MaskedAuthor07
I buried my husband on Monday.
I was 24. I wore white, not black. I didn't cry because in our culture, a widow who cries too much is said to be calling the ancestors to take her too.
His name was Sipho. He was my first love. My everything. We were married for only 2 years.
On Tuesday morning, before his grave was even dry, the elders came to my hut.
My mother-in-law looked me straight in the eyes and said the words that ended my life as I knew it:
"Nomusa, you are still young. You are still ours. By tomorrow, you will wash your hands and marry his brother. That is ukungena. That is our tradition."
His brother.
Jabulani.
The same Jabulani who never liked me. The same Jabulani who is light-skinned, handsome, and cold as stone. The same man who told Sipho not to marry me.
And on the other side, there's Musa - Sipho's older brother, dark-skinned, soft-spoken, the one who has always secretly looked at me like a woman, not a sister-in-law.
I don't want to marry anyone. I want my husband back.
But I am a Zulu woman. I have no choice.
Or do I?
What happens when tradition forces you to marry the brother of the man you loved? And what if you start to fall for him?
A story about culture, grief, forbidden love, and a woman who must choose between her heart and her tribe.