LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife Novel Chapter 1

LETHUTHANDO : The Traditional Wife
CHAPTER 01
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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The sun hadn’t even cleared the horizon when the first blow struck the wood of our bedroom door. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
​”Haybo wena! Who is going to make us breakfast if you are still sleeping?”
​I scrambled out of bed, fumbling for my gown and cinching it tight as I opened the door. MaNxumalo stood there, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s, scanning me from my messy hair down to my bare toes. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her face.
​”Are you finally pregnant? Usually, you are awake by now,” she mused, her voice dropping into a tone that was far too sweet to be trusted.
​”I… I don’t know, Ma,” I stammered, my head spinning.
“I’ll be there shortly to prepare the porridge.
​”No, no,” she waved a hand, already turning back toward her own house.
“You need to rest. We mustn’t put you under pressure if there is a seed growing. I’ll tell Thokozile to bring a pregnancy test when she returns from work.”
​I watched her retreat, the weight of her “hope” feeling more like a noose. I closed the door and leaned my forehead against the cool wood, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
​”You’re giving her false hope,” a voice muttered from the bed.
​I turned to see Khulubuse propped up on his elbow.
“I’m tired, Khula,” I said, falling back onto the mattress with a groan.
​”My mother needs you,” he countered, his voice gaining that stubborn edge. “Tholakele and Nozipho are lazy—you know this. They can’t even take care of their own children. This household is nothing without you.”
​I stared at the ceiling.
“Then they must learn. Those aren’t my children. Anginangane mina—I have no child of my own.”
​”You are practicing,” he said simply. “We will have a baby soon.”
​”I’ll cross that bridge when I get there. Can I please just sleep?”
​Khulubuse sat up, his face contorted with genuine shock.
“So you are really going to let my mother do everything by herself today?”
​”If that’s what it takes for me to get enough rest, then yes,” I snapped, pulling the duvet over my head to drown out the world.
“You hardly stand up for me anyway.”
​The blankets were ripped away in one swift motion.
“Can we talk?”
​I sat up straight, my jaw set.
“Yebo, baba.”
​”We need to go to Mhlathiwepukane tomorrow morning,” he said, his eyes searching mine.
​My heart sank. Not the healer again.
“Why?”
​”I’m thirty-five, Thando. I’m not getting any younger and I need an heir. Perhaps he has a new concoction—something to make the pregnancy come faster.”
​I felt a bitter laugh bubble up in my throat.
“And I am twenty-five. I am supposed to be living my life to the fullest, but instead, I am here raising kids that aren’t mine and being slaved around.”
​”You aren’t a slave,” he said, his voice softening but missing the point entirely.
“You are doing your duties as a wife.”
​”I am a human being, Khula! I get tired. I get drained. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t you speak to your mother? Just once, can’t you be the one to protect me?”
​He leaned in, pressing a kiss to my forehead, but the gesture felt empty. I pushed him back.
“Bekezela, sthandwa sami,” he whispered.
“It will get better soon.”
​
“You don’t know that. You’ve been saying that since the lobola was paid.”
​”I spoke to Misikhaya last night,” he said, a spark of excitement finally lighting up his tired eyes.
“He agreed to help me look for work in Joburg. Once I’ve made enough money, I’ll get us a house. You’ll move out of here.”
​A genuine smile broke through my exhaustion.
“When are we leaving?”
​Khulubuse looked away.
“We? No, Thando. I am leaving. We cannot invade my brother’s privacy like that. I will go first, and when things are stable, I will come back for you.”
​The smile died. I fell back against the pillows, pulling the duvet over my head once more, seeking the darkness. He was leaving me here. Leaving me with his mother, his lazy sisters, and the crushing weight of a pregnancy test that I knew would come back with a single, lonely line.
​Khethile khethile—I had chosen this path. But as the morning light bled through the curtains, I wondered if the path was ever going to lead anywhere but here.
The echoes of our argument hadn’t even settled into the walls before the wood of the door rattled again. This time, it wasn’t a demand for breakfast; it was the sharp, rhythmic rap of a woman who knew she owned every brick of this house.
​”Khulubuse! Lethuthando! Open this door!” MaNxumalo’s voice pierced through the duvet.
“Your brother is leaving now. Come and say your goodbyes. ”
​I felt Khula shift beside me, his frustration from earlier momentarily replaced by the duty he owed his younger brother. I dragged myself out of bed, my limbs feeling like lead, and followed him into the yard.
​The morning air was biting, a cold dew clinging to the tall grass. Misikhaya was already there, his heavy duffel bag resting against his boots. He looked different from us—clean-shaven, smelling of expensive soap and the ambition of the city. He looked like a man who had escaped, while we were still treading water in the same old pond.
“Stay safe mtanami,” ​MaNxumalo was saying, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she fussed over her favorite son.
“And get a woman who’ll feed you. Eating takeaways daily is not good for you”
​Misikhaya chuckled, a rich sound that seemed too big for our quiet yard.
