My father's husband.

Betrayal.

An AI generated depiction.

Saturday, the 27th of July, 2019.

On this day, the gods heard the thoughts of the villagers and even before thoughts became prayers, they were quelled with an answer. Businesses were closed and the Sisyphean desire to make money and secure contracts and cloying deals took a pause. They adorned themselves in traditional wear that was only taken out of their closets on special occasions. Wives had the herculean task of ensuring that all children were prepared and smartly dressed in time, even if it solicited using a rod. They knew too well that their husbands did not want to be late for the occasion, and that any anger their husbands would have, would be taken out on them. Vehicles were meticulously cleaned and polished and fuel tanks filled, to avoid any unnecessary detours. Every individual felt the hefty responsibility to grace the much awaited occasion with their presence. On this day, all roads led to Mr and Mrs Sizwe's home.

Back in Mr. Sizwe's compound, he was pacing up and down, ensuring that all was running smoothly. Llanga, on the other hand, was trying to keep up with his pace despite the fact that nature had given him the shorter end of the stick by, allowing him to be born with one leg shorter than the other. He was receiving instructions from Mr. Sizwe on what to correct and what to change. He had worked for this family since he was in his early thirties and knew Mr. Sizwe too well. A formidable and rich business man who had secured lucrative deals and had shared a table with notable individuals, which justified his hubris. Llanga understood that Mr. Sizwe was not one to joke around and required his instructions to be taken with utmost keenness and met with complete compliance. This had made Llanga learn how to run akin to an athlete despite his physical limitations in order to avoid the wrath of Mr. Sizwe's disdain.

Seats, decorated in burgundy ribborns were neatly arranged in a big white tent which was perched on strong, metallic poles. The poles were wraped in burgundy and blue cloths, and the milky, inner satin lining of the tent danced gracefully in the light morning wind, all bringing together a sense of expensive taste.

It was Thandiswa's lobola ceremony (a South African bride price negotiation ceremony).

Now, ideally, this was supposed to be a happy day. But for Thandiswa, it was a nightmare. It was only 9:39 a.m. alright, but the day seemed interminable. Every second dragged by, mocking her with the thoughts of her new reality.

The delectable Ms. Thandiswa was the only child born to Mr. Sizwe and his wife. They brought her up with love and she knew nothing short of a lavish lifestyle. She went to only the best schools and institutions and was even the first from her village to travel abroad for further studies. Thandiswa had grown to like the western modernisation and since her exposure to it, the Xhosa traditional culture which she had grown up knowing, seemed retrogressive. She found some of the ideologies totally mundane.

One of the Xhosa practices that Thandiswa found outdated was arranged marriages. Thandiswa came to believe that marriage should be one's personal choice. Not something to be shoved down their throats. In fact, Thandiswa had decided not to get married but instead, put that time and energy into quenching her unbridled thirst for knowledge. She had decided that she would study all that there was to be studied, as long as she lived. When she was twenty-seven, she had that discussion with her parents and they seemed receptive to it. They promised to support her in all she did.

Five years later however, they utterly betrayed her trust. The same parents who promised to support her, planned her lobola, against her will. She wanted to understand that her parents were under pressure from the villagers. She wanted to understand that her parents were being ostracized by the community around them because they had an unmarried thirty-two year old daughter. She wanted to understand that this ordeal had led to the termination of most of her father's contracts. She wanted to understand that nobody from the village bought her mother's milk because they alluded that it was a bad omen. She wanted to understand that neighbours were always talking behind her parents backs and conspiring against them. She wanted to understand that after her parents had bore enough shame, they sat her down to try and explain the whole situation to her.

But no! They promised! That is all that mattered to her. They had made the bed and no matter how thorny it was, they had to lie on it. Are promises not a bond charged with the responsibility of fulfilment? It broke Thandiswa's heart to know that her parents failed to keep their end of the bargain. Who then could she ever trust?

“Thandi! Are you even listening to me?” Aunt Leleti's voice interpolated the thoughts running through her mind. It brought her back to the present; in her room, getting prepared. “Should I tie it up or down?” Aunt Leleti asked, refering to her hair. Thandi shrugged her shoulders with disinterest and looked away. In the distance, she could hear indistinct voices and a song playing from the PA system. It was Intliziyo by the South African artist, Lloyiso. She felt like the a comodity of trade, being prepared to be taken to the market. She had cried until she had no more tears left in her. The thought of being married off to a man she had never met, let alone heard of, made the vendetta in her double up. How could they do this to her?

As aunty Leleti put an iinqu (Xhosa for a beaded collar) around Thandi's neck, she kissed her cherub cheeks, closed her eyes and planted her forehead on hers and muttered “I know it is not easy, my child, but I'm sure he will be a good husband,” she then opened her eyes and nodded her head subtly as if in a bid to placate the situation.

Thandi felt a warm tear fall from her left eye. “Aunty, that man will never be my husband. Not in this world. Not in the next. He is more for my father than for me. That is my father's husband!”