PROLOGUE
Rain showers patter gently on the roof, creating a soothing rhythm that almost matches the steady beat of my husband’s heart. I am nestling on his chest, tracing a finger on the contours of his ribcage. I scoot closer, wishing for a way to get under his skin and live under it. He wraps his muscular arms tightly around my tiny frame and then kisses my forehead. If it was up to me, I swear I would live in this position forever.
It’s New Year’s Eve and for once in five years that I have been married to my husband, we decided not to go home, opting to just spend the last hours of the year in each other’s company. In the last five years that I have been married to this man, we always go to Ladysmith for Christmas and Easter Holidays. It’s a family tradition that everyone gathers at their family home and celebrate together. With my husband’s siblings married with kids of their own, the home is always full. Sometimes there can be 30 people under one roof and that makes my in-laws even happier. Seeing their children and grandchildren under one roof makes them happy.
This year we asked to be excused. We were both busy at work throughout the year so we decided to use the holidays as a bonding session. Just stay indoors, cook, eat, watch series, reconnect and just be ourselves. I must admit, it has been amazing and I think I gained a few kilos in the past two weeks. I’m really grateful for this time.
“MaSibisi,” he says as he brushes my hair softly.
“Mthombeni,” I respond.
“What are your resolutions for the new year?” he asks.
He always asks this question and I always have an answer to it. But today, I don’t have an answer. I’m at a point in my life where I feel like I have achieved everything I ever prayed and wished for. I have everything I need and want.
“Peace. A peaceful year is all I’m asking for—”
My sentence is cut short by him untangling himself from me and sitting up on the couch.
“You haven’t been at peace?” he sounds and looks alarmed.
“No, not like that, babe. There’s nothing to fault in our marriage or in you as a person. I mean a peaceful year in every aspect of my life.”
“Oh,” he relaxes. “Still not in good terms with your colleagues?”
“I feel like we are all a bunch of pretentious individuals. We just pretend to like each other so we can get the job done and move on with our lives.”
“You can always resign, you know,” he suggests.
“And do what? Be a housewife?”
“I can afford that and I would love to come home to a kitchen smelling of cinnamon rolls, goat stew and a wife wearing her apron, barefooted in the kitchen,” he smiles.
His smile is charming but I’m not falling for that charm. My mother didn’t send me to good and expensive schools so I can end up as a domestic wife. I can’t imagine my life depending on a man’s earnings. I like my financial independence very much.
“That’s a dream that will never become a reality—”
“Come on, MaSibisi, you know I can and will provide for us and our families. I just got a promotion at work, we will be fine.”
“It’s not about how much you earn, Mthombeni. It’s about my sense of independence and importance. I don’t want to be reduced to a wife who is only good at making stews, holding prayer meetings and being the first to arrive at family funerals because she is unemployed. People overlook the work the unemployed do and no matter how many pots of uphuthu you cook, you will still be seen like a useless somebody. I don’t want that for me. I’m very much content as a wife who doesn’t have too much time on her hands. Don’t try to change me.”
“I hear you. It’s just that it bothers me to see you stressed because of work. I was only trying to help.”
“You can help by helping me look for a better job.”
“Okay,” he pulls me back into his arms and plants another kiss on my forehead.
I take a deep breath and watch as the fire slowly burns out on the fireplace. I check the time on the wall clock and it’s exactly twenty minutes to midnight. It is now drizzling outside, slowly easing off just as the fire is also burning out. It’s as if everything belonging to this year will remain in this year and the new year will start on a clean slate.
As much as I don’t have a vision board for the next year, there’s something I’m looking forward to. I’m turning 32 this coming year and my husband and I agreed that we will start a family. We were not financially and emotionally ready when we got married, now we are and I can’t wait for us to bring a life into this world.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he says.
“I’m just thinking about the season we are about to step into, I can’t wait to be a mother,” I say and he squeezes me tight.
“I know you will be a good mother, and I pray our child takes your smile so he or she can brighten every room he walks in.”
“And have your spirit so that no matter what life throws at him, he keeps moving, believing that things do get better with more work and time invested in something,” I add.
You know it’s almost midnight when the township becomes alive and fireworks start exploding from every nook and cranny of ekasi. I used to love this until I became older and less interested in the noise.
“It’s almost time, let’s go outside,” my husband says. As much as we don’t invest in fireworks, we always watch others and take pictures and videos while at it.
“Let me put on my jersey,” I say as I sit up from the couch. I don’t have to go to the bedroom for it, I had already brought it to the living room. I pick it up from the chair and slip it over my head. I take my husband’s own and give it to him. He puts it on and leads the way to the door.
The stars are out, bright and shimmering as if the sky wasn’t a gloomy blanket a few hours earlier. Looking at the skies now, you wouldn’t guess that it was raining not so long ago. The countdown has started and you can hear the jubilation and hope in people’s voices. I look at our neighbours and smile as their kids hold their 100-shooter fireworks up and giggle at every blast. This will be us in a couple of years to come, our kids will be this happy.
“5…4…3…2—”
I feel my chest tightening. I try to force out a cough, but I wheeze instead. I’m struggling to breathe, my eyes tearing up and my knees are struggling to keep my body up.
“Anele!” my husband’s voice cuts through the noise. “Babe, stay with me,” he says cupping my cheeks.
I want to say something, to tell him that I can’t breathe, but it seems like my ability to speak is affected too.
“Someone call an ambulance!”
“One! Happy New Year!” the fireworks explode just as people scream in joy, stepping into the new year.
“Babe, stay with me!” my husband is trying to keep me awake, but something is pulling me further into the dark abyss.
“I… I.. can.. can’t breathe…”
“Anele!”
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