ZAMAHLOBO, THE BLOOD WIFE
CHAPTER 13
The family is already assembled at the long dining table. The only empty chair is beside Zamahlobo, who is just returning from the kitchen with a final bowl of fruit. MaXulu looks up, her smile warm.
“Ndodana,we’ve been waiting for you. Come, sit.”
Mkhontowesizwe offers a tight,perfunctory smile and takes his seat. Zamahlobo settles beside him, her shoulder brushing his—a tiny point of contact that sends a current through him.
As he reaches for a piece of toast, her hand lands softly on his wrist, stopping him.
“Won’t you say grace?”
He looks at her,one brow arched.
“Are you friends with MaXulu now?” First, his stepmother insisted on prayers; now his wife has joined the chorus. Zamahlobo merely fixes him with that look—a calm, expectant stare that brooks no argument. He hates how effectively it disarms him.
With a barely audible sigh of surrender, he relents. Hands are linked around the table—his right clasping Zamahlobo’s ,his left reluctantly taken by MaXulu. Eyes close.
“Dear Lord,thank you for today. Thank you for the food we are about to eat, and bless the hands that prepared it. Amen!”
“Amen!”the family choruses..
The moment prayer ends, the quiet clatter of cutlery begins.
“So,how is work?” Mandla asks, spreading butter on his toast.
“It’s fine,”Mkhontowesizwe replies.
“Just ‘fine’?”
“Yes. I have a wife and an assistant in one person. Everything runs smoothly.”
Zamahlobo turns to him,a playful glint in her eye. “Are you implying that I am your assistant?”
“Are you not?”he counters, meeting her gaze, a challenge simmering beneath the surface.
She opens her mouth to retort,then thinks better of it, choosing instead to take a sip of her juice, a small smile playing on her lips.
“And you,Sibonelo?” Mandla’s question pulls his other son from a silent contemplation.
Sibonelo looks up,his expression smooth. “As Mkhonto said, Father. Everything is fine.” He catches Zamahlobo studying him from across the table and quickly looks down at his plate.
–
After breakfast, Zamahlobo clears the table. The kitchen is quiet, the only helpers being the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tap of water. She doesn’t mind the solitude. She’s washing the last pan when a touch on her shoulder makes her jump.
She turns to find Sibonelo standing there, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry,I didn’t mean to startle you. Can we talk?”
“Sure.”She dries her hands on a cloth, and they move to lean against the granite countertop.
“Thank you,”he begins, his voice low, “for not telling anyone about… what I did.”
“I didn’t do it for you,”she says honestly, softly. “I did it for them. Your father would have been disappointed .”
“I know. And I’m sorry. Sometimes… I do things I’m not even fully aware of. It’s like my mind operates on its own, and I only see the wreckage after.” His sincerity is palpable, laced with a confusion that seems genuine.
Zamahlobo nods, offering a gesture of understanding. She reaches out and pats his shoulder. “It’s oka—”
The moment her hand makes contact, a searing, white-hot pain stabs her forehead. Her vision tunnels, then explodes into a cascade of images not her own: Sibonelo’s face, slack and passive; Zenzile’s triumphant smile; a cup of steaming liquid being pressed into his hands. A feeling of profound helplessness, of will being siphoned away, washes over her. It’s a premonition, a warning etched in psychic fire.
“Zamahlobo? Zama!”
Sibonelo’s alarmed voice pulls her back.She blinks, the modern kitchen snapping back into focus. She sways slightly, gripping the counter for support.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes…yes. I’m fine.” She swallows against a sudden dryness in her throat. He eyes her with concern but finally nods and leaves.
Alone, she presses her cool palms to her flushed cheeks. What in the world was that?
–
Later, bored and missing Sindiswa’s chatter, she is curled on a living room sofa when MaXulu finds her.
“Zama ,have you seen Sibonelo? I’ve been looking for him.”
“He left a while ago,Ma. Said he had urgent work. Why?”
“He was supposed to take me to my doctor’s appointment. He must have forgotten. I’ll call the chauffeur .”
Just then, Mkhontowesizwe descends the stairs, pulling a hoodie over his head. An idea sparks in Zamahlobo’s mind.
“There’s no need for the chauffeur,Ma. Mkhonto will take you.”
He stops mid-step.
“What?”
