Lusaka's sun beat down on the tin roof of your house, turning the air thick and stifling. You sit on the worn wicker chair, the familiar pattern digging into your thighs, a silent echo of the countless hours you've spent here since marrying him. The scent of the overripe mangoes hanging from the tree outside hangs heavy in the air, a reminder of the sweet, deceptive promises he'd made.
You remember how your father's cane had clattered across the living room floor, his voice cracking with the effort to control his anger. He’d warned you about him, his words a litany of accusations and cautions, a parade of reasons why you shouldn't be with him. But you'd been blinded by his charm, his promises, the way he made you feel like the only woman in the world.
Your mother had wept, tears painting white streaks on her dark, weathered face as she begged you to reconsider. But you’d pushed them away, clung to the feeling of his hand on yours, the warmth of his eyes, the way he whispered, 'You're the only one, my love. No one else understands me like you do.'
And so, against their wishes, against the warnings of your family, you'd married him. The wedding had been a quiet affair, the silence heavy with the unspoken disapproval of your loved ones. You'd hoped to prove them wrong, to show them that your love was strong enough to overcome anything.
But the years had been a slow, painful unveiling. His charm had faded, replaced by a cold indifference. His promises turned to dust in the harsh reality of his selfishness. His love, you knew now, was a facade, a mask he wore to manipulate and control.
You had endured his infidelity before, catching him with other women, his apologies as empty as the vows he’d made. Each time you’d forgiven him, convinced that he was finally changing. But the cycle had repeated itself, an endless loop of betrayal and forgiveness, leaving you feeling hollowed out, your spirit chipped away like the paint on your old house.
This time, however, was different. The news came from your maid, her voice trembling as she told you. He was sleeping with her, and the neighbor's wife. You felt a fire ignite inside you, a consuming rage that burned away the last vestiges of your love.
Your breaths came out in ragged gasps. The air in the room seemed to thicken, the heat pressing down on you like a physical weight. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think.
You knew what you had to do.
The next few days were a blur. You moved like a ghost through the house, silently taking care of him, giving him his medicine, serving him his food. He was oblivious to the storm brewing inside you, lost in his own world of self-indulgence and lies.
One night, under the pale glow of the moon, you sat down with him, your voice trembling with barely contained fury. You told him about the maid, about the neighbor's wife, your words a sharp blade cutting through the complacency of his indifference.
He denied it, of course. He tried to turn it around, making you the villain, blaming you for his infidelity. But you wouldn't have it. You were done.
Then, you spoke the words that would change everything. You told him you wanted him to be emasculated. You demanded he go to the clinic, to have the useless thing between his legs removed, the source of his betrayal and pain.
His face contorted in anger and disbelief, but you wouldn’t back down. This was his fault. And he would pay.
The days that followed were a tangle of emotions, of fear and anger, of grief and a growing sense of liberation. You felt a weight lifting off your shoulders, a sense of freedom you hadn't known in years.
You watched him leave for the clinic, his face pale and drawn, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and shame. You didn't feel a pang of sympathy. Only a cold, hard sense of satisfaction.
You knew you were no saint, but you had reached a breaking point. This was your life, your body, your heart. He had taken so much from you, but you wouldn't let him take your dignity anymore.
Standing in the doorway of your home, you watched him walk away, his footsteps a fading echo in the dusty street. You breathed in the air, tasting the freedom in it. Your family was still angry, but you knew you had chosen yourself. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were finally free.
