For a long time, I have wondered what freedom would taste like. I wondered if it would taste as sweet as the Vanilla sponge cake that I have become so addicted to over the past years or whether I would taste it and know that despite the consequences that I would face for my actions, it would be worth it.
The reality of my actions has not quite hit me yet. I am not surprised by the cold blanket of numbness that covers my heart from feeling. It is a skill I acquired in the first years of my stale marriage. It was a difficult lesson to learn at first. I had high hopes for us. At the tender age of 19, my naïve-self believed that my love was enough to change him. All I had to do was remind myself of the lessons passed down to me by my aunts and grandmother on the eve of my wedding day - “A woman of God does not share her marriage problems with the world Tshidi. Instead, you get on your knees and pray for your marriage ” and my aunt said, “The devil doesn’t want to see happy marriages. He will use everything in his power to destroy what has been bound by God” but the one I tried to apply the most was, “Never ask your husband about his whereabouts. As long as he comes home to you.”
I did it all. Day in and day out, I practised the sacred rules of a successful marriage. I did not ask questions when he came home in the early hours of the morning reeking of perfume. I pretended not to notice the stain of red lipstick that covered his sacred collar. I prayed, I fasted but nothing could shield me from the multiple beatings that fell on me throughout my ‘blessed’ marriage. I kept telling myself that despite how difficult things were, I was ‘blessed’ to be married to such an amazing man. A man of God, a man of honour, a man that led with care and authority.
I remember the first time it happened as if it was just yesterday. It was like any other beautiful Sunday afternoon. We had just entered his church office after his first sermon as a junior Pastor at God’s Grace Fellowship Church. His sermon had touched and healed so many people and this was only the beginning. We both knew after that sermon that he had a bright future at the church.
“I think it’s time we celebrate,” Msizi said, as he shut the door behind us.
I thought that after the honeymoon, my husband’s desires would trickle down to a pace I could keep up with, but as fate would have it, he had no plans of slowing down. It did not quite matter where we were, whether it was a restaurant or in the car when he wanted me there was no stopping him.
“Love,” I whispered as his hand cupped my tender breast.
“Sshh baby. I need this.” Desperation was heavy in his voice.
Despite the discomfort of the wooden table pricking into me, I hushed and allowed my husband to take what was rightfully his.
I had long come to the conclusion that the act of sexual intercourse was primarily created by God for men because as he groaned and wiggled in and out of me, all I could think about was my red lipstick that lightly stains his collar. For a moment as he continued to fill my tight walls, I looked away from the red colour and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Msizi kept telling me that I needed to tune things out so I could become wet. Whatever that meant, it was not working as I stood legs wide open. I could not help but open my eyes and stare at the red stain staring back at me. Slowly, the realisation of what I was looking at began to seep in. I never wore make up. Msizi used to say a true woman of virtue did not need fake hair or muds of foundation, let alone lipstick.
A few more deep pumps and he groaned softly as he spilt his seed into my welcoming belly. A moment of silence passed as he reached for tissues and wiped away the evidence of our, or should I say his, lovemaking. I for one had not moved since I saw his red- stained collar. My eyes, my thoughts. All of it was stuck on red.
“Love? Are you-”
“You have red lipstick on your collar,” I murmured, not bothered by my panties which were bunched up at my ankles or the probability of someone walking-in to the site of my ripe genitals.
Everything that happened after I uttered those words was movie-like. The hard feeling of his hand making contact with my face. The trickle of blood coming from my nose. That right there was the moment my dream life turned into the nightmare that I would suffer for many more years to come. It was the beginning of the end but little did I know that that moment, as horrible as it was, was the day the seed of my desire for freedom was planted in the sand.
Since that day, my tears have watered the planted seed. I’ve wanted nothing more than to wake up and not have to cover my face with mountains of make up, to cover the black and blue hills of bruises that had found permanent residency on my face. I was told I could not wear make up for as long as I can forget but then one day he beat me for not being able to cover the bruises he had violently drawn on me.
At first, I thought he would get over the phase he was going through. I made excuses for him. I blamed it on pressure from the church or the fact that I fell pregnant too soon after being married. As time went on, I began to realise that there was no changing the monster that I was married to. No amount of gifts made me smile any more but the idea of freedom was so compelling that I left it all. The cars, the mansion, the gold. I left it all because I knew that if I did not leave when the opportunity presented itself, that I would leave through a casket. It was freedom or death and I chose freedom. Sadly, now that I am free, I am not quite sure what to do with myself. I should have planned this better; I should have waited.
The taxi has reached the overcrowded Bree Taxi Rank and despite being crammed in between 3 rowdy drunkards, it’s the shrieking baby in the front that reminds me just what I had to give up to gain my new found freedom.
“Short Left,” I shout loudly, hoping that my voice is not drowned by my fellow commuters.
It takes me a while to get out of the taxi. The three men beside me are finding it rather difficult to stand and walk out efficiently, forcing the driver to come and pull them out himself. Hurriedly, I weave myself between fruit stalls, cool drink hawkers and shady-looking men wearing torn up guess t-shirts as I make my way to the next taxi. It has been over ten years since I last set foot in a taxi and I cannot say that I missed it one bit.
An hour later, I find it more and more difficult to keep my emotions in check as I step onto the side walk outside my grandmother’s house. The blanket I had used over the years to cover everything seems to vanish at the sight of home. I have not been here in years; Msizi would not let me visit. He said it was the word of God. And well, he was not lying - Hearken, O daughter, and consider, and incline thine ear; forget also thine own people, and thy father's house; Psalm 45:10
‘Your place is with us now Tshidi. You are no longer a Nkabinde. You are the Junior First lady at God’s Grace. You need to remember that and stop wanting to latch onto your grandmother’s breast like a helpless infant. You are a wife Tshidi and it’s time you act like it.’ He would say each time I asked to pay my family a visit.
At first, I tried to fight it. I would sneak off to Thokoza whenever he went to a conference, but little did I know that I was being watched. One night he returned early from a conference he was attending in Durban. I was planning on only visiting Gogo for a few hours and then return home but Gogo and I had so much to catch up on, I ended up staying the night. Msizi was only meant to be back in the early hours of Sunday morning so I knew I had 24 hours to get back to our home in time. Driving into the driveway I was relieved when I did not see his car parked in the garage. Foolish me had forgotten to check the other garage. Needless to say, I woke up a few days later from an induced coma. I had ‘apparently’ slipped and fallen down a flight of stairs. I never went to Thokoza again.
Despite the small changes that Gogo has made to the exterior of her small face brick house, I would be able to spot it from a mile away. This is my home. 1444 Khumalo Street, Thokoza. I naively left here thinking that I had found the love of my life. I vividly remember Gogo’s elation after receiving a letter from Msizi’s family. She had brought me up with the help of my Malume, Lucas. She always said that I had made her proud and that me being married at a young age was a blessing. Malume Lucas on the other hand was far from happy. His wishes for me were to go to varsity and obtain a Degree. I wish I had listened to Malume. If I had, I would not be standing outside Gogo’s gate with nothing but a suitcase and shame weighing on my shredded body and soul.
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