“Yes,” Zamahlobo says, standing and meeting his gaze squarely. “You are going to take your mother to the doctor, wait for her, and drive her back home.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Zama,my dear, it’s alright. I’ll manage,” MaXulu interjects softly, her eyes flickering between them with hesitant hope.
“No,Ma. You won’t. Your son will take you.” Zamahlobo’s tone is gentle but immovable. It’s the voice of the Keeper, mending a fracture only she seems to fully perceive.
Mkhontowesizwe lets out a long, defeated sigh, the sound of a battle lost before it began.
“Let’s go,” he mutters, turning toward the door.
“Say it properly,Mkhonto.”
He pauses,his back rigid. Then he turns, and with a visible effort that strains the muscles in his jaw, he meets MaXulu’s waiting eyes.
“Let’s go… Ma.”
The word is awkward, foreign on his tongue, but it hangs in the air, profound in its simplicity. MaXulu’s face transforms, a radiant, disbelieving smile breaking through. She glances at Zamahlobo ,who gives her an encouraging nod, before following her stepson out.
She watches them go, a quiet satisfaction settling in her heart. It’s a start.
–
ZAMAHLOBO
That evening, she checks her reflection one final time. Mkhontowesizwe’s call had been cryptic: “Get ready. I’m picking you up.” After being out all day following the doctor’s visit, his secrecy piqued her curiosity.
She smoothes her silk, knee-length black dress—elegant yet comfortable—and pairs it with her favorite Puma sneakers, a signature touch. At 6:30 PM, a message flashes on her phone: I’m outside.
She chuckles. He’s acting like a suitor, not a husband fetching his wife from their shared home. She grabs her handbag and heads downstairs to inform the elders. Pausing at their slightly ajar door, she sees Mandla and MaXulu seated on the edge of their bed, sharing a tender, private kiss. She clears her throat gently.
They part, MaXulu blushing like a young girl. “Makoti…”
“Baba,Ma, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting anything,my dear ,” MaXulu says, smoothing her dress.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m going out with Mkhontowesizwe.”
Mandla waves a dismissive,happy hand. “You don’t need permission. Go, enjoy yourselves. Nibadala maningaka.”
Smiling, Zamahlobo heads outside. His car idles in the driveway. She approaches the passenger window.
“Why didn’t you just come in?”
“Didn’t feel like it. Ukahle?”
“I’m perfect.Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“Yes. Enough questions.” His tone is mock-stern. He gets out, circles the car, and opens her door with a flourish that feels both genuine and practiced.
Once she’s seated, he leans in before closing the door.
“Ngibuke.”
She turns her face to his.
“Umuhle, mkami.”The possessive, tender term “my wife” rolls off his tongue, weighted with a new sincerity.
Her smile is her answer. He returns it, a true, unguarded expression that reaches his eyes, before closing her in.
The drive to Amanzimtoti is a quiet communion, the coastal city lights beginning to glitter as they arrive. He turns into a secluded, upscale estate, using a remote to open a wrought-iron gate. The house that reveals itself is a modern masterpiece—clean lines, expansive glass, nestled in manicured privacy.
He parks and opens her door, taking her hand. “Welcome home,” he says simply as they walk inside.
The interior takes her breath away—open-plan, decorated in tones of ocean blue, driftwood grey, and cream. It feels both luxurious and serene. “Mkhonto, what is this?”
“My house. Our house, now. I lived here before… before I went away. A friend kept it for me. You know how Mntimande is—wants the family under one roof. But this… this has always been my space.” He watches her face, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. “Do you like it?”
“Like it? I love it.” She is already moving, drawn to explore. She takes his hand, pulling him with her up the floating staircase. “Show me everything.”
After touring the airy rooms, she finds a sliding door and pushes it open to a wide balcony overlooking the Indian Ocean. The scene makes her gasp.
The balcony is transformed. Rose petals scatter a path to a glass table set for two, where hurricane lamps flicker softly, casting dancing shadows. A bottle of champagne rests in a silver bucket beside two crystal flutes. Covered dishes promise a meal. The entire setup is bathed in the deep indigo of twilight, the first stars appearing above the endless, sighing ocean.
“Mkhonto,” she breathes, turning to him.
He stands just behind her,hands in his pockets, a soft, almost nervous smile on his face. “You did this… for me?”
“Yes.”
He closes the distance and takes both her hands, his thumbs stroking her knuckles. He clears his throat .
