LETHUTHANDO : The Traditional Wife
CHAPTER 06
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KHULUBUSE ZONDO
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“This will be your room,” Misikhaya said, swinging the door open. I stepped inside, my eyes scanning the space. The boy had done well for himself; the apartment was modern, clean, and far removed from the dust of home.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” he said, leaning casually against the door frame.
“When do I start?”
“How about tomorrow? You look exhausted, Khulu. It was a long drive; you need to rest before you get behind the wheel.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of the day in my bones. “I hear you. Thank you for this, Misikhaya. Truly.”
“I’m just glad I could help.”
“Do you think…” I hesitated, the worry I’d been suppressing finally bubbling up. “Do you think I made a mistake leaving her there?”
Misikhaya shifted his weight. “Yes and no. If you’d brought her, she’d probably be working here too—scrubbing this place top to bottom and making sure there’s a hot meal the second we walk in. She needs to rest, man. She’s been through hell these past three weeks. She didn’t even get a honeymoon because of those ‘wifely duties.’ Going back to her parents’ house to just be for a while? She needs that. She’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” I sighed. “I really do.”
“Anyway, the bathroom is right next door. You’ve seen the rest of the place. I’m heading out—you need anything?”
“No, I’m good. Ngiyabonga.”
He offered a small smile and closed the door. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone. My thumbs hovered over the screen before I typed out a message to Lethuthando:
“I got to Misikhaya’s apartment safe. He says I can rest today, so I start work tomorrow. I love you, never forget that.”
I hit send and stared at the screen, waiting for the little grey ticks to turn blue.
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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The wheels of my suitcase rattled against the uneven ground as I marched toward the gate. I didn’t look back at the house, but I didn’t have to; I could hear MaNxumalo’s heavy footsteps behind me.
“If you walk out of those premises,” she barked, her voice cutting through the morning air, “make sure you never come back.”
“Okay,” I said simply. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even turn around.
“Give me the key,” she demanded.
I stopped then, pivoting to face her. “What key?”
“My son’s bedroom key.”
A cold laugh bubbled up in my throat. “There is nothing in that room that belongs to you. And even if there was, you wouldn’t be getting this key. It is our room. You have no say in what happens behind that door.”
Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in shock. “Angizwanga?”
“Oh, you heard me perfectly. Leave me alone, mfazi.”
I turned my back on her, focusing every ounce of my energy on the gate ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thokozile peeping through the front door like a shadow.
“Mama, is she really leaving?” Thokozile asked, her voice loud enough for me to hear.
“She’s joking,” MaNxumalo scoffed. “She’s just trying to get under our skin. She’ll be back by sunset.”
I didn’t bother to correct them. Their delusions were no longer my burden. I walked the fifteen minutes to the taxi rank, my heart hammering a rhythm of liberation against my ribs. By some miracle, there was one seat left in the local taxi. I paid my fare, and as the engine roared to life, I felt the weight of the Zondo household begin to peel away.
My phone beeped in my pocket. A message from Khulu. I read it, but I didn’t reply. My words were for my parents first.
The walk from the main road to my childhood home felt shorter than usual. My father was in the garden, the hosepipe in his hand. When he saw me—really saw me—he let the pipe drop, the water pooling around my mother’s flowers as he hurried toward the gate. My mother burst from the house, a knife still in her hand from the cabbage she’d been chopping, wiping her palms hurriedly on her apron.
They collided with me in a frantic, three-way hug. And then, the dam broke. I sobbed into my mother’s shoulder, the weeks of insults and exhaustion finally pouring out of me.
“It’s okay, Ndondo,” my mother whispered, using the nickname that always made me feel safe. “We’re here. We’ve got you.”
“I tried, Ma,” I choked out, pulling back to look at them. “I tried so hard to be the perfect daughter-in-law, but they treated me like trash. I couldn’t do it for one more second.”
My father reached out, his rough thumb wiping a tear from my cheek before he kissed my forehead. “Tell us everything.”
“The pressure to get pregnant… the way they slaved me around. They insulted the way I even chopped a tomato. They called me barren. They called me a burden to Khula. And he just… he let them. He sided with them. I felt like a ghost in that house.”
