LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife Novel Chapter 10

LETHUTHANDO : The Traditional Wife
CHAPTER 10
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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​The aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans preceded her, a warm, rich scent that seemed to wrap itself around the room like a familiar shawl. A moment later, my mother appeared in the doorway, balancing a tray laden with golden-brown chocolate muffins and a steaming porcelain cup.
​”I’ve brought you a little something to keep your strength up,” she said softly. She set the tray on the duvet beside me, the springs of the bed dipping slightly as she took a seat. Her eyes searched mine with a mother’s quiet intensity. “How are you feeling, my love?”
​I took a breath, feeling the air reach corners of my lungs that had felt constricted for years. “Lighter,” I answered, and for the first time in a long while, the word didn’t feel like a lie.
​”I’m glad,” she murmured, her hand reaching out to pick up the notebook I had been clutching. She scanned the pages, a small smile playing on her lips. “Shawarmas? Are you drafting your menu already?”
​”I am,” I said, scratching the back of my head in frustration. “But I’m stuck. I don’t know what else to add to the list.”
​She let out a soft, melodic chuckle. “Lethuthando, the world of food is vast. You have so many options.”
​”I want something rare, Mama,” I countered, the ambition bubbling up through my fatigue. “Something nobody else in the neighborhood has. I’m failing to find that ‘spark’ that sets me apart.”
​She reached out and took my hand, her skin warm and grounding. “Rare doesn’t always mean complicated. It means quality. Think of the things we’ve mastered. There’s a Golden Baked Ham and Cheese Crustless Quiche with Herbs—you could sell it by the slice. Or a moist cherry loaf cake. Think of the indulgence of a Milky Bar cheesecake, or strawberry cheesecake crunch bites for those with a sweet tooth. Mini pizzas, artisanal mini pies… and don’t forget those vetkoeks you made this morning; they were perfect.”
​She squeezed my fingers gently.
“I’ve spent time in the Taste Master kitchen, mtanami. I have a lifetime of ideas stored away. You don’t have to carry this dream on your own. I’ll even let you go through my private recipe book to find your signature dishes.”
​A genuine smile broke across my face, the weight on my shoulders lifting another inch. “Thank you, Ma. That would mean everything.” I reached for the coffee, the heat of the cup seeping into my palms, and took a slow, appreciative sip.
​Her expression sobered slightly. “I’ve booked the doctor’s appointment. Tomorrow at eleven.”
​I nodded slowly, the reality of my situation settling back in, though it felt less like a threat and more like a necessary step. After a beat of silence, the question I’d been holding back finally escaped. “How is Dad?”
​”He’s angry,” she admitted. “He’s upset that you didn’t come to us sooner. Why didn’t you, Lethu?”
​I looked down at the coffee swirling in my cup. “Kuyabekezelwa emendweni—one must endure in marriage. That’s what his sister told me. I didn’t want to burden you both with my failures.”
​”Endure?” My mother’s voice took on a sharp, protective edge.
“You should never have taken that to heart. Why accept advice on marriage from someone who has never stood at the altar herself? Know your worth, Lethu. Know what you want. Leaving was the first step toward life. Choose yourself—your health and your peace must always come first.”
​”I hear you, Ma,” I whispered.
​”Everything is going to be okay,” she promised, her smile returning, steady and assuring.
​”I know,” I replied, squeezing her hand back. I cleared my throat, eager to shift the heavy air between us. “Anyway, I was thinking of making slow-simmered garlic herb butter beef tips with buttery baby potatoes for supper tonight.”
​”Now that sounds wonderful,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “It would go perfectly with some fresh steamed bread.”
​I tilted my head, catching her gaze. “Just admit you’re craving it, Ma.”
​She giggled, a youthful sound that filled the room. Suddenly, the vibration of my phone on the nightstand interrupted us. Misikhaya’s name flashed on the screen. I excused myself and answered. “Hey.”
​”Are you feeling any better?” His voice was low, carrying a hint of genuine concern.
​”Much better, thank you.”
​”Good. I’m glad to hear it. I just got off the phone with Nozipho and her fiancé. He’s asked me to be his best man.”
​”That’s wonderful news,” I said, though I noticed the lack of enthusiasm in his tone. “You don’t sound particularly thrilled, though.”
