LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife Novel Chapter 11

LETHUTHANDO :The Traditional Wife
CHAPTER 11
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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​The next morning, the smell of coffee was the only thing that got me out of bed. I prepared myself for my doctor’s appointment before leaving my room. My mother was already dressed, looking sharp in her Sunday best even though it was a Saturday.
​”Are you ready for the doctor?” she asked, handing me a glass of water.
​”Thank you. I am ready,” I said, though my stomach was in knots. “But Ma… what if he says the same thing? What if I really can’t have kids?”
​”You can adopt, there’s also IVF and ICSI. We are going to a specialist, Ndondo. Not a village clinic.”
​As we drove toward the city for the appointment, my phone buzzed in my lap. It was a message from Khulubuse.
​“I’m starting the early shift. Hope you’re okay. Don’t work too hard helping your mother today. Love you.”
​I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through me.
​I typed back: “I’m okay, Khula. Drive safely. I love you too.”
​I put the phone away and looked out the window. Today was about my health. Tomorrow was about business. I was finally taking control of my life, but I couldn’t help but feel like the foundations of my marriage were shifting in ways I couldn’t yet see.
***
The waiting room of the specialist’s office was a world away from the crowded, dusty benches of the village clinic. Here, the air was cool and smelled of lavender and expensive floor wax. There were no crying babies or grandmothers whispering about who was cursed; there was only the soft tick of a wall clock and the rustle of magazines.
​My mother sat beside me, her hand resting firmly on my knee. She was my anchor, but even she looked a little tense.
​”Lethuthando Dlomo?” the nurse called out, offering a professional smile.
​We followed her into a bright, modern office. Dr. Mthembu was a woman with kind eyes and a presence that commanded respect. She didn’t look at me with the pity. She looked at me like a puzzle she intended to solve.
​”So, Lethuthando,” she began.
“Have you ever tested for fertility before?”
​”No, Doctor,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“My husband believes in ancestors and tradition so he feels like western doctors are liars and a waste of time. We went to a healer instead, countless times and he said I’m the one with a problem. My in-laws… they believe it is my fault.”
​Dr. Mthembu closed the folder she was writing on and leaned forward.
“In many cases, the woman is the only one tested because of traditional beliefs. But fertility is a partnership. I believe your husband has never been tested?”
​I looked at my mother, then back at the doctor.
“No. He… he wouldn’t. He thinks because he is a man, he is fine.”
​The doctor nodded knowingly.
“We will start with you, just to be thorough. I want to do an internal ultrasound today and some specialized blood work to check your hormone levels and your egg reserve. But I want to be very clear with you, Lethuthando—stress does play a role, but so does the physical health of both partners.”
“I hear you doctor.” I answered.
“Please get on the bed”
I did as told, already thinking about the results. I’m scared, not for Khula or his family but for myself. I would love to have kids one day and the thought of not being able to have one breaks my heart.
The cold gel on my stomach was a stark reminder of why I was here. I stared at the monitor, my breath hitched in my throat, waiting for the words that usually broke me. She tried to make conversation with me. I ended up venting, telling her about my in-laws and husband. My mother sat in the corner of the small room, her lips moving in a silent prayer.
​Dr. Mthembu moved the transducer with practiced precision. She was quiet for a long time, her eyes scanning the black-and-white images with an intensity that made my heart race.
​”Doctor?” I whispered, unable to bear the silence any longer. “Is it… is it bad?”
​She stopped moving and looked at me, a genuine, warm smile breaking across her face. She wiped the gel from my stomach and sat back in her chair, clicking through the images.
​”Lethuthando, I’ve looked at your scans and the tests we ran just now,” she began, her tone firm and certain.
“What I can tell you right now: there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Your ovaries are healthy, your fallopian tubes are clear, and your hormone levels are perfect. In fact, you are very much fertile.”
​The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. I felt like I had been underwater for three years and had finally surfaced.
“I… I’m fertile?”
​”Very,” Dr. Mthembu emphasized.
“Physically, you are in prime condition to conceive. If there is a reason why you aren’t falling pregnant, it isn’t coming from your body.”
​My mother let out a loud, emotional sob, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Oh, thank you, Jesu. Thank you.”
