On the table sat an old ink pot with an ancient Onoto fountain pen dipped permanently into it. These were treasures the old man had left, souvenirs of his prime, and Mabaso had kept them as they were, in honour of the old gentleman.
Miss Thandeka Solwethu Macebo, Thandi as she was affectionately called, popped open the blue box that contained a plain but handsome silver male engagement ring that lay submerged in some white fluffy quilt and fingered it reflectively. It was beautiful, she thought. He would like it, she knew with that certainty typical of women. They, Thandi and Mabaso, had been staying together for over five long years now and the only thing she wanted was to be his rightful wife. She had spoken to her trusted friend, Lebogang Mahoney-Dakalo and they had agreed that nothing ventured, nothing gained. There was no reason why they should not get wed. He loved her and she loved him. What was with the long wait? Tonight she was going to propose. Yes, she'd take matters into her own hands. Why wouldn't he say yes? He had not said no that time six years ago when she had made the first move to initiate their first kiss. He had never courted her, not directly. Forever hiding behind that he was more attracted to lady friends than males when she knew he did not have a single lady friend. She had been the one who had made the bed that was their relationship now. He had never had a problem with it. She saw no reason why he would have a problem with it today.
This was what they both wanted and she knew he was a little thoughtless...a little inconsiderate of those 'small things that mattered,' just like most men. She smiled a little. He was a handsome man, her king. He would be home soon and she cast a last glance around to ensure everything was as it was supposed to be. Satisfied, she made her way out of the bedroom to the kitchen where she was preparing his favourite dish; roasted fish lightly sprinkled with lemon juice, with warm chilli sauce, to go along with the palatable rice. For savoury, they’d have pumpkin and bacon stuffed portobellos with browned butter sage.
Mabaso backed the car into the garage and got out to lock the door. He wondered where she was today, it was habitual of her to meet him by the garage door leading to the kitchen when he had packed the car. He chuckled lightly, thinking she was probably still busy with her evening bath. He was home early today and she was one of those immaculate creatures who followed a particular daily routine, another idea probably gleaned from one of her great philosophers. She always had her bath at 6.30pm, and it was now just about her bath time and he knew that she was still tending to herself. He was one lucky son of a gun to have her. He pushed the kitchen door, his nostrils picking on the aromatic smells of her cooking.
"S’thandwa, I'm home!", he shouted, hanging the car keys from the key-holding rack just behind the kitchen door.
"In here!", she returned sweetly. ‘In here’ turned out to be their spacious bedroom with its massive and majestic queen-sized bed. A little puzzled at her today's unusual behaviour, he trod evenly through to the bedroom. He gasped aloud at the erotic spectacle before him. On the bed covered with a crispy new white sheet, carefully sprinkled with red roses, lay his beautiful girlfriend. She was dressed in a nightie that whispered too loudly of a pleasurable night to come. He stood there, dumb-struck. The laced black and white lingerie clung to her supple body in small folds like a second flimsy skin. Her slim but immaculate curves were pronounced delicately by the crossed legs. Her chest rose and fell with uncontained passion. He felt himself develop a sweat and had to loosen the collar of his shirt that had suddenly gone way too tight for his throat. She beckoned at him coyly with one finger and he found himself magnetically drawn towards her. His breath came in short constrained gasps. She giggled like a schoolgirl on a bet date with the popular school nerd at his clumsiness.
"You're so beautiful...", He gasped.
"Shhh, don't say a word", she said, taking his hand and drawing him to the bed.
They held close, devouring each other's eyes, looking deep into each other’s souls until they were lost deeply in those places only lovers could be. His lips trembled with raw lust as she slid her hand under his shirt and expertly drew lines with her fingers on his chest. He suddenly tore at her, ravenous beyond words.
"Easy now, tiger...easy now. I'm all yours, I'm here always for you to have all of me anytime you want", she gushed seductively.
"And this tiger wants you now", he rejoined huskily.