​”It means I have to travel back earlier than I planned,” he sighed. “Fittings and entrance rehearsals for the wedding party. I have to be there by Monday.”
​”I completely forgot about the timeline,” I said, a slight frown crossing my face. “That’s fine, of course. I just hope our paths don’t cross at your mother’s house. I really have no desire to set foot there.”
​”With any luck, you won’t have to. I should get back to work. Can I call you later tonight?”
​I hesitated. The day had been an emotional marathon, and I needed the silence to process. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not today.”
​There was a brief pause on the other end. “I understand. Have a great day then, Lethu.”
​”Bye.”
​I set the phone down to find my mother watching me with curious eyes.
“Was that your brother-in-law?”
​”Yes. We were talking about Nozipho’s wedding preparations.”
​”She’s finally getting married?”
​”She is,” I said, a small spark of joy returning. “And she’s asked me to be her maid of honor.”
​”She deserves every bit of happiness,” my mother said warmly. She paused, her head tilting slightly. “You and Misikhaya sound… close. Like old friends.”
​”Oh, no,” I said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “We’ve only really started talking properly over the last few days.”
​”I see,” she replied, her tone unreadable but kind. “Well, let me go check if your father is back. He went over to Mnisi’s to drop off some meat.”
​”Okay. Thank you for the breakfast, Ma.”
​”Anything for you.” She leaned down, pressed a tender kiss to my forehead, and slipped out of the room. I leaned back against the pillows, the warmth of the coffee and the promise of a new menu finally beginning to soothe the restless ache in my heart. I decided to get off this bed and go start on supper before it’s too late.
The kitchen was my sanctuary, a place where the chaos of my life could be boiled down to precise measurements and steady heat. By dusk, the house was filled with the intoxicating scent of seared beef and toasted garlic.
​I stood at the stove, the weight of the day’s earlier conversations slowly evaporating into the steam of the pots. There was something meditative about the rhythm of chopping—the crisp snap of fresh herbs, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wooden board. For the first time in months, I wasn’t cooking out of obligation or fear of criticism; I was cooking for the people who had carried me back to myself.
​”That smells like a masterpiece in the making,” my father’s voice boomed from the doorway.
​I looked up to see him leaning against the frame, his hands tucked into his pockets. He looked softer than he had that morning, the sharp edge of his anger replaced by a quiet, watchful pride. He walked over to the counter where the baby potatoes sat, glistening in a glaze of herb-infused butter.
​”Mama said you’ve been busy with your menus,” he said, picking up a stray sprig of rosemary.
​”I was, Baba. I have to decide soon because I want to start as soon as I can to keep myself busy.”
​He nodded slowly.
“Good. A woman should have her own hands in the soil. It makes the roots stronger.” He paused, his gaze dropping to the beef tips simmering in the pan.
“I feel disappointed in you, just a little but I know why now. Your mother told me about what your aunt said. I’m sorry Nana. Seeing you like this, knowing what that boy put you through… it makes a man want to tear the world down.”
​”I know, Baba. But the world is still standing. And so am I.”
​He reached out, clumsily patting my shoulder—a rare gesture of physical affection. “You are. And as long as you’re under this roof, you won’t have to stand alone. Now, is that bread nearly ready? My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.”
​I laughed, the sound bright and clear. “Ten minutes, Baba. Go sit down.”
​Dinner was a slow, soulful affair. We sat around the heavy oak table, the only sound the clinking of silverware and the occasional hum of approval. The beef was tender, falling apart at the touch of a fork, the garlic herb butter soaking into the soft, pillowy steamed bread.
​”This quiche you mentioned earlier,” my mother said, wiping her lips with a napkin. “I was thinking we could try a test batch on Saturday. We can invite the neighbors—just for a tasting. No pressure.”
​”A focus group,” I said, my legal mind momentarily surfacing. “That’s actually a great idea, Ma.”
​”I’ll handle the invites,” my father chimed in, reaching for another potato. “But only if I get to be the official quality control officer. I don’t want you serving anything that hasn’t passed my palate.”
​”Deal,” I smiled.
​As the plates were cleared, my thoughts drifted back to the phone call with Misikhaya. Monday. He would be here by Monday. The thought didn’t bring the usual cold dread I associated with the Dlomo family. Instead, it brought a strange, flickering warmth—a curiosity I wasn’t entirely ready to acknowledge.
