LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife Novel Chapter 12

LETHUTHANDO: The Traditional Wife
​Chapter 12
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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​The midday sun beat down on the dusty pavement as we stood by the roadside, the smell of exhaust fumes lingering in the air. I looked at my mother, my mind racing with a mental checklist of hardware supplies.
​”Okay, Mama, first things first,” I said, counting off on my fingers. “We need to buy some corrugated iron sheets, some roofing poles, and a sturdy door. If I’m going to start this business, the structure has to be right.”
​Mama waved a dismissive hand, a knowing glint in her eye. “Wait, what for? There’s a caravan sitting in our backyard gathering dust. You can use that.”
​I blinked, surprised. “Are you sure? Does Papa know?”
​”We aren’t using it anyway, so yes, I’m sure.”
​I bit my lip, a teasing smile playing on my face. “Mom… are you making executive decisions without your husband?”
​She let out a short, sharp laugh. “For sure he’ll agree with me. Instead of wasting money on poles and zinc, use the caravan. He can even drive you there and bring you back. For now, we focus on the essentials: takeaways, plastic utensils, and stock. Maybe you should add some cold drinks to your menu?”
​”I agree,” I nodded, the vision of my little mobile kitchen starting to take shape.
​”Look, let’s just go home instead,” Mama suggested, stepping toward the curb to hail a taxi. “We’ll plan the menu properly tonight and go shopping tomorrow. And we’re canceling that ‘taste batch’ you mentioned. Your father and I will be your official tasters.”
​”I can also trust my instincts as a chef, Ma,” I said, my voice firm with a newfound confidence. “I can make this work. Trust me.”
​”I hear you, Ndondo. I do. Now, let’s just get home.”
​We climbed into the cramped taxi, the engine rattling as we merged into traffic. I was staring out the window, lost in thoughts of spices and floor plans, when my phone vibrated in my lap. It was Nozipho.
​”Hey,” I said, pressing the phone to my ear over the roar of the taxi’s engine.
​”Hey! I heard you went back to your parents’ house,” Nozipho’s voice was bright, filled with a warmth that made my chest tighten. “You did good, girl. I’m so proud of you right now—for finally choosing yourself.”
​A heavy weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying seemed to shift. “I’m proud of myself too. I feel… lighter.”
​There was a brief pause on the other end. “But I know you wouldn’t have left if my brother was still there.”
​I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the vibrating glass of the window. “I’m not going to deny that. He’s the reason I went to your house in the first place. I love your brother, Nozipho. God knows I do.”
​”I know,” she said softly. “But does he?”
​I felt a sting of frustration. “Not you too,” I groaned. First my mother, now her.
​”It’s just a question, Lethuthando.”
​”I know. But he does love me, okay? I’ve seen it. And besides,” I added, grasping for the most logical proof I had, “he wouldn’t have married me if he didn’t.”
​Nozipho sighed, choosing not to push further. “Look, can we meet and talk? It’s still early and I need you with me. I’m going for my wedding cake tasting today at one o’clock. Can you make it?”
​I checked the time. “That’s like an hour away!”
​”I know, I’m sorry for the short notice. I wanted to ask earlier, but you were going through so much and I didn’t want to add to the pile…”
​”It’s okay, don’t apologize,” I cut her off. “I’m on my way home now.”
​”Perfect. I’ll ask my man to pick you up.”
​”Wait—I wouldn’t want to meet him for the first time like that, looking like a mess from the taxi,” I protested.
​”Chill. I’ll see you soon,” she said, ending the call before I could argue.
​My mother glanced at me, her eyebrows raised. “Who was that?”
​”Nozipho. She wants me to join her for a cake tasting.”
​Mama squeezed my hand gently. “Enjoy yourself.”
​”But what about the menu planning?”
​”We live under one roof, Ndondo. We have all night. She needs her maid of honor right now. Don’t disappoint her.”
​The taxi dropped us off near our street, and as we walked toward the house, we noticed a sleek, polished car idling at our gate. A man stepped out as we approached. He was impeccably dressed, smelling of expensive cologne—the kind of man who looked like he had never spent a day waiting for a taxi.
​”Sawubona,” my mother said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
​”Sawubona, Ma,” he replied politely.
​”What are you doing at my house?”
​”My fiancée asked me to pick up her friend. She lives here.”
​Mama looked him up and down. “I guess you’re Nozipho’s man?”
​He looked at me and gave a brief, professional nod. I offered a warm smile and reached out for a handshake, but he simply turned and opened the backseat door for me, his expression unreadable.
