Amile The Queen

Chapter Thirty-Six

***Amile Gumede***

This has been the longest two hours of my life. I didn’t ditch my study timetable to come to Cape Town to sit in an uncomfortable hospital bed. I want to home. I’m sitting here biting my nails in frustration. The husband stepped out claiming to make a call and the pregnancy thought keeps roaming around my head. It can’t happen. No way.
Okay. Let’s count: I arrived to the palace at the end of September, we are now in the fourth week of October, which means I have officially been married for five weeks, that is technically a month and a week. Okay.
I had sex with Bayede on the second week of my arrival, the third week of me staying there. I’m definitely ruling out being pregnant by Nkosi, a week hasn’t even passed. I’m having the kings baby. I want to break down and cry.
When the husband came back, he came back with the doctor. It looks like he’s still on the phone.
“MaMzobe, the doctor is here, let me call you back.” He drops the phone and walks well into the room.
The doctor stands next to my bed with a file.
“I have good news for you my queen. You can go home, I got your blood results back, they were able to speed the results up for you. You are clean, there is nothing wrong with you.”
Relief!
“What do you mean there is nothing wrong with her?” he has questions, I’m just glad I get to go home! Well, back to my holiday.
“She lost consciousness, what was the cause of that?” the doctor looked through his file and shook his head.
“The results came back clear. She’s perfectly healthy. I suspected dehydration or low sugar levels because those are the most common causes of fainting, but none of that is evident in the results. She’s perfectly healthy.” He shook his head.
“Okay then, thank you.” He’s no relieved. Not yet.
The doctor lets him sign the forms before he excuses himself. He helps me out of the bed and I was quite capable of standing on my own two feet. I didn’t feel light headed anymore.
“We have to get to the bottom of this.” He says.
“I’m fine my king.” I laughed a little.
“You scared me.” I shook my head.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, but I’m fine.” He wrapped his arms around my waist to support me, he thought I was falling.
I’m pressed against his body. He kisses my forehead. His heart is beating very fast. He really was scared wasn’t he. At least its not pregnancy.
He helps me with my shoes. I wonder how he dressed me up because I was just out the shower, the thought of him seeing me naked actually freaks me out, but he’s seen me multiple times. I should probably get used to it now.
He’s holding my hand tightly in his. I don’t know if he fears that I’ll run away or faint again, but it shows just how caring he is.
He opens the front seat door for me and I climb in. He makes sure that I’m comfortable and I have my seat belt on before he goes on to his side of the car. I’m not used to seeing him drive himself. It’s very unusual, but he’s a human being.
Before he starts the car, he taps the screen of the monitor, he’s going to contacts. Oh flip, he’s calling MaMzobe.
“Mageba.” She answers with anticipation.
“MaMzobe, nangu uMaGumede.” He looks at me.
“Sawbona Ma.”
“MaGumede, are you okay? What happened?”
“I fainted. I suddenly felt weak and dizzy when I came out the shower. But the doctor didn’t find anything.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling like myself.” She sighs out.
“That’s good then. I’m glad you are okay.”
“Thank you Ma.”
“Try and enjoy the rest of your little holiday okay. Don’t scare us like that again.”
“Yes ma.”
She’s not going to talk to Bayede. Okay? She said her goodbye and dropped the call.
Now that I actually think about this, it is quite strange though that I faint out of nowhere. That doesn’t just happen to anyone. I’ve never fainted before, and for it to happen like this, and for me to wake up perfectly fine with no side effects is questioning. It’s even worse now that the doctors can’t find anything. What is becoming of the last years of my teenage life?