​But as the relief washed over me, it was followed by a cold, hard realization. If I was healthy—if I was “very much fertile” as the doctor said—then the problem wasn’t me.
​”Doctor,” I said, my voice trembling. “If I am fine… does that mean…?”
​Dr. Mthembu softened her expression.
“It means, Lethuthando, that the focus needs to shift. In my experience, when a woman is as healthy as you are and still isn’t conceiving after years, we have to look at the husband. It is highly likely that your husband needs to be the one seen by a specialist.”
​I felt a chill run down my spine. Khulubuse. The man whose family had called me a “dry stone.” The man who had watched silently as his sister and mother mocked my “silent womb.”
​”He won’t come,” I whispered.
“He thinks his manhood is the proof of his fertility.”
​”Then he is mistaken,” she said gently.
“But for today, I want you to carry this truth: You are not a ‘broken’ woman. You are not the reason for the empty cradle. You are whole.”
“Thank you doctor.”
I fixed myself and we walked out of the clinic in a daze. The bright sunlight of the afternoon felt different on my skin. I wasn’t a failure. I wasn’t a curse on the Zondo family. I was a healthy woman who had been gaslit into believing I was the problem.
​”Don’t tell him yet,” my mother said as we reached the car, her voice protective.
“Don’t tell any of them. They used this against you to keep you small, Ndondo. Now you have the truth, and the truth is your power. You keep it until you are ready.”
​I nodded, clutching my handbag where the medical report was tucked away. I thought of Khula in Joburg, and I thought of the Zondos waiting back at the village. A strange, new fire was burning in my chest.
​My phone buzzed. A text from Khula: I’ve sent you lunch money. Enjoy!
​I didn’t reply. I just looked at the report again. I was fertile. And if the Zondos wanted a child, they were looking at the wrong person.
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KHULUBUSE ZONDO
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​The Monday morning rush in Johannesburg was a beast of its own. The city felt alive, a restless sea of people pushing to get to work, and I was right in the thick of it. I had already finished two long-distance trips, my pockets heavy with the day’s first takings. By 10:00 AM, my mood would be as grey as the smog over the M2, but today was different.
​I was idling at the rank, leaning against the door of my Quantum and watching the world go by, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a message from the association, but my heart did a small, unexpected skip when I saw the name on the screen.
​Amanda.
​I didn’t even wait for the second ring.
“Hello?”
​”Good morning, Khulubuse,” she said, her voice sounding like a melody over the grit of the taxi rank.
“I was just sitting here at the boutique having my morning coffee, and I found myself wondering if the most handsome driver in Jozi had started his day yet.”
​A wide, genuine smile broke across my face. I stepped a few paces away from the other drivers, seeking a bit of privacy near the fence.
“I’ve been up since four, Amanda. The city doesn’t wait for handsome men to get their beauty sleep.”
​
She laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that made me forget about the heat radiating off the asphalt.
“Four am? My goodness. You really are a hard worker, aren’t you? I like that. A man with drive—pun intended.”
​”You’re sharp,” I chuckled, kicking a loose stone.
“What about you? Are you already busy with those dresses you mentioned?”
​”A little. But honestly? I’d rather be sitting in the passenger seat of a certain white Quantum, seeing where the road takes us.”
​We talked for fifteen minutes, and for every second of it, I felt ten years younger. We didn’t talk about family, we didn’t talk about expectations, and we didn’t talk about the village. She told me about a new song she loved and teased me about my “serious” voice. It was easy. It was effortless.
​”I have to go, Khula,” she said, her voice dropping to a playful whisper.
“A customer just walked in and she looks like she’s in a hurry to spend money. But… talk to me later? Maybe when the sun goes down?”
​”Definitely,” I said, unable to wipe the grin off my face. “Have a good day, Amanda.”
​”You too, Gentleman.”
​I hung up and stood there for a moment, staring at the screen. The constant noise of the rank—the hooting, the shouting, the whistling—seemed to fade into the background. I felt a surge of energy I hadn’t felt in a long time. ​I hopped back into the driver’s seat and checked the visor mirror, straightening my collar. I felt good. I shifted the taxi into gear and pulled out into the street, humming a tune I’d heard on the radio, things are going good, my wife is okay, I’m finally working, the only thing left, is a baby that we’ve been trying for.