LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife Novel Chapter 8

LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife
​CHAPTER 08
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​LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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​My husband didn’t call me last night. He didn’t even send a text, not even after I sent him a goodnight message. This morning, the only notification on my screen was from Misikhaya. It was a simple “good morning,” telling me to have a great day and offering some words of encouragement.
​He mentioned that Khulubuse is doing okay. He even sent a photo of him getting into a taxi; it was grainy and dark, taken around 5:00 AM, I assume. At least I know he’s safe.
​I woke up at 6:00 AM to make breakfast for my parents: cheesy mince vetkoeks. They go perfectly with a hot cup of Rooibos tea. When they walked into the kitchen, my father’s face lit up instantly.
​“I’ve missed your food, my baby,” he said, sitting down and kissing my cheek. I tell him I’m too old for that, but he never listens. He just won’t stop.
​“Good morning. How did you guys sleep?” I asked, sliding their plates onto the table.
​“Good morning. We slept well, I hope you did too,” my mother said, gently stirring her tea.
​“I did, Ma,” I replied, taking my seat.
​“This is delicious!” My father was already reaching for a second one. “Are there more?”
​“Just a few,” I replied. He sulked playfully, which brought a small smile to my face.
​“Ndondo…” my mother called out, her tone shifting as she placed her cup down. “The Zondos called. They’re coming over.”
​I sighed heavily. It was still so early. Could I not just enjoy one peaceful day?
​“They can come, Mama. I’m not going back there—not until Khulubuse is back home. He’ll have to come and get me himself. He’s the one who allowed me to come here, so I’m not leaving just because they showed up.”
​My parents exchanged a look but continued to eat. I felt my appetite fading, so I pushed my vetkoeks toward my father’s plate.
​“Ma, I was thinking…”
​“Yes, my baby?”
​“I want to start a business. A fast-food business.”
​A genuine smile spread across her face. “I’m proud of you. What were you thinking?”
​“I was hoping you could help me find a location where I can sell.”
​“Oh, I know just the place,” my father interjected. “It’s about thirty minutes away. There’s a high school nearby, a taxi rank, and a lot of foot traffic. People are always passing through there.”
​“Well, I guess the location is sorted then,” I said.
​“You haven’t even seen it yet!” he laughed.
​“I trust you, Dad.” The look of pride on his face was priceless.
​“How much capital do you have?” Ma asked.
​“I have R25,000 in my savings account.”
​“That should be enough to start. I’ll lend you my gas stove and pots for now, until you can buy your own.”
​“Thank you, Ma.”
​“What’s the menu? What are you going to sell?”
​“I have a lot of ideas, but I want to start small. I don’t want to overextend myself with too many dishes at once. I’ll grow as the business grows.” I took the last sip of my tea.
​“I hear you. I’ll help you with the planning,” she said, reaching out to take my hand. “I’m so proud of you for taking this step.”
​“Thank you, Mom. And if anyone asks… it’s your business, not mine. Understood?”
​“Noted,” they both said. They got up to prepare for the Zondos, and I stayed behind to clean the kitchen.
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​THOKOZILE ZONDO
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​I didn’t even hear the car pull up, but I felt the shift in the air the moment Uncle George’s old Mercedes groaned to a halt outside. He didn’t knock; he swung the door open with the heavy authority of a man who believed a woman’s place was a fixed point on a map. To him, Lethuthando had dared to wander off the coordinates.
​Mama and I were already waiting in the lounge, sitting straight-backed, masks of aggrieved virtue firmly in place. I made sure to look more exhausted than usual to drive the point home.
​“Where is she?” Uncle George barked. He sank into the armchair reserved for the head of the family, bypassing any greetings. To him, a runaway makoti was an emergency that didn’t require pleasantries.
​“She’s at her parents’ house, Bhuti,” Mama said, wiping her hands on her apron as if she’d been working herself to the bone—a lie I backed up with a solemn nod. “She just packed and left. No respect for the lobola we paid, or for her husband who is sweating in Joburg to provide.”
​I leaned forward, my voice dripping with artificial hurt. “She didn’t just leave, Uncle. She insulted Mama. She stood right there and threw words at her that no daughter-in-law should ever say. She even refused to bathe the children before she walked out. She told me she has ‘more important things to do’ than be a wife. She’s become arrogant.”
​Uncle George’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “A woman does not leave her marital home because she is ‘tired.’ She stays until the ancestors call her home. If Khulubuse is too soft to bring his house to order, then the elders will do it for him.”
​“She’s acting like she has a life of her own!” Mama added.
​I watched Uncle George’s face redden. We didn’t care who she was before she came here. All we knew was that she was the girl who couldn’t give Khula a child. That was her only job, and she was failing.