Mabaso drew her close desperately, seeking to quench the fires that sought to engulf him, body and soul. She slyly danced out of his reach and he realized she wasn't wearing any undies. He sighed dangerously and tried to grab her but she deftly spun out of reach and stood just an arm's length from him with her arms on those slim hips, taunting daring him as one of her hands tantalizingly moved to draw up one end of her frail fabric.
"Tell you what. Go and take your shower and all this will be all yours," said she slowly, pouting slyly.
"Blackmail!" he jested, lust written in his hooded eyes. He stood up and drew her against him, his hardness pressed provocatively against her pubic bone. She gasped but with that resolve typical of women, stilled herself from succumbing to his silent yet desperate demands. He let him kiss her, long and passionately. Pinching his chest, she whispered the promise of good things to come if he'd be a good boy and take his shower. She chuckled to herself as he planted one last kiss on her upturned lips and grumbled his way to the bathroom.
"Thandi!" He called from the bathroom.
"Yes love?", she answered, pausing by the door on her way to the kitchen.
"Will you be a darling and bring me the towel, please?"
"Sorry baba, it won't work!" I hung it by the rail there!". She laughed.
He laughed too and water was heard running as he whistled jovially. She smiled and went to the kitchen.
Re-entering the bedroom, she set on the bed a tray laden with silver dishes that contained strips of salmon grilled to a golden delicacy and scented rice. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon red wine distilled in the heart of South Africa lay on an incline in a wine bucket chilling in ice blocks. She danced her way to the window and pulled the shades closed. She lit the candles and placed them in a semi-circle around the bed on the floor. She had long removed the bright fluorescent light bulb and replaced it with a dim one that bathed the room with a pinkish hue.
Satisfied with her voluminous efforts, she quickly drenched herself in the costly sweet fumes, thanks to Jo Malone Velvet Rose & Oud Cologne Intense and had barely enough time to throw it under the bed and plunge herself onto the bed where she reclined seductively as Cleopatra upon hearing the footsteps of Caesar. Caesar it was. Her Ceaser, the love of her youth. The only man whose heart she would forever love to the moon and back.
He whistled with wonder and pleasure at the beauty sprawled seductively before his eyes. Wasn't he one lucky son of a gun! Not more than three men could stand together in a room and share everyday homecoming stories of such a rare show of romance in many houses. He wore only a pair of Woolworths boxer shorts and was topless. His almost wiry frame was handsomely sculptured with the everyday exercises he subjected himself to each and every morning. She felt herself lose control at the sight of him. She thought he was the most handsome thing that she could ever have dragged home for herself. And Christ, what a dragging she had to go through! They had their meals out of each other's hands, teasing and playing those little, silly games only lovers can justify. The wine was sweet and highly intoxicating, drank straight from the bottle. She went deeper into the bottle, a little too deep for her own recommendations. She needed the strength to carry out what she had set herself to do. With the hour getting ripe, she faltered. The bottle suffered a little lower to raise her courage a little higher. It was time.
"Babe, I uhm...have something for you", she began.
"Uh huh?"
She nervously pried loose the bottle from his fingers and took a generous draught from it then carefully set it on the floor. She shook her head to clear the haze caused by the wine.
"Mbali yami, you okay?", He asked.
Her inner turmoil was evident. She wrung her fingers and pulled on her nightie, unwittingly revealing a snatch of her pubic area. This made him harden instantly and he cursed himself for his lust. He looked away desperately fighting the urge to draw her close and take her.
He was puzzled, this was a beautiful night, surely no one would go to extremes of preparing a night as romantic as this just to bring bad tidings unless...unless they were guilty of something! Had she cheated? He felt himself warm up suddenly.
"What's wrong?", he asked breathlessly.
