BECOMING
CHAPTER 3
CHULUMANCO MSUTU
The whispers started like distant thunder, low and rumbling, rolling through the village paths before the storm hit. I felt them before I heard them. It was in the way aunties paused at their gates when I walked by, their eyes flicking to my waistline, then up to my face with that knowing half-smile. “Molo, Chulu,” they would say, voices sweet as overripe mango, but their gaze lingered too long on my fuller cheeks, my looser skirts. I’d simply nod back, “Molweni, ma,” and hurry on, pretending I didn’t notice.
Entabeni was small, too small for secrets. Everyone knew everyone’s business, or thought they did. By week two after the test, the gossip had sprouted roots. I overheard it at the spaza shop while buying sugar: Two women, backs to me, murmuring behind the shelves. “Niyambona u Chulu uqushuqhushu ngoku? Ndiyathemba akazi naxanduva for umama wakhe.” [Do you see that Chulu is chubby now? I hope she is not bringing any responsibly for her mother.] Laughter, sharp as thorns. “Maybe it’s from all that ‘business’ she’s doing. Selling creams, but who’s buying her story?”
My face burned. I grabbed the sugar and left without my change, the coins forgotten on the counter. How did they know? I wasn’t showing, not really. My stomach was still flat, hidden under loose tops. The weight was in my hips, my face, subtle shifts I blamed on the better food from my earnings. But villages had eyes everywhere. Maybe someone saw me buy the test in town. Maybe Zinzi let something slip, no, she wouldn’t. I hadn’t even told her yet.
The glances multiplied. Uncle Sipho at the water tap, filling his bucket, his eyebrows raised as I passed. “You’re glowing, ntombi,” he’d say, but it wasn’t a compliment. It was a question mark. Even the kids stared, whispering behind grubby hands. I kept my head high, focused on the business. Orders were coming in, R4200 this month already, thanks to a viral TikTok Zinzi edited. But every sale felt tainted now, like they were buying pity as much as products.
Mama noticed too. Not the gossip, she rarely left the house, but me. I’d catch her watching from her bed, her eyes soft with concern. “You’re eating more,” she’d say casually over supper, spooning pap onto my plate. “And sleeping like the dead.” I’d shrug, mumble about the heat tiring me out. But lies sat heavily in my mouth, especially to her. Mama had raised me alone after tata left, her truths raw and unfiltered. “No secrets in this house, mntanam,” she’d always said. “They fester like wounds.”
It came to a head one evening, the air thick with impending rain. I was packing an order, a brightening serum for a customer from the city when Mama called from her room. “Chulu, come here.”
Her voice was firm, no room for delay. I set down the jar and went, heart thudding. She was sitting up, her bad leg propped on pillows, the disability grant form half-filled on her lap. The room smelled of Vicks and lavender oil, comforting but claustrophobic.
“Sit,” she said, patting the bed. I did, avoiding her eyes.
She took my hand, her skin rough from years of factory work. “Look at me.”
I did. Her face was lined, but her gaze was steady, piercing.
“Umithi?” [Are you pregnant?]
The question hung there, simple and shattering. My throat closed. I could lie, say no, blame the weight on stress. But her eyes held mine, full of love and knowing. Lying to Mama would break something in me.
Tears pricked first, then spilled. “Yes,” I whispered. “I’m… I’m pregnant.”
She didn’t gasp or pull away. Instead, she squeezed my hand tighter. “How far?”
“Twenty weeks. I… I took a test last week. It said 20+.”
Her brow furrowed. “And you didn’t tell me? Chulu…”
“I was scared, Mama. I didn’t even know until recently. I don’t even have a bump, just… tired. And the father…” My voice cracked. “I don’t know who he is.”
She pulled me into her arms then, her embrace strong despite the pain in her leg. I sobbed into her shoulder, the weight of it all pouring out, the hotel, the blackout, the note, the money. She listened without interrupting, rubbing my back in slow circles.
When I finished, she leaned back, wiping my tears with her thumb. “Oh, mntanam. That night… Zinzi should have watched you better. But it’s done. The baby is here, a gift from God, even if the path was dark.”
