Tears of Africa

CHAPTER ONE

My journey to hell and back began twenty-five years ago. I knew my husband was abusive but I thought he wanted to change — he told me he wanted to change. He did so much to prove that. He even went to therapy. I know now that I was a fool, and realizing that too late cost me a lot. It cost me everything. My name is Khethiwe Ndlovu; this is the story of how I lost my life.

He was not always like that you know. He had a heart. I was not always married to a monster. When I first met him he was everything I had ever wanted in a man. He assured me safety, happiness and love; I guess that's what they all say. 

I was on my way to the river to collect water and firewood. It was a dark and cold night. Everyone was asleep; my mother, my sister — my father was not — at least that's what I think.

 I don't really know if he was asleep or was somewhere out there chasing a skirt. He abandoned my mother when she told him she was pregnant. I know nothing about him, only that he was a scoundrel and a coward who was afraid to take responsibility for his actions, a womaniser. After he left her, wrongs had to be corrected. In my culture, it is considered an abomination for a woman to raise a child on her own. Her elders refused to let her carelessness bring shame to the family — so they forced his brother to marry her.

Anyways — on my way to the river, a hooded man on a horse appeared. He had a spear in his hand and a peg for a leg. I had never seen someone of his characteristics in the village before. He was new, either a friend or a foe. I continued walking to the river but he followed me. I turned to him and he stopped. I couldn't see his face of course, but his eyes said a lot.

I turned away and continued to the river, and he did the same. I looked around but there was no one, the village was completely asleep. He got off his horse and walked forward, closer to me.  I still remember the words he first said to me, the words that have tormented me for years and still do today — 

"Don't scream," he said. "Don't yell, and don't even think to run." 

Was he to attack me, if so what was he going to do? Was he to rape me or worse, kill me? I looked around and again I saw no one. I felt so helpless and scared. I told my uncle it was too dangerous for me to go out; maybe that's what he wanted, to rid of me.

"Siphukuphuku." 

That's what he said to me when he realised I was looking around, praying for someone to come. 'Siphukuphuku,' that's what we call a stupid person in our language. He laughed at me, coming closer. He reeked of umqombothi. He seemed to have not taken a bath in a while. He talked with his horse and laughed, gloating at how he had found his next meal. I thought I was to die right there and then. 

"Take your clothes off." 

I shook when he said that. I was so scared. My calabash fell and I tried to run away. If I were to survive him, I wouldn't survive my uncle. He would kill me for breaking his calabash. Still, I ran, screaming for help — no one heard me, they were sound asleep.

He caught me. That filthy bastard caught me.

I prayed to my ancestors — amaThongo, for help but they stood there and watched as I suffered. They did nothing — they were disgusted. He pushed me to the ground. I felt repulsed when he touched me. I felt dirty.

 He told me to take my clothes off. I couldn't, I couldn't let him do to me what was done to thousands of women outside. His voice was so cold and gruesome. He was about twice my age. He looked at me with his cold eyes and my body shivered. He forced himself on me, he took off his shirt and I saw a tattoo. It was the kind men in our culture marked themselves with. But how? I had never seen him in the village before.

He was from this village, but — how was it that I had never seen him before. 

There was something familiar about him but I couldn't tell what. His eyes and nose seemed so similar to mine. He had a burnt marking on his chest. That's how my mother used to describe the person who took advantage of her, who left her pregnant and ran away.

He was back. My father — he was back, in the form of a rapist. 

I had always wondered how it would be like, how I would feel if my father were to come back. I wondered how I would react, but that night I felt nothing. I realised that night I was searching for something I already had. The woman who raised me was both a mother and a father to me.

I dared not to say anything. I didn't want him to feel entitled to me. That man was not my father. I screamed. That annoyed him. I begged him to stop, I begged him for mercy. He wouldn't listen; instead he gagged and slapped me. He pushed me around.

I thought it was over. I thought I was dead. But, the man who was soon to be my husband came to my rescue, he might have not been a knight in gleaming armor but he was my knight. He saved me.