My mother’s face hardened. “Where is Khulu?”
“He’s in Joburg for work,” I said, drying my eyes.
“Why didn’t he take you?” my father asked, his brow furrowed.
“He didn’t have a place of his own yet. He wanted to make sure I was safe and promised to come back for me once he found us a house. Can I stay here? Please, just until then?”
“Thando,” my father said, squeezing my shoulder firmly. “This is your home. You are always welcome here.”
“Married or not,” my mother added, her voice fierce, “you will always be my baby.”
“Thank you,” I breathed, feeling the air finally reach the bottom of my lungs.
“I’m going to book a doctor’s appointment,” my mother continued, leading me toward the porch while my father grabbed my suitcase. “We’ll check everything—fertility, health, all of it. But I want you to know something: even if there is a problem, it doesn’t make you any less of a woman. Don’t let those people kill the confidence we spent years building in you.”
I leaned into her, the smell of home—smoke, soil, and sunlight—filling my senses. “Thank you, Ma. I really appreciate it.”
“Anyway,” she said, changing the subject to lighten the mood, “Hawulesizwe finally got accepted at UMP. He’s staying at the residence now.”
“That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for him.”
My mother stopped at the door and looked me squarely in the eyes. “Now, Thando… what do you want to do with your life?”
I paused, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. For the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about laundry, or babies, or angry in-laws. I was thinking about my own dreams. And standing there, on the threshold of the home that loved me, I knew I was going to fight for them.
LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife
CHAPTER 06 (CONTINUES)
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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The spark of ambition that had flickered for a moment died out, smothered by the cold weight of Khulubuse’s expectations. Whenever I dared to dream of a life beyond those four walls, his voice would echo in my head, reminding me of my “place.”
“Khulubuse wanted me to be a housewife…”
My mother cut me off before the sentence could fully leave my mouth.
“You didn’t spend four years at school to be a housewife, Ndondo. You studied to be a chef because it’s what you loved,” she said firmly, sliding a knife across the table toward me.
I pulled the tray of cabbage toward myself and began to chop, the rhythmic thwack of the blade against the wood matching the racing of my heart. She moved with practiced ease, dicing onions and robot peppers.
“Tell me,” she pressed, “why are you doing what he wants? What about what you want?”
I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. She was right. Four years of sweat, late-night studying, and passion—all crushed because Khula demanded a woman who would stay home and wait on his family. I had hated it, but with his mother and Thokozile breathing down my neck, I felt I had no choice but to vanish into the role they carved for me.
“You have to be yourself, not a shadow of what others demand,” she said. She stopped chopping and stabbed the tip of her knife into the wooden table, a sharp sound that made me jump. “I’m going to ask you again. What do you want to do with your life?”
I took a breath, letting the truth out. “I want to chase my dreams. I want to be a chef.”
“Then do it. Go for it.” She reached over, lifting my chin so I had no choice but to see her. “Look at me. If Khula doesn’t support you in this, then he is not the man for you.”
The words stung like salt in an open wound. “Why would you say that, Ma? Khula loves me,” I argued, my voice trembling with the hurt I was trying to hide.
“I didn’t say he doesn’t love you,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, serious tone. “But is this love, or is it a red flag?”
I looked down at the pile of shredded cabbage.
“He lets his family dance on your head. He lets them slave you around; sometimes he even helps them. He leaves you in that house knowing exactly how they treat you. He demands you stay home…”
“He didn’t…” I started to defend him, but she wasn’t having it.
“Don’t lie to me. Look at your father and me, Ndondo. We have been together for decades, and he still treats me like we are teenagers. He still brings me flowers and my favorite chocolates. He gives me foot massages when I’m tired; he cooks when I can’t. He takes care of me when I’m sick, and most importantly, he lets me be me. Do you remember when I went to the Taste Master’s kitchen? He was my loudest cheerleader. He wants me happy. That is what a man in love does. He acts like a partner, not a warden.”
She leaned in closer, her eyes searching mine. “Don’t let your feelings for him blind you to the truth. Through it all, Ndondo, choose a man who loves you—not just a man you love.”
