LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife Novel PROLOGUE

LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife
​PROLOGUE
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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​The floor was cool against my knees, a familiar sensation that grounded me in my role. I kept my gaze lowered, focusing on the polished leather of his shoes as I presented the tray. The steam from the beef stew rose in savory ribbons, mingling with the yeasty scent of fresh ujeqe. This was the rhythm of my life, a dance of service and silence.
​“Ngiyabonga, MaDlomo,” Khulubuse said.
​I watched his hands—strong, weathered hands that had provided for me for six years—as he dipped them into the bowl of warm water I had provided. He dried them thoroughly before taking the tray from my hands.
​Khulubuse Zondo. My husband. It had been a year since his uncles traveled to my homestead with the lobola cattle, and only three weeks since the dust had settled from our traditional wedding. We were still “new” in the eyes of the ancestors, yet a heavy expectation already sat between us. We had been trying for a child since the negotiations began, but my womb remained a quiet, empty chamber. God’s time, I told myself daily, though the whispers of my mother-in-law suggested my time was running out.
​“Awudli ngani?” He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, his brow furrowed with genuine concern.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
​I shifted, settling myself onto the umseme mat I had spread beside him.
“I had to sacrifice my plate for your brother,” I replied softly.
​“Oh, Misikhaya is here?”
​“He arrived just now. I didn’t know he was coming, so I hadn’t prepared enough.”
​Khulubuse immediately set the tray down.
“You cannot go to bed on an empty stomach, Lethuthando. Take my plate.”
​“Sthandwa sami…” I started to protest, touched by the gesture but wary of taking his sustenance.
​“Don’t argue with me,” he cut me off, though his voice was thick with affection.
“I won’t let you win this one. Here, thatha lokudla udle, MaDlomo.”
​I sighed, a small smile tugging at my lips as I took the plate.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
​He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead before standing up. The evening air was beginning to turn.
“It’s getting windy out here. Let’s go to our room.”
​“Aren’t you going to greet your brother first?”
​“I will,” he promised, offering me his hand.
“But for now, I want to spend time with my wife. Asambe.”
​Inside the sanctuary of our bedroom, the world felt smaller, safer. He locked the door, the click of the bolt echoing in the quiet room. He took the half-finished plate from me, setting it on the pedestal, his eyes darkening with a familiar, desperate hunger.
​“Can we try again?” he asked, taking my hands in his.
​A wave of exhaustion crashed over me. My back ached from the chores, and my spirit felt frayed.
“Khula, I’m so tired. I’ve been on my feet all day…”
​“Ngiyazi mkami,” he pleaded, his voice dropping to a low murmur.
“But you don’t have to do anything. Just lay back, and I will do the rest. Ngiyacela.”
​I closed my eyes and sighed. This had become our nightly ritual—less an act of love and more a frantic mission to produce an heir. I began to reach under my skirt to pull down my underwear, but as the fabric shifted, a dull ache in my abdomen flared. I saw them then—dark, crimson spots against the white cotton.
​My heart sank. Another month of failure.
​“We can’t. Not tonight,” I said, pulling my clothes back into place and looking toward the wall. I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on his face. “My period has started.”
​The silence that followed was deafening. I heard him exhale—a long, jagged sound of frustration. He rubbed his face vigorously, his jaw tight. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a force that rattled the windowpane.
​I sat alone in the dim light, the silence of the room now feeling cold. I needed a shower to wash away the salt of the day, but my eyes fell on the plate of stew. I picked it up, forced to eat in the shadows. I hadn’t tasted a morsel since dawn; his mother had seen to that, keeping me occupied with an endless list of “traditional” duties.
​As I ate the cold meat, I wondered how much longer my body—and my marriage—could survive this cycle of hope and blood.
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KHULUBUSE ZONDO
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The kitchen was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the lingering aroma of the beef stew Lethuthando had served. I greeted my little brother with a bro hug. He asked if we can step out for a bit and I agreed without hesitation. We looked at our mother who was sitting in her usual couch, her eyes sharp enough to pierce through stone.
​”We are going out for a bit, Ma,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Just down to Mary’s to catch up. Misikhaya has been away too long.”
​My mother clicked her tongue, her gaze drifting toward the door leading outside to our rooms.
“You have a young wife in that room, Khulubuse. A wife who should be kept busy. I need to see my grandchildren before I die.”
​The air in the room felt instantly thinner. I looked at the floor, the guilt rising in my throat like bile. Misikhaya, always the one with the silver tongue, stepped forward and kissed her cheek.
​”Let him breathe, Ma. I haven’t seen my brother in three months. We won’t be long.”
​”Hmph. Go then,” she waved us off, though her eyes remained fixed on me.
“But don’t come back stumbling. Your wife still needs some action tonight.”
​I didn’t say anything, we just stepped out. The night air hit me like a cold splash of water as we stepped off the porch. The gravel crunched under our boots, and for the first time all day, I felt like I could draw a full breath.
​”So,” I began, shoving my hands deep into my pockets to hide the restless twitch in my fingers.