"What?" she asked, seemingly shocked at the look in his eyes. She darted a look at the blue ring tucked under the pillow and her will deserted her instantly. She couldn't do it. She wouldn't bear losing him because of being 'forward'. He was a traditional man, he had been raised to observe the traditions of his people. She was certain of that although he had never been one to care for 'silly outdated traditions' as he would strongly say. What she wasn’t aware of was tradition had never condoned any man staying with a lady without formalities observed. What she did not know was being together before tying the knot or at least lobola, the bride price negotiations being seen through had sorely been both their own choice. No one had chosen to reprimand them for their decision because the world had shifted, the world had travelled. It was their moral decision to be where they were, to stay together out of wedlock. She was a woman, just like every other male and female African child, who was caught between two worlds. Just like every African child tainted by the much loved but highly misunderstood ‘English’ life, she couldn't identify with either the African traditions or the English traditions. The world has a confusing way of moving on and living bread crumbs all over its trails for supposedly abandoned trends to follow and catch up now and then fueling confused ideologies. In an ideal new world, ideally speaking, she felt she should have been able to go ahead and ask the hand of the man she wanted to marry with neither fear nor prejudice. Yet here she was, stuck to a decision no amount of intoxication could help her through. Yet, here she was wringing her delicate fingers like a schoolgirl caught kissing before an accusing schoolmaster.
She suddenly hated Mabaso for making her go through this, for failing to be man enough to marry her. Wait, man enough? She found herself shocked to use the term: man enough. That sounded traditional too...it smacked highly of those manipulative speeches she'd had women use when they wanted to make a man kowtow to stupid old traditions meant to make man seed their needs. She was the kind of woman who believed that in a world of fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty was supposed to rule. What was the use of equal rights if she couldn't exercise her right to express love to a man she badly wanted as his husband? What good were equal rights when she would be judged harshly by the same people who advocated for feminism when they did not believe in the cause they vouched for every day? And here was his own man; here he was sitting there looking at her like she had gone crazy because he too, stood with the world against her. He too would judge and ridicule her for wanting to grab what she rightfully wanted and deserved. He was a man and he, only he had the right to propose to any woman he wanted and she would have to sit there and wait a million years until she grew into a pillar of salt waiting for him to wake up and propose to some other silly wench with a cheap face out there while she sat and played wife to him! How dare he?
She let out a sigh and stood up. She knew no amount of self-justification would make any difference. She was a woman and a prudent woman would wait for the man, the king of mankind to propose. To say when to get engaged, to say when to marry and she a woman, weak and helpless would wait. Tears welled up in her eyes but she defiantly threw back her head and forced them back. Big girls don't cry, they weep. She almost smiled as she remembered her mother's words. The first time she had heard her say those words she had asked why they weep. Her answer had set her thinking deeply. Her mom had spoken of the might of a woman, how her own realization of her power would make her weep for those who dared rouse her wrath. A darling she had been. She'd have known what to do in this situation. She heard him from a thousand miles away, his words floating like a witch’s magic. There was accusation there in those simple words from Jack. “What’s wrong?” Oh boy! What he actually meant was, “What have you done!” What had she done? she wondered to herself. She couldn't point a finger at the accusation but it was there, heavy and leaden with submerged anger, anger that given an outlet would erupt and engulf them both into irreparable damage. It was laced with manly authority, masculine and dangerous with a terrible, ignorant promise of things worse than the devil's own children to be unleashed did it find leverage. It dared her. It taunted her to admit even the slightest of disrespect and her allocation would be the terror only the hands of Mzilikazi the King of the Mighty Ndebele could unleash, that dense was the hovering promise it carried. What happened? Those two words made her suddenly see her man in the light of all men; huge ego, daring, brutal, welding unquestionably authority, not crossable. She could have gone on and on. And she, the woman, was supposed to tremble before this god-like being, the ruler of earth and woman, the voice of unquestionable reason and authority. The trendsetter! How silly men were! She suddenly softened but her eyes became as hard as granite. He would have jumped back and slammed into the wall behind him had he witnessed the anger, the unfathomable wrath in her eyes. She felt tears well up and she couldn't hold them any longer but with a will that’d have made a soldier green with envy she kept them in check. Wrath was not going to rule the day. She softened.
"Oh nothing happened", the old sparkle suddenly in her eyes, "I just wanted to tell you how much I love you, how much I want to be with you forever. How happy I will be when...", she faltered. She was going to tell him '...when you decide to make me your wife'.