​I climbed in, feeling a bit awkward, and watched through the window as he said a brief goodbye to my mother before sliding into the driver’s seat. The car purred to life—a stark contrast to the rattling taxi I had just left.
​”I’m Lethuthando, by the way,” I said, trying to break the ice.
​He glanced at me through the rearview mirror but remained silent. I shrugged and turned my gaze to the passing houses. After a few minutes of suffocating silence, I tried again.
​”Can you turn on some music? Gently, please.”
​He didn’t touch the dial. “My fiancée wouldn’t appreciate me talking to her friends.”
​I frowned. “I’m not just her friend. I’m her sister-in-law.”
​”She’ll have to confirm that,” he said, his voice cold and clipped. “Until it’s confirmed, please don’t say anything more until we get to her.”
​I nodded slowly, leaning back into the leather seat. He clearly respected Nozipho—perhaps to a fault. I wondered what kind of history led to such a rigid rule, but I kept my mouth shut.
The car ride remained heavy with a silence that felt more like a barrier than a courtesy. Nozipho’s fiancé—whose name I still didn’t know—drove with a clinical precision, his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. When we finally pulled up to a chic, glass-fronted boutique bakery in the suburbs, I felt a wave of relief.
​Nozipho was already there, pacing near the entrance in a vibrant floral dress. As soon as I stepped out of the car, she rushed over and pulled me into a hug that smelled of expensive perfume and nervous excitement.
​”You made it!” she squealed, pulling back to inspect my face. “You look tired, but you’re here. That’s what matters.”
​”I wouldn’t miss it,” I said, smoothing down my clothes, feeling suddenly conscious of my “taxi-rumpled” appearance next to her polished elegance.
​Her fiancé climbed out of the car, his expression softening only slightly as he approached her. He gave her a brief, chaste kiss on the forehead. “She’s here, as requested,” he said, his voice finally losing that icy edge.
​”Thank you, babe,” Nozipho beamed, looping her arm through mine. “Go find a seat, we’ll be right in.”
​As we walked into the bakery, the air was thick with the scent of vanilla bean, toasted sugar, and high-end chocolate. A private table had been set up in the corner, adorned with lace linen and small silver forks.
​”So,” Nozipho whispered as we sat down, “what do you think of him? Cold, right? But he’s loyal. He won’t even look at another woman if I’m not in the room.”
​”I noticed,” I replied with a small smile. “He’s… very disciplined.”
​A woman in a crisp white apron approached us, carrying a slate board featuring six miniature cake towers, each a different shade of cream and gold.
​”Ladies,” she began, “we have Lemon Elderflower, Red Velvet with a salted cream cheese, Traditional Fruitcake with a modern brandy soak, and my personal favorite—the White Chocolate and Raspberry.”
​Nozipho picked up a fork, but she didn’t dig in immediately. She looked at me, her expression turning serious. “Ntando, I asked you here for the cake, yes, but also because I’m so relieved you’re out of that house. I know you love Khulubuse—I know you haven’t given up on your marriage—but staying there with his mother while he’s away was killing you. You did the right thing by leaving that house, even if he isn’t back yet.”
​I took a bite of the Lemon Elderflower. The tang hit my tongue, sharp and sweet. “It was getting to be too much, Zipho. I love your brother, and I’m waiting for him, but I couldn’t keep being treated like a servant with no voice. Going back to my parents’ house… it’s just for now. Until he comes home and we can figure out our own life.”
​I didn’t mention the caravan. I didn’t mention the plans Mama and I had started to whisper about. It felt too fragile to share yet, like a secret recipe that hadn’t quite finished rising.
​Nozipho nodded slowly, tasting a bit of the Red Velvet. “My brother is a fool for leaving you alone with her for so long. He thinks tradition means a wife who suffers in silence. He doesn’t realize he married a woman who has her own strength.” She sighed, then pushed the slate board toward me. “Pick the best one. I trust your palate more than the baker’s.”
​I tasted each one, my mind drifting for a second to the peace of my mother’s home compared to the storm I’d left behind at the Zondos’. I chose the Raspberry White Chocolate; it was sophisticated, yet held a hidden tartness that felt honest.
​”This one,” I decided. “It’s beautiful, but it has bite.”
​”Perfect,” Nozipho smiled, signaling the baker. “Just like us.”
​As we laughed, my phone buzzed in my bag. I ignored it at first, wanting to savor this rare moment of peace, but it buzzed again. And again.
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​THOKOZILE ZONDO
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​The house felt like a cage. I’d been forced to skip work because my mother had vanished early this morning—only she and the Almighty knew where. Missing work meant a decrease in my salary, a luxury I couldn’t afford.