​I excused myself to the kitchen to start the dishes, but my mother stopped me.
​”Go rest, Lethu. You have a big day tomorrow. The doctor, remember? Your father and I will handle the cleanup.”
​I didn’t argue. I retreated to my room, the silence no longer feeling like a cage, but a sanctuary. I opened my notebook to a fresh page and, instead of ingredients, I wrote one single sentence at the very top:
‘​The rescue mission is over; the rebuilding begins.’
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KHULUBUSE ZONDO
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​The sun had finally dipped below the Johannesburg skyline, leaving the city draped in a hazy, orange glow that quickly turned to a bruised purple. I pulled the Quantum into the rank, the engine ticking as it cooled down. My back ached, and my eyes felt like they were full of sand after sixteen hours of navigating the chaos of the M1 and the inner-city streets.
​I counted the cash from my last trip, wrapping it tightly with a rubber band. All I wanted was a shower and the thin mattress in my rented room, but as I stepped out of the taxi, a heavy arm draped over my shoulder.
​”Khulubuse! My brother, you look like you’ve been carrying the whole city on your back,” Sipho laughed, his breath already smelling faintly of beer.
​Three other drivers were leaning against a parked taxi, a cooler box already open at their feet. “Come on, Zondo. We’re heading to the local spot just around the corner. One drink to wash away the dust of the road.”
​”No, gents, not tonight,” I said, shaking my head. “I need to send money home and get some sleep. Tomorrow is another 4:00 AM start.”
​”Ah, don’t be like that! One hour won’t kill you,” another driver chimed in. “You’re always working, always serious. You’ll grow old before you reach forty. Just one round!”
​They crowded around me, teasing and pleading until my resolve crumbled. I was tired, and the thought of sitting in a loud, lively place instead of my silent, lonely room started to sound appealing. “Fine. One round. Then I’m leaving.”
​The tavern was packed, the air thick with the smell of grilled meat and the thumping bass of a popular house track. We found a corner table, and the first cold beer felt like heaven against my parched throat.
​”I’m telling you, the traffic at the Gillooly’s interchange was—”
​Sipho stopped mid-sentence, his eyes shifting to someone behind me. I turned around and saw a woman standing there, waiting to get past our crowded table. She was tall, with a bright smile and eyes that seemed to catch the neon lights of the bar.
​”Sorry, let me move this chair for you,” I said, pulling my seat in.
​”Thank you,” she said, her voice smooth. She didn’t move on immediately. Instead, she looked at the taxi association badge pinned to my jacket. “Long day on the road?”
​”Too long,” I admitted, surprised by my own smile.
​”I’m Amanda,” she said, leaning against the pillar next to our table.
​”Khulubuse.”
​”Well, Khulubuse, you look far too stressed for a Friday night. You should try smiling more; it suits you.”
​We ended up talking for a while. She was easy to talk to—she didn’t ask about family politics, didn’t ask for money, and didn’t look at me with the tired, expectant eyes I was used to. She was a breath of fresh air in a city that usually felt like it was trying to suffocate me. She laughed at my stories about difficult passengers, and for a moment, I forgot about the village, the Zondos, and family drama.
​When she stood up to leave with her friends, she lingered for a second. “You’re a nice guy, Khulubuse. It’s rare to find a gentleman in this rank.”
​”I try,” I said, feeling a strange heat in my chest that wasn’t from the alcohol.
​”Give me your phone,” she said simply.
​I hesitated for a heartbeat, thinking of Lethuthando, but then I thought of the peace I felt in this conversation. I handed it over, she meant no harm. She typed in her name and number, then called herself so she had mine.
​”Call me sometime when you aren’t behind the wheel,” she winked and disappeared into the crowd, her laughter blending into the night air. I stared at the slip of paper in my hand for a long time. My heart did a strange, guilty somersault. I thought of Lethuthando—quiet, submissive Lethu, who was currently “helping her mother” back home.
​I felt a sting of betrayal, but as I tucked the paper into my wallet, I told myself it was just a conversation. It was just a number. In a city as lonely as Johannesburg, a man needed someone to talk to who didn’t make him feel like he was constantly failing.