“MaPhakathwayo, I’ve been trying to find the right words. From the moment I saw you at that party—truly saw you—you haven’t left my mind. You’re in my thoughts when I wake and my last conscious memory before sleep. Love… was never a concept that held meaning for me. Not until you. Now, it’s all I can think about. What I feel for you is… divine. It defies every metaphor. It’s a depth I don’t fully understand myself.” He takes a steadying breath, his eyes locked on hers, shining with earnest intensity. “I could list a thousand reasons—your honesty, your perseverance, the way you look at me like I’m a man worth believing in. When you smile… I feel like I’ve won a war I didn’t know I was fighting. I know our marriage began as a decree, but I thank the ancestors for it every day. Ngiyakthanda mama, kakhulu futhi. Now, I need a straight answer. No overthinking. Just the truth in your heart. Do you feel even a fraction of this for me?”
She nods, speechless.
“Angikuzwa, mama,”he whispers, needing to hear it.
“Yes,”she finally chokes out. “Yes, Mkhontowesizwe. I would be lying if I said I didn’t. I knew when it when I saw you lying on that hospital bed and the only thing I felt was the fear of losing you . Your presence… it does something to me. It holds me close and tight. I heard once that when real love comes, you can’t think of anything else. My heart skips a beat whenever you walk into a room. The thought of you makes me smile. So, yes. I feel the same way. I do love you.”
The admission shatters the last barrier between them. He pulls her to him, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other spanning her waist, and captures her lips in a kiss that is at once tender and desperate. It’s a confession, a seal, a promise. She melts into him, her arms winding around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape. The kiss deepens, fueled by weeks of suppressed longing and the stunning truth of their mutual confession. It’s heated, full of pent-up passion, a silent language that speaks of belonging.
When they finally part, breathless and foreheads touching, they chuckle, a shared sound of joy and disbelief. She becomes acutely aware of the evidence of his arousal pressed against her, and a corresponding, liquid heat pools within her.
He tilts her chin up, his gaze dark with desire and unwavering affection. “Ngiyakuthanda, uyezwa?”
“I love you,too,” she whispers.
“Shall we have dinner?”she asks, gesturing to the beautiful setup.
He leans in,his lips brushing her ear, his voice a low, thrilling promise. “As long as I get to have you for dessert.”
Zamahlobo’s breath hitches, but she doesn’t look away. A slow, answering smile curves her lips, one born of newfound confidence and shared desire. “A woman needs her strength first,” she counters softly, her voice barely above the sound of the sea. “Dinner then dessert. That’s the proper order.”
He laughs, a rich, genuine sound of delight, and the remaining tension evaporates. “As my Keeper commands.”
He pulls out her chair with an exaggerated gallantry that makes her grin,and she sits. He takes the seat opposite, and for a while, there is only the comfortable silence of two people unwinding in a long-awaited truth. He uncorks the champagne with a practiced pop, the froth bubbling over his hand. He pours them each a glass, the bubbles dancing like liquid stars.
They toast without words—just a meeting of eyes over the rims of their glasses. The champagne is crisp, cold, and perfect.
He unveils their dinner: grilled prawns in a lemon-garlic butter, tender fillet steaks, roasted vegetables. It’s simple, exquisite, and clearly ordered from a talented chef, but it feels intimate in this setting, under this sky. They eat, sharing bites, their conversation easy—teasing remarks about work, her observations about the house, his stories of how he found this place years ago, a sanctuary from the chaos of his old life.
The ocean is a constant, rhythmic companion to their meal. As the last bite is finished and the champagne bottle emptied, a deeper, more potent quiet descends.
Mkhontowesizwe stands and offers her his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her gently to her feet, drawing her close. They sway slightly, not to any music, but to the natural rhythm of the night—the sigh of the wind, the beat of their own hearts.
“This has been the most perfect night,” she murmurs, her head resting against his chest.
“It doesn’t have to end,”he replies, his voice a vibration she feels through his shirt.
He leans back to look at her, his expression serious now. “ Zamahlobo… I meant what I said. Every word. But this,” he gestures between them, “us, moving forward… I need to know you’re sure. Not because of ancestors or duty. But because you want me.”
She reaches up and traces the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light. “Mkhonto, when I said I love you, I was choosing you. The man who protected me with his own body in a crashing car. The man who, despite every hard edge, called his stepmother ‘Ma’ today because I asked him to. That is the man I want. All of him. Past, present, and future.”
Her affirmation is the final key. The last shadow of doubt in his eyes dissolves, replaced by a blazing certainty.