***Mandlenkosi Zulu***

He’s done this before. The only difference between now and then is that now, he’s doing it from the willingness of his heart. The pain and hurt is what is pushing him to do this. It takes a lot for a man, especially a Zulu man to put his pride aside like this and do white people things as his father referred to it.
The last time he saw a therapist, he was in high school and he was booked in by his brother Langalethu. He was in for his behavioural problems in school, and unlike Mhlabawesizwe, Langalethu saw that there was more to his mischievous behaviour than just being a difficult child.
The report given by the therapist back to Langalethu was depression. At only 15 years old, Mandlenkosi was already depressed and his only way of dealing with it was making other people suffer. That’s why he bullied and beat up other kids whenever they angered him. The therapist also said he had anger, lots of it, he was able to control it, but he was only fifteen, there was only so much he could control about himself.
Langalethu told Mhlabawesizwe all of this, he even went as far and showing him the reports when he threatened to pull him out of the sessions. He was adamant on the belief a Zulu man doesn’t have depression, that depression was something for women and if he’s angry he should do stick fighting.
Mandlenkosi was always his mothers egg. She treated him like the last born he was. No matter how depressed she was, she gave her all into loving him, because she didn’t want him to see that side of her like Zwelibanzi did. No child deserves to experience that side of their mother.
That is why Mandlenkosi’s memories of mommy are much fonder than the memories Zwelibanzi has. 
He’s sitting in the chair uncomfortably staring around the room, his heart is beating in his ears, the silence is bringing him anxiety. His eyes are avoiding hers. She’s much younger than he expected, therapists are always old and wrinkly.
“Mr Nkosi Zulu.” She reads from her file.
He breaths out. He rubs his sweaty hands on his thighs.
“Please get comfortable on the chair so we can start.”
Not very welcoming, he thinks to himself. He lifts his legs up to the chair and lies back. He looks up at the ceiling and focuses on the stain. It’s quite large.
“Tell me more about yourself.”
“My name is Mandlenkosi Zulu, I’m 28 and I work as a chemical engineer.”
“I didn’t ask you who you are, I said tell me about yourself.” His heart is racing.
“Your question is hard.” He confessed.
“No one know you better than you. Tell me about yourself, what do you like, what don’t you like?” he took in a deep breath.
“I like soccer. I also like science. I don’t like going back home and I hate my father.” She’s shocked, but she can’t show that, it’s not part of her job description.
“Okay. Your father.”
“What about him?” he asks, not tearing his eyes from the stain on the ceiling.
“You used the words ‘don’t like’ to describe when you listed things you don’t like, but when you talk about him, you used to word ‘hate’. Why is that?” He rubbed his eyes. The stain started moving.
“Because I hate him.” He said blandly.
“Why do you hate him?”
“Because he was never a father to me, being king mattered more than the well being of his son.” She cleared her throat.
“What makes you say this?”
“He never had time for me. It was always Banzi and Langa. Always them, it was never Dumisani or Khethukuthula or Mandlenkosi, it was always Banzi and Langa. Even when my mother was alive, he only served his purpose as a husband, but as a father, nothing. He died without ever giving me a hug. Maybe he did give me one, I just don’t remember, but his love, I never felt it.”
“Did you want to tell him that he loves you?” he shook his head.
“Not in words, not Mhlabawesizwe a Zulu man. But actions speak louder than words, a ‘I’m proud of you son’ when I got the highest marks in the district, or a ‘I’m here for you’ when my mother died. I was only 11, I didn’t know anything, all I needed was a father’s love, not a man telling me I need to grow up when all I needed was to be a child, to be myself.”
“How do you feel about your brothers?” he exhaled.
“Langalethu was the only real brother I ever had. Way more of a man than Mhlabawesizwe and Zwelibanzi combined. A man that was never afraid of feeling. I am here today, committing this ‘taboo’ because of him.” He laughs mockingly.
“That’s what my father called therapy, he called it ‘Taboo’.” He drew in a sharp breath before closing his eyes.