“But abantu belali….” [The village people]
“Let them talk. They’ve talked about us before. We’re stronger than their words.” She placed a hand on my belly, gently. “We’ll do this together. You, me, and this little one.”
Relief flooded me, warm and unexpected. For the first time since the two lines, I didn’t feel alone.
That night, after Mama slept, I messaged Zinzi: “Need to talk. Urgent. Come over tomorrow?”
She arrived early, before the sun baked the earth. I pulled her into the yard, away from Mama’s ears at first. “What’s wrong?” she asked, eyes wide. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
I took a breath. “I’m pregnant.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What? How? Who?”
I told her everything, the symptoms, the test, the timeline back to her brother’s umgidi. Her face paled. “That night… I think both of us blacked out. I thought I left you in my room to sleep. But when I checked in the morning, you were gone. I figured you went home.”
“Gone?” My stomach twisted. “Zinzi, I woke up in a hotel. Naked. With a note and money.”
She gasped, hand to mouth. “Oh God, Chulu. I’m so sorry. I should have stayed with you.”
Tears came again, but she hugged me fiercely. “You’re not alone. I’m here. Auntie Zinzi reporting for duty.”
We laughed through the tears, and just like that, my circle grew. Mama and Zinzi became my anchors.
The pregnancy unfolded in waves. First trimester had been hidden nausea; now, in the second, energy returned. My belly finally rounded, a gentle swell under my dresses. The gossip peaked “Confirmed! U Chulu ukhulelwe engatshatanga.” but I ignored it, head in the business. Zinzi shot pregnancy-safe product demos: “Glow naturally with Hazel—perfect for moms-to-be!” Sales jumped to R5800 that month.
Mama fussed over me, boiling ginger tea for any hint of queasiness, rubbing my feet when they swelled. “Eat for two,” she’d say, pushing extra pap my way. Zinzi drove me to clinic appointments in her family’s bakkie, holding my hand during ultrasounds. “Look at that heartbeat,” she’d whisper. “Strong like his mama.”
The third trimester hit hard. My back ached from packing orders, feet ballooned like loaves. Earnings dipped to R4500, harder to travel for deliveries, but online held strong. Zinzi took over photos, editing from her phone. “You’re a warrior,” she’d say.
The village softened some. Auntie Nomsa brought vetkoek one day, sheepishly. “For the little one.” But others whispered louder: “Poor girl, raising it alone.”
I didn’t care. The baby kicked now, a reminder of life ahead.
Labor came suddenly, a Thursday dawn. Pain ripped through me like fire. “Mama!” I gasped. She hobbled up, called Zinzi. They bundled me into the bakkie, racing to the public hospital in town.
The ward was chaotic, women moaning, nurses shouting, fluorescent lights buzzing. Zinzi held my left hand, Mama, my right. “Breathe, mntanam,” Mama said. Hours blurred: contractions, sweat, screams. “Push!” the midwife urged.
Then, a cry, loud, indignant. “It’s a boy!”
They placed him on my chest, fat and wrinkled, cheeks like plump dumplings, eyes squinting against the light. Kungawo. That’s what I named him. Love hit like a tidal wave, fierce, all-consuming. His tiny fingers curled around mine, and the world narrowed to him.
“I love you,” I murmured, kissing his damp head. “I’ll protect you. Provide for you. Always.”
Zinzi cried, snapping photos. Mama beamed, tears streaming.
We went home two days later, Kungawo bundled in a blanket Mama had knitted. The business waited, orders piled up, but I took a week, just us. Then back to it: Nursing between calls, packing with him in a sling. Earnings rebounded to R6200. Good month.
Five years later, and here we are. Kungawo’s almost five now, a whirlwind of energy with my eyes and a smile that lights the village. He doesn’t talk, doctors say he might be autistic, maybe, but he communicates in hugs, drawings, the way he points at birds. The business thrives: R7000 on peak months, a small team under me. Mama’s leg is better with the physio I pay for. Zinzi’s still my rock, Auntie to my boy.
Life’s not perfect, the whispers never fully stopped, and I wonder about his father sometimes.