“How is the big city treating you? Is Jozi truly the place of gold, or is it just smoke and mirrors?”
​Misikhaya smiled, his posture relaxing as the shadows of the homestead faded behind us.
“It’s fast, bhuti. It never sleeps. But I’m doing great. I bought a new taxi last month. The money is steady, and I have a small place in Bramley. It’s a different world from here.”
​I felt a sharp pang of envy. Steady money, place of his own. My little brother was doing great for himself while I was just a “traditional husband” living under my mother’s roof, struggling to put a loaf of bread on the table without asking for help.
​”Steady money… that sounds like a dream,” I muttered. “And what about the women of Joburg? Surely a man with a steady job and his own place isn’t sleeping alone every night. Is there anyone in your life now? A city girl to keep you warm?”
​Misikhaya’s smile faded into something distant, something I couldn’t quite read. He kicked a loose stone down the dark path.
​”There are plenty of women, bhuti. Beautiful ones,”
he said softly.
“But to tell you the truth? I don’t see myself with any of them.”
​”Why not?” I nudged him, trying to bring back the lightheartedness.
“Are you becoming too sophisticated for a Jozi girl? Or are they too fast for you?”
​”No,” Misikhaya said, his voice dropping to a low, serious hum.
“It’s just… my heart is still stuck on someone else. A girl from high school. If it’s not her, I’d rather just be alone.”
​I stopped walking for a second, staring at him in the dim light.
“A high school crush? After all this time? Who is she? Do I know her?”
​Misikhaya shook his head, a private, bittersweet smile playing on his lips as the neon sign for Mary’s Tavern flickered in the distance.
​”Don’t worry about the name, mfowethu. Some things are better left in the past… even if you can’t stop thinking about them.”
​I watched him walk toward the tavern door, wondering who could have made such an impression on my brother that he’d walk through the city of gold with his eyes closed to every other woman. I wanted to push him, to dig for a name, but the heavy silence in his stride told me that door was bolted shut.
​We pushed through the beaded curtain, the smell of stale beer and cheap tobacco hitting me like a physical blow. It was loud—the jukebox was wailing a classic Brenda Fassie track—but it was better than the suffocating silence of my bedroom.
​We found a corner table, away from the dartboard. Misikhaya bought two cold quarts of Black Label, sliding one toward me. I didn’t even wait for a glass; I took a long, bitter swig that burned beautifully down my throat.
​”You’re drinking like a man who’s trying to drown a ghost,” Misikhaya said, leaning back on his plastic crate.
​”The ghost is alive and well, and she lives in our kitchen,” I muttered, staring at the condensation on the bottle.
“Mama doesn’t want to stop. Every morning it’s a comment about a ‘quiet house.’ Every evening it’s a look at MaDlomo’s stomach. And tonight…”
I felt the sting of failure again.
“Tonight was just another reminder that my ancestors aren’t listening.”
​Misikhaya sighed, rubbing his temples.
“Khulu, listen to me. You are putting yourself under too much pressure. You and Lethuthando have only been truly married for three weeks. Relax. Make a baby when you are ready, not when uMa decides it’s time for a new toy.”
​I slammed my bottle onto the scarred wooden table.
“I am ready! I want a son, Misikhaya. I want to be the man this family needs. But it’s hard to feel like a man when you’re living on a woman’s grace and a mother’s old age pension.”
​The music seemed to fade as Misikhaya leaned in, his expression turning sharp and realistic.
“Ready? Khulu, look at us. We are sitting here drinking on my cent because you haven’t had a steady paycheck since the harvest ended. How do you plan to raise a child? Nappies and school fees aren’t paid for with tradition and ‘God’s time.'”
​The truth of it felt like a slap. I looked at my calloused hands—hands that knew how to work, but had nothing to grasp.
​”That’s why I’m asking you,”
I said, my voice dropping to a low, urgent hum.
“Is there nothing for me in the city? I’m strong. I can do security, construction, anything. I can’t stay here being a ‘traditional husband’ with empty pockets while my wife suffers my mother’s tongue.”
​Misikhaya looked at me for a long time. He seemed to be weighing my desperation against the harsh reality of the city.
​”The city is a beast, Khulu. It eats men who arrive with nothing but hope,” he said quietly.
“But… I will try. I’ll talk to people. Maybe there’s an opening for a laborer or a gate guard. I’ll see what I can do.”
​I felt a spark of hope, but he quickly doused it with a stern look.
​”But promise me one thing. Don’t push that Lethuthando so hard. I see it in her eyes; she’s exhausted. If you turn your bed into a workplace just to please our mother, you’ll break her. Don’t let uMa destroy your marriage before it even begins.”
​I nodded, though my mind was already drifting back to the high school crush he’d mentioned earlier.
​”This girl,”
I said, testing the waters as we stood up to leave.
“The one from high school. Does she even know you’re still carrying her memory around like a lucky charm?”
​Misikhaya stopped at the door, his back to me.
​”She has enough problems of her own, Khulu,” he said, his voice barely audible over the jukebox.
“She doesn’t need mine.” He said and walked away.
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