​I was rubbing my temples in my bedroom when the door burst open. Sbahle came running in, her face pale.
​”Mama! Ntando got burnt!”
​”Burnt?” I bolted upright, my heart leaping into my throat.
​”We were hungry, so we tried to make tea,” she sobbed. “I didn’t see him get under my feet. The hot water spilled on his head.”
​”Why didn’t you call me if you were hungry?!” I yelled, shoving past her and rushing to the kitchen.
​The sound of my baby’s screams hit me like a physical blow. I found him huddled on the floor, his skin already beginning to blister.
​”Why didn’t you tell me, Sbahle? Since when do you make food in this house?”
​”You told us not to disturb you!” she wailed.
​”Well, you should have!” I snapped, my hands shaking as I reached for him. “Look at your brother! Look at his hand! Arha, man! Go get his clinic card. Now!”
​I scooped him up, my mind spinning with guilt and anger. Where was Lethuthando? She was always the one who handled the chaos. I looked around the messy kitchen, feeling the walls closing in. I couldn’t do this. I simply couldn’t do this anymore.
We rushed to the clinic and joined the line. The plastic chairs in the clinic waiting room were cold and smelled of antiseptic, a sharp contrast to the sweet, vanilla-scented air I had left behind at the bakery. Thokozile sat on the edge of her seat, bouncing Ntando on her lap. The boy had finally stopped screaming, his cries reduced to rhythmic, hitching sobs that tore at her chest.
​A thick layer of white cooling ointment covered the side of his face and his small hand, wrapped loosely in gauze by a hurried nurse.
​”He’ll be fine, Mama,” the nurse had said, barely looking up from her clipboard.
“But you need to keep the area clean. No scratching. Come back in three days.”
​Thokozile looked down at her son. Her blouse was stained with tea and tears, and her hair was coming undone. The exhaustion of the day—the missed work, the halved salary, the terror of the accident—was curdling into a bitter resentment.
​”Sbahle,” she hissed at her daughter, who was sitting two chairs away, looking small and terrified. “If you had just waited. If you had just asked…”
​”I was hungry, Mama,” Sbahle whispered, her lip trembling.
​Thokozile closed her eyes. She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Her thumbs flew across the screen, the glass nearly cracking under the pressure of her anger. She didn’t care that Lethuthando was with Nozipho. She didn’t care about “choosing yourself.” She only cared that her life was falling apart and the woman who usually caught the pieces wasn’t there to hold them.
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LETHUTHANDO DLOMO
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​I pulled my phone from my purse. The screen was lit up with a string of notifications from Thokozile. My heart hammered against my ribs as I read them.
“​Lethuthando! Where are you? Ntando is burnt!”
​
“​The kids tried to make tea because nobody was here to feed them. Hot water everywhere. I’m at the clinic.”
“​I had to miss work for this. My salary is gone. Is this what you wanted? To leave us in a mess like this?”
​
​”You need to come back and continue from where you left off.”
​I stared at the last message and sighed. I looked at the beautiful raspberry cake on the table, and suddenly, it tasted like ash. Thokozile was born to ruin people’s good moods, honestly.
​”What is it?” Nozipho asked, leaning forward, her smile fading. “Ntando, you’ve gone pale. What happened?”
​I looked at her, my hands trembling.
“It’s Thokozile. The baby… he got burnt. They’re at the clinic.”
​Nozipho’s eyes hardened, but not with fear—with annoyance.
“And let me guess? She’s blaming you? She’s telling you it’s your fault for not being there to be their shadow?”
​”She says the kids were hungry,” I whispered, the old habits of the Zondo household pulling at me like a tide.
“She says I left them in danger.”
​”Lethuthando, look at me,” Nozipho said, grabbing my wrist firmly.
“You are a wife, not a 24-hour nanny. She is their mother. If she can’t boil a pot of water or watch her own children for one afternoon, that is on her, not you.”
​I looked at the phone again.I took a deep breath, the scent of expensive sugar finally clearing the phantom smell of antiseptic from my nose. Nozipho was right. Every time I had prioritized the Zondos’ comfort over my own soul, I had lost a piece of myself.
“You’re right. I’m not going to delete these messages and block her number.” I said and turned the phone face down on the lace tablecloth.
​”Good,” Nozipho said, a small, proud smile touching her lips. “Now, taste the Fruitcake. We still have a wedding to plan, and I refuse to let Thokozile ruin my afternoon or your freedom.”
​I picked up the silver fork. My heart was still pounding, and a part of me felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, but for the first time in years, I wasn’t jumping off to save someone else. I was just standing there, breathing.