“I’ll cook for myself, Ma. I promise. And I’ll send the money for the groceries as soon as I check in with the foreman.”
​He turned to Khulubuse. They didn’t say much—men like them spoke in silences and firm handshakes.
“I haven’t forgotten, bhuti,” Misikhaya said, his grip lingering on my husband’s shoulder.
“I’ll check the yard on Monday. Just be ready.”
​”I’ve been ready since the day I was born,” Khula replied, his voice thick with a hunger for a life he didn’t yet have.
“I’ll call you and update you. I’ll send you some money to come that side if needs be. “
“Thank you bafo.” Khula said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder.
​MaNxumalo narrowed her eyes, sensing the shift in the air.
“What is this talk of leaving? You have a wife to attend to, Khulubuse. You have a legacy to build.”
“Let the man breathe, Ma. A lion can’t hunt if he’s kept in a kraal.” Misikhaya said.
​Then, he turned his gaze to me. I stood a few paces back, my hands folded neatly over my gown, the weight of the morning’s argument with Khulubuse still sitting like lead in my stomach. Misikhaya’s eyes weren’t like his brother’s; they didn’t look at me with expectation or demand. They looked at me with a strange, quiet pity that made me want to look away.
​”MaDlomo,” he said, nodding respectfully.
“Look after yourself. Don’t let the fire in the kitchen burn you out before the sun goes down.”
​”Safe travels, bhuti . May the ancestors guide your path.” I whispered, reaching out to give a respectful nod.
​Instead of a nod back, Misikhaya stepped into my space and pulled me into a hug. My breath hitched. In this family, physical affection was a currency rarely spent, especially between a brother-in-law and a wife.
​He held me longer than he should have. One second. Two. Three. I could feel the rough texture of his jacket against my cheek and the steady thrum of his heart. It wasn’t a hug of passion, but one of deep, heavy protection—as if he were trying to transfer some of his strength into my tired bones.
​”Take care of yourself, Lethuthando,” he murmured into my ear, his voice so low that only I could hear it.
“I mean it. Look after you.”
​He pulled out of the hug amd began to walk away, his stride confident. He didn’t look back, not even when the dust from the taxi’s wheels began to billow up behind him. I watched the vehicle disappear around the bend, taking the only voice of reason with it.
​Beside me, Khulubuse was still staring at the empty road, his eyes hungry for a horizon he couldn’t reach yet.
​”Go inside, Lethuthando,” he said, his voice cold and distant. “it’s still cold out here and you need to rest, remember?”
He doesn’t say anything afterwards, he just walked away. ​I watched him walk toward the cattle kraal, leaving me alone in the yard with the ghost of Misikhaya’s words still ringing in my ears. The house felt smaller than it had ten minutes ago.
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THOKOZILE ZONDO
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“I heard that your little brother is home.”
I sighed, looking at Nompilo who is standing at the end of the counter till, packing the customer’s groceries in the shopping bag.
“I’m sure he left by now. He never stays.”
“Ah! Did he say why he didn’t come to his brother’s wedding? ”
“We didn’t even ask, my mother’s last born gets angry quickly. He’ll stop sending some money if we keep asking questions”
“How’s the new wife?”
I clicked my tounge. “Ah loyo! That girl is a door mat,” I laughed.
Nompilo leaned in, eager for the daily update on the Zondo household.
​”Are we still talking about MaDlomo?” Nompilo asked, wiping down the counter.
​”The very one,” I sneered, picking a piece of lint off her uniform.
“She’s so desperate to keep that marriage going, she’ll do anything. You should see her. She wakes up before the birds just to make sure my mother’s tea is exactly the right shade of brown. And the best part? She’s raising my kids for me!”
​I let out a sharp, mocking cackle.
“I walk in, drop my bags, and don’t even look at the stove. Why should I? Lethuthando is already there, smelling like onions and sweat, washing their faces and checking their homework. She thinks if she plays the ‘perfect traditional wife,’ Khulubuse won’t notice her womb is as dry as a drought-stricken farm.”
​”Doesn’t she mind?” she whispered, glancing toward the manager’s office.
​”Mind? She’s too stupid to mind! She thinks she’s ‘practicing’ for her own. I tell her, ‘Oh, MaDlomo, you’re so good with them,’ and she just beams like a fool. She’s so hungry for a scrap of praise from my mother that she’s turned herself into a 24-hour maid. Honestly, if I were her, I’d have some pride. But she’s got nothing else, has she? No job, no city life like Misikhaya… just my brother and a pile of my kids’ dirty laundry.”
​I straightened my apron as a customer approached, but I leaned in for one last jab.
​”My mother is sending me back with a pregnancy test today. I can’t wait to see her face when it comes back negative again. She’ll probably apologize to the plastic stick for failing it. That girl is a joke.”
​We both turned to the customer, I don’t know about hers but I’m sure it’s also a fake, practiced smile.
“May I help you, Sisi?” I asked.