Did he miss something? She had said she had something for him. He had heard her right. Something was not said but he couldn't put a finger on it. What had she been up to? His mind raced seeking answers but he couldn't find any. She was a bag full of puzzles today. He felt his heart go out to her as she sat there, wringing her hands. She looked so alone, so vulnerable and, oh my goodness, so beautiful. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. She was obviously troubled, that smile that would suddenly taint her lips and then suddenly disappear without reaching her eyes. He knew it so well. She was fighting a battle he had no idea how to join and help her through. He wished desperately, seeking a window that would let him into her struggles and join in her fight. To help her conquer. He believed he was ready and maybe thought he was, that he could do anything under the blue blazing African sky to do anything possible, to make her happy. He believed he was doing everything that would have made any woman happy. Had he not taken her under his roof? Was he not working so hard each and every day just to give her a good living? What else could he possibly give? He had made sure he gave her attention, all of his attention. He had never dreamt of himself with any other woman, he wanted only her today, tomorrow and 'till death does us part’. Maybe beyond that! He adored her deeply and it hurt him senseless to see her so torn and lost. He moved toward her.
"I love you, Thandi, you're my everything and I will always love you. I can't say how blessed I am to have you. Come here", he pulled her closet against his thudding heart.
In a bid to reach her, his left foot slid under the pillow, pushing against the small box that housed the engagement ring. Her body melted against his. Suddenly she broke into sobs that rocked through her violently. He held her close, puzzled deeply. What was wrong? What had he done? What had she done? He couldn't ask what was wrong now, how could he? So he held her and tried to console her, gently smoothing her hair and patting her back like a mother calming down a hysterical child who'd bumped his toe against a stone.
Mabaso was a man of gentle nature, one thing that had drawn Thandi to him. She would sit and listen to him talk about things, not caring if she answered. He was a dreamer and she would sit and allow him to rave on, something he rarely got from most women who thought men's world revolved around them. In his ravings, she'd seen a visionary, a man with a seething passion to do good for people, his community. Perhaps that was what had made him a great cop. He was passionate about whatever he laid his hands on, especially working, and serving his community. She had never before met a man so vulnerable yet so strong. A man so timid yet outspoken. She had immediately seen a lonely and fragile heart she wanted to nurture and protect from the world and its vileness. He sometimes jested that she did act like his mom more than...err…his woman. Sometimes he'd break down and cry after a long terrible day at work, because of the terrible and unforgiving streets of Johannesburg. Then she would hold him close and console him until he calmed down. There was never any awkwardness with them, she took care of his emotional well-being, and he pampered her with love and happiness. Yet this gentle soul was failing at one thing that would have made her the happiest woman who ever walked the face of Earth: marriage. She wanted all of him to herself, lock, stock and barrel with the court papers and a dazzling wedding to ice it! Her anger at her helplessness returned stronger than a harmattan wind in August, driving her forward with the might of a hurricane. She knew she would burst at the seams any moment. Her resolve was stretched to splitting. She pushed against him and slapped him across the face so hard her wrist almost snapped with the effort. He reeled back, more so from the pain as much as the surprise. What the blue blessed blazes were wrong with this devil-turned-woman! Before he could react, she had flown off the bed and was racing across the room. In his haste to get after her, he pushed further under the pillow, his big toe hooking the small blue box, sending it careening across the room to land with a thud on the floor, popping open and spilling the defiant and shiny engagement ring. In a daze, they both looked at the ring and then at each other. He bent and picked up the ring. He inspected it, the look of complete puzzlement written on his face. He raised his eyes and looked at the beautiful heaving mass of his girlfriend, whose breasts rose and fell with uncontained emotions.
"You say you love me, then marry me!", She jumped through the en-suite door and slammed it shut so hard that the reverberations shook him to the core, and he landed on one knee, picked the ring that lay an accusation as strongly as hers, his right hand held in supplication to the spot where seconds before Thandi had stood.
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