​Uncle George spat on the floor in disgust. “To think she has the nerve to insult people when her own womb is silent! No. This ends now. Get your things. I am fetching you both so we can go to that village and settle this.”
​I hid a smirk. The “Traditional Wife” was about to be reminded what tradition meant when Uncle George enforced it. She’d be back to peeling my potatoes by sunset.
​The drive was tense. The interior of the Mercedes smelled of old leather and the strong tobacco Uncle George chewed.
​“The audacity,” George grumbled. “In my day, her own family would have beaten her and sent her back before the sun set.”
​“She called me mfazi, George!” Mama cried. “As if I’m some woman off the street!”
​“And she laughed at me, Uncle,” I added. “She said she had ‘more important things to do.’ What’s more important than the family that paid for her?”
​“Khulubuse is too soft,” George growled. “If he won’t be a man, I will.”
​“Twenty minutes,” I said, checking my phone. “I hope her father has his checkbook ready, because if she’s staying there, they’re paying back every cow.”
​“They will pay,” George promised. “She is a Zondo makoti. She doesn’t get to decide when her contract ends.”
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​The Mercedes slowed as the Dlomo gate came into view. Uncle George killed the engine, and the silence was heavy. I saw the curtains twitch. They knew.
​”Get out,” George commanded.
​We marched toward the house in formation. Baba Dlomo was already walking toward the gate. He didn’t look like a man ready to apologize; he looked like a man defending his territory. Lethuthando stood on the porch, partially hidden by her mother.
​”Zondo,” Baba Dlomo said, his voice level. He didn’t open the gate yet. “I didn’t expect a whole delegation.”
​”We aren’t here for a social visit, Dlomo,” George barked. “Open this gate. We have come to fetch our property.”
​Lethuthando flinched at the word property, but she didn’t hide. She stepped forward, her head bare—no headscarf. She looked me straight in the eye. The nerve.
​”Property?” Baba Dlomo’s voice dropped. He unlatched the gate. “Come inside. Let us sit so you can explain exactly what you mean by that.”
​Inside the lounge, the air was thick.
​”Let’s not waste time,” George began, pointing his cane at Lethuthando. “Your daughter has insulted our home. She has abandoned her duties. We are here to take her back so she can apologize. And if she refuses, you will return the lobola. Every cent.”
​Mama started her theatrical sniffing. “She called me mfazi, Baba Dlomo! After I gave her a roof when her own womb offered her nothing!”
​”She left because she was treated like a slave, George,” Baba Dlomo said calmly. “My daughter is not a cow. She is a human being.”
​”She is a makoti!” I burst out. “Who is bathing my children? Who is cooking? She thinks she can just quit?”
​Lethuthando stood up. She looked disgusted, not scared. “Your children are your responsibility, Thokozile. And Mama, I never insulted you. I simply asked for respect. I was married into this family to be a wife, not a servant for the whole village.”
​Uncle George slammed his cane down. “Silence! You do not speak when elders are talking! Dlomo, is she coming with us, or are you opening your wallet?”
​Baba Dlomo didn’t flinch. He stood up slowly and walked over to Lethuthando, placing a hand on her shoulder.
​”You speak of property and investments,” Baba Dlomo began. “But you’ve forgotten the most important detail.”
​”And what is that?” George barked.
​”The head of the house,” Baba Dlomo replied. “My daughter didn’t ‘run away.’ She spoke to her husband. And Khulubuse—the man who actually paid the lobola—is the one who gave her permission to come here. He told her she could stay here to rest while he settles in Johannesburg.”
​My uncle’s mouth fell open, my mother and I also followed, acting surprised. How did we forget to tell George this?
​”So,” Baba Dlomo continued, walking toward the door to signal the end of the meeting. “If you have a problem with where she is, you talk to Khulubuse. He is the only person with the right to fetch her. Until he stands at my gate and tells me he is ready to take his wife to their home—not yours, George, and not yours, Nxumalo—she stays here.”
​Uncle George stood up, nearly tipping his chair. “You use the boy’s weakness to justify this?”
​”I am respecting the husband’s word,” Baba Dlomo countered, opening the front door wide. “The meeting is over. Take your threats and your noise elsewhere. Don’t ever come back to my home like this again.”
​I stood up, shaking with rage. Lethuthando didn’t smirk; she just looked at us with cold, quiet pity. It was worse.
​”Mama, let’s go,” I spat.
​We marched out. As we got into the car, I knew the drive home would be miserable. Khulubuse had given her a shield. We were going back to a cold kitchen and a mountain of laundry, and for the first time, we couldn’t force her back.
​”He will pay for this,” Uncle George growled as he slammed the car into gear. “They will all pay.”
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