The statement hit me with the force of a physical blow. Choose a man who loves you, not just a man you love. It spun around my mind, dizzying and profound. I was so lost in the thought that I didn’t even feel the sharp sting of the blade as it slipped from the cabbage and sliced deep into my finger.
“Ow!”
“Go wash it,” my mother said softly, her expression shifting from firm to concerned. “I’ll finish up here.”
I stood up and walked into the house, the blood dripping from my hand, wondering if the cut on my finger would heal faster than the one she had just opened in my heart.
I held my finger under the cool stream of the tap, watching the red swirls disappear down the drain. The physical sting was nothing compared to the ringing of my mother’s words in my ears. Choose a man who loves you, not a man you love.
I was reaching for the first aid kit when my phone buzzed on the counter. My heart skipped a beat, thinking it was Khula, but the screen displayed a different name.
Misikhaya.
I dried my hands and answered, pressing the phone to my ear with my shoulder while I wrapped a bandage around my finger.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Khula told me you actually left. He said you walked out today.”
I braced myself for a lecture, but it didn’t come.
”I’m proud of you, Lethuthando,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice caught me off guard.
“It takes a lot of courage to walk away from a place that treats you like you’re invisible. You took a step most people are too afraid to take.”
”I had to,” I whispered. “I was disappearing.”
”Well, don’t let them pull you back down. You have a fire in you, Thando. Don’t let my mother or Thoko blow it out. You’re more than a housewife, and you’re certainly more than the insults they throw at you.”
The encouragement felt like a cool balm on an open wound. But the fear was still there.
”If I’m going to survive that wedding, I need you there,” I said, finally letting the plea slip out.
“Please. If you aren’t there, I’m standing alone against your mother and I have no choice but to attend it because I’m her maid of honor. And Khula… he won’t protect me. He never does. I’m begging you, don’t make me face them without an ally.”
The silence on the other end stretched long and heavy. I could hear the city noise behind him.
“I can’t believe that you are asking me that, considering that you don’t know me much.”
”I’m asking because you’re the only one who sees me,” I replied.
I heard him exhale a long, slow breath.
“I’ll come, I’ve already promised you that. I won’t let you face them by yourself. I’ll be there for the lobola this weekend and the wedding.”
”Thank you,” I breathed, the tension finally leaving my shoulders.
“You don’t know what that means to me.”
”As long as you’re okay, that’s all I want to see.”
“That means a lot, considering that we don’t know each other that much.”
“ I know you more than you know. Anyway, what are you busy with?” His voice was deep, carrying the distant hum of Johannesburg traffic in the background.
”I’m cooking. My mother already has me in the kitchen.”
He chuckled, a warm sound that felt like a soft touch.
“That sounds like her. She doesn’t let anyone sit idle. But are you okay? Truly?”
I leaned against the kitchen cupboard, looking out the window at my father in the garden. For the first time in months, I didn’t feel the need to look over my shoulder to see if someone was judging my every move.
“I feel… lighter,” I admitted. “Like I can finally breathe without permission.”
“I’m glad,” Misikhaya said softly.
“You’ve spent too much time holding your breath in that house. You deserve to enjoy your parents’ cooking and some peace.”
We stayed on the line for a while, the conversation flowing with an ease that felt dangerous and addictive all at once. We didn’t talk about Khula, or the taxis, or the family drama. We talked about the city, about the dreams I used to have, and for those few minutes, I wasn’t a “barren wife” or a “housekeeper.” I was just Lethuthando.
The spark was there—a subtle, electric current in the silence between our sentences. It was a feeling I hadn’t felt in a very long time: being seen.
“I have to go,” he said reluctantly, the sound of a hooter blaring in his background.
“One of the drivers is giving me a headache. Duty calls.”
“Go,” I laughed.
“Don’t let them stress you out.”
“I’ll try. Keep that phone close, okay? I’ll check on you later.”
“Okay. Bye, Misikhaya.”
“Bye, Thando.”
I stared at the black screen for a long moment after the call ended. My finger was throbbing, but my heart was beating with a rhythm that felt brand new. I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. He was my brother-in-law. My husband’s brother.
But as I walked back outside to join my mother, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much easier it was to talk to a man miles away than the one who had shared my bed only yesterday.