Confessions of a cheating housewife

My husband was in the Sudan doing some contractual work. He had been gone for three months. I am not saying that’s the reason I cheated: The fact that he was not there accelerated the process maybe. But it would have happened one way or the other. I first confessed to my friend Anna when I first suspected that I was pregnant. My friend Anna is not a conformist and refuses to call it cheating;

“I will not be cheating on fried chicken if I decide to have a piece of ham will I? A pity you didn’t use protection. Eliminate the possibility of consequences my friend”. That was a rather simplistic way of looking at a rather complex issue.

It all started with a poke on facebook. I poked back and had a look at his profile. He was a doctor based in Pretoria. There was no information regarding his marital status or relationship status. In retrospect I always ask myself why I was interested in such information. When he poked back the following day he in boxed me. “Nomalanga, lovely name.” He did not request my friendship. I replied thank you and added him as a friend. He was good looking, Mandla was.

As I sat in the doctor’s office seeking an illegal abortion two months later she asked me a simple question which I did not know the proper answer to:

“As a married woman, did you think it was a good idea to go out for lunch with another man?”

If I was not saddled with the problem that had brought me to her office in the first place, I would have responded, “What’s wrong with a married woman having a male friend? After all it’s just lunch.” But that retort was no longer applicable. The reason why that lunch was a bad idea was there for all to see.

After several weeks of daily communication Mandla flew to Harare for a medical conference and on his way back to South Africa he passed through Bulawayo and he asked me to meet him over lunch and honestly, I didn’t think twice about it. I was going out to lunch with a friend. He was staying at the Holiday Inn and we had lunch there. Afterwards, he invited me to his room.

“What were you thinking, going up to his room? Surely, you should have known that you where like a lamb going to the slaughter.” The truth of the matter was that, I wasn’t thinking at all. I now realise that when it comes to love and sex, one doesn’t really pose to reflect; to think matters through. Sitting in the doctor’s office I remembered my husband’s young sister. She had fallen pregnant during the second year of her sociology degree. I had bitten her head off and I was now contemplating tracking her down and apologising. I had said horrible things to her:

“What were you thinking? Don’t you know that a man’s penis deposits sperms into your vagina and that leads to pregnancy? Basic form two science my dear. Are you stupid or something?”

When I was in Mandla’s hotel room, I only had a moment’s reflection when we were done. When I was looking at his sleeping form and at my own nakedness I asked myself what I had done. But not when he was pushing his hand up my skirt or when he was pulling off my panties. I had not certainly thought of what I was doing when my legs were up in the air and I was screaming in pleasure.

The doctor requested that I take a week to think about it. Everyone called her Noma. She was a young doctor and beautiful too. She told me to consult all the stakeholders and if I still wanted to have an abortion then, she would do it. She actually called them ‘stakeholders’ in my pregnancy. I guess she meant my husband and Mandla.

Talking to Mandla later, he said the fact that I had on a miniskirt had led to us having sex on our first date.

“So you thought I was a slut”, I gasped in both shock and shame.

“No. I did not think you were a slut. I thought you were one of the nicest and most beautiful women I had ever seen. But honestly, how did you expect me to resist such beautiful legs?”

Mandla said he would not allow me to have an abortion.

“Allow!” I screeched in horror. “It’s my decision to make; I am the one whose life will be ruined by this.”

“Your life doesn’t have to be ruined. If your husband throws you out, I will marry you.” That threw me. I wasn’t expecting it.

That night I called my husband. His phone was not reachable. I knew then I wasn’t going to tell him anything: I couldn’t muster again the courage I had gathered when I dialled his number. I wouldn’t reach that same level of braveness at any future moment.

In the morning one of his supervisors called me. My husband and two others had gone missing, presumably kidnapped by rebels. I did not know what to feel.