Loving a married Xhosa man

10.

Dikeledi

I didn’t even realize I’d left the door unlocked when I stumbled into my apartment. The weight of Msimelelo’s lies pressed down on me with every shaky step I took. As soon as the door clicked shut, I crumpled to the floor, burying my face in my hands, and let the tears I’d been holding back pour out. My shoulders shook uncontrollably, and a sob tore through my chest as I thought of every moment we’d shared, every promise, every look - each one suddenly warped by the truth I’d learned today.

He was married.

The words echoed in my mind, sharp and unrelenting. Married. How could he have looked me in the eyes, made me feel like I was his world, and hidden something so huge? I reached for the nearest bottle of wine, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the cap. The need to drown out the pain was almost instinctive.

The first gulp burned, but I barely noticed. I drank until the room blurred, until the ache in my chest felt muffled, almost distant. I leaned against the wall, clutching the bottle, my knees drawn up to my chest as I rocked slowly back and forth, hoping somehow that the movement would soothe the storm raging inside me.

The hours drifted by in a fog. At some point, I opened another bottle, but I couldn’t remember when. My mind was a tangled mess of memories, his touch, his voice, the warmth of his presence, all twisted now, tainted by this one undeniable fact. He belonged to someone else.

Eventually, the darkness wrapped around me, and I lost track of everything.
-
A throbbing headache tore me from the depths of sleep.

I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings, only to realize I was lying in bed. My body felt heavy, as if weighed down by sand, and my mouth was dry and bitter from the wine. How did I get on the bed? I distinctly remembered sitting on the floor, crying until exhaustion took over.

Slowly, I turned my head to the other side of the bed, and my heart skipped a beat.

Msimelelo was there, sitting with his back to me, his elbows resting on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He looked like he was deep in thought, or maybe just as exhausted as I felt. The sight of him, so close yet somehow so unreachable, brought a fresh wave of confusion.

I struggled to sit up, forcing myself to push through the throbbing in my head.

“How did… did you get in here?” i asked, barely audible.

He didn’t turn to face me, just kept staring forward, his shoulders tense.

“Doesn’t matter.” he replied.

I sat there, stunned by his indifference. A lump formed in my throat, and all the questions and pain I’d been holding back crashed over me.

“Msimelelo… why... why did you lie to me?” I clenched my fists to keep from reaching out to him.

He let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly, and rubbed his hands together as if he were trying to warm them.

“I didn’t lie. I was… I was going to tell you. After the divorce was finalized. It’s not because of you. I’ve been unhappy… long before I met you.”

A bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it.

“So you thought it was better to lead me on? Make me feel like I was special, while hiding this huge part of your life from me?”

"I didn’t want to hurt you. You make me happy, Dikeledi. I thought… I thought maybe we could find happiness together.”

He finally turned, meeting my gaze, and the look in his eyes made my heart twist painfully. There was regret there, maybe even guilt, but also a weariness that I hadn’t seen before.

We sat in silence, each word hanging heavily in the air between us. I wanted to hate him, to push him away and tell him to leave, but seeing him here, looking so defeated, brought a strange sense of calm over me. Part of me clung to the hope that he was telling the truth, that maybe his feelings for me were real despite everything.

Without another word, he stood up.

I watched as he went to my closet, sifting through my clothes, finally choosing a dress and a pair of shoes. My heart raced in confusion - what was he doing? I couldn’t bring myself to ask, too afraid of what his answer might be.

The sound of running water came from the bathroom, and moments later, he returned, his expression softened. He reached out his hand, helping me up, his touch warm and steady against my own shaky fingers. I was too weak, too emotionally drained to resist. He guided me to the bathroom and sat me down by the sink, gently washing my face and hands. His movements were careful, almost reverent, as if he were tending to a fragile piece of glass.

The touch of the water, the sensation of his hands on my skin, grounded me in a way I hadn’t expected.

My emotions still raged beneath the surface, but his care softened the edges, gave me a momentary reprieve from the pain. He helped me into the dress, his hands lingering a bit longer than necessary as he smoothed the fabric over my shoulders. The silence between us was heavy, filled with a thousand unspoken words, yet somehow, in that moment, it was enough.

After he’d made me something to eat, I sat at the table, watching him with a mixture of disbelief and wonder. Here he was, standing in my kitchen, preparing a meal as if nothing had changed. As if he were just a loving partner, caring for me on a quiet morning. It was surreal, almost absurd, but I couldn’t help feeling a warmth spread through my chest. He set the plate in front of me, his fingers grazing mine for the briefest of moments, and my breath hitched.

“Thank you.” I said, looking down at the food, unable to meet his gaze.

He pulled up a chair beside me. We ate in silence, each bite easing the ache in my stomach. I could feel my anger and pain slowly giving way to something else - a small, hesitant hope that maybe we could find a way through this.

As I looked at him, a thought crept into my mind, one that I hadn’t dared entertain before. He was here, choosing to be with me, despite the mess of his life. And maybe, just maybe, that meant something.