“So you’ve been in therapy before?” She asks after some silence.
“Yes, almost 13 years ago. Mhlabawesizwe pulled me out of it though. He forced Zwelibanzi to come and fetch me from Durban saying I must go back to school. I’m assuming he was also too busy to come fetch me himself.”
“Okay, all I’m hearing from this is you hate Mhlabawesizwe, you don’t like him because he didn’t show you love, but why do you hate your brother?”
“Because he was always on his side. Never on mine. Zwelibanzi got the love I always wanted from Mhlabawesizwe. Why wasn’t I enough?”
“Have you ever sat down and talked to him about this?”
“I have nothing to say to him.” His chest is rising and falling. Tears are burning his eyes.
“Zwelibanzi took away the one person I thought no one could take away from me, and I let him. I hate him and I will never forgive him for doing that to me.” He wipes his tears.
He sits up and looks at her. Her face is scrunched up, as soon as their eyes met, she relaxes her face and looks down at her note pad.
“I think I’ve said enough for today.” He fixes his shirt.
“But your session doesn’t end for another thirty minutes.” She says looking at her wrist watch.
“I’ll pay your for wasting your time.” He stands up.
She also stands up and pulls down her skirt. That seems to draw his attention to her thick thighs and her hips. She also has thick legs and her dark skin us glistening in the sunlight.
“Thank your for coming Mr Zulu.” He rubs his nose and nods.
“Your next session is in two weeks.” She spoke again.
He nods. He doesn’t think he will wait that long to come back. He looks at her little feet again. She startles when she clears her throat.
“Sorry.” He turns and walks out.
Her heels are clicking behind him, he urges to turn around but he keeps his hands deep inside his pockets and walks straight to the door. He opens it and walks away. She stands at the door and stares at him as he walks all the way down the stairs, out their offices.
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He needs a stiff drink after that session, talking about his father brings him nothing but affliction, and it needs to be numbed out. Now that he knows alcohol works, it’s his go to.
He doesn’t keep alcohol in his house because he doesn’t drink, only the beers in his fridge that Jama drinks occasionally. But they have turned into his daily bread, that’s where he found solace and they would wear him out whenever he had more than five bottles. But he’s not cheap enough to continue drinking beer day in day out. He’s sophisticated, he’d rather get drunk off of whiskey or scotch.
So he bought a few bottles of whiskey and took them home. He’s probably going to start a collection. Its still going to be a long two months of living with Amile. She’s only been here for two weeks.
He didn’t feel guilty when they had sex. In fact, it was the best thing he had ever done. He did what he had always longed to do, and that was feel what it was like to be inside of her, make love to her. It was perfect. Not even the thought of his brother being inside of her tainted that night. It didn’t matter. He finally got to be in her arms.
There are laughing voices in the other room. Jama is probably home with one of his many whores he thinks to himself. He starts drinking.
“Zulu?” Jama’s voice echoes behind him.
“Bafo! Ukahle?”
“You are drinking again?”
“Am I not allowed to?” he asked. He’s not turning his head. Instead, he’s tilting his glass to get the last of the droplets of whiskey from his glass.
“Yazi bafo I waited 18 years before I could be allowed to do this, and I foolishly spent another what, 10 not doing it. I’m definitely not going to miss out now. I only live once, right?” he’s already drunk.
“Uxakile Zulu.”
“Ngixake bani, wena?” he shakes his head.
“I’m not your problem Nkululeko. I’m no one’s problem. You just focus on fucking your whores uphume kumina.”
In that moment, Jama wanted to close Nambitha’s ears, or maybe unhear what she just heard, but she’s old enough to associate things. When the silence hits, only then does Nkosi turn around.
“Hawu, Nambitha, right?” he stands.
“Yes my prince.” She bows a little.
“Don’t do that.” She straightened up.
“Don’t let this one trick you into sleeping with him.” He slapped Jama’s shoulder.
“Come on Bafo.”
“Uyazazi mshayi.” Nambitha gave Jama the side eye.
“Nisale kahle ke.” He’s holding his glass and bottle.
He walked to his room, leaving the couple with havoc.