Confessions of a cheating housewife II

If you have not read the first installment of this story, it might be a good idea to do so before you read this one. Read it HERE

The first thought that entered my mind was that I was now a widow when my husband’s supervisor called and told me that my husband and two others had gone missing in the Sudan: It had happened several times before. I knew enough widows to realise that even as my husband’s supervisor tried to reassure me that cases of kidnapping for purposes of demanding ransom were very common in the Sudan, my husband was a dead man.

            True to my new status as a widow, I stayed indoors for a week. It is easy to think that I jumped in joy at the news of my husband’s disappearance. But alas; I was genuinely grieving: The romp with Mandla was a mistake and I regretted it. I was nevertheless a cheating and pregnant widow. For a full week I ignored Mandla’s calls and even blocked him on facebook. Anna always had something cheeky to say,

“So you think playing loyal widow will undo the forbidden fruit you tasted in that guy’s hotel room? Never! You are the housewife type darling, so wise up and realise that Mandla is now your new husband”.

There she was again, oversimplifying a very complex situation. My husband’s family called. They were scattered all the place and they were full of words of consolation and hope. They truly adored me. My husband’s young sister who had fallen pregnant during the second year of her sociology degree was now finishing her doctoral thesis and she was so kind when she called long distance. I wanted to scream at her and tell her to stop torturing me.

            Noma, the doctor called me and invited me to her surgery. She was as pristine as usual and very understanding.

“The disappearance of your husband obviously changes everything”, she said and crossed her legs. She had on a very short, blue dress and her whole thigh was exposed when she crossed her legs. Just a few years ago I had passed judgement on such dressing.

“Some women are such sluts: How can a grown woman walk around with such a short skirt? I am sure she sleeps with every man who comes along”. I had said of my neighbour’s child’s tutor. My husband as a result of his travelling and exposure to many cultures encouraged me to experiment. There were moments when I thought my husband had pushed me towards cheating: I did not know about fashion and style when I married him. I did not know about facebook and all the other nonsense and he had introduced me to all of that.

Looking at the doctor’s exposed thigh I realised that life was not as clear cut as that. I had put on a miniskirt for my lunch date with Mandla and trying to pin any sort of wrong doing on that miniskirt would be madness. And the good doctor had probably never cheated on her partner.

“I have to get rid of the pregnancy”.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive, but with the disappearance of your husband you can keep the child. Before, you wanted to keep your marriage, now...”

“And become the wife who got pregnant soon after the disappearance of her husband? Image is everything. With this pregnancy I now know it wasn’t my fault that we didn’t have a child with my husband and I am sure he knew he was sterile and his family knew as well”.

Mandla’s sister came to see me. It seemed they were a family of achievers and well mannered too. She waited until we were seated in the lounge to introduce herself.

“Nomalanga?”

“Yes.”

“I am Chantelle, Mandla’s young sister. He wants me to let you know that he loves you.”

“What happened between me and Mandla was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened. I regret it and I want to move on with my life.”

“Why not let him be there for you?”

“I have just lost my husband; surely he should respect that and let me grieve in peace.”

“He wants to be there for you and he wants both of you to raise your child together.”

Some hours later I was walking into Mandla’s Pretoria flat and a few minutes after that I was on my back, legs up in the air, screaming in pleasure. For the next few days I was in heaven. Mandla was all I ever wanted in a man. My honeymoon was cut short when my husband’s sister send me a facebook message imploring me to urgently come back ‘home’. They did not know where I was and they hoped that in my grief I had not done something stupid like kill myself.

            When I left Pretoria the next day, I promised Mandla that I was going to sort everything out in Bulawayo and come back permanently. When I landed at Joshua Mqabuko Nkomo airport in Bulawayo I was on cloud nine: I had jumped from a bowl pudding into a dish of chocolate mousse. I took a cab and some twenty minutes later breezed into my lounge. I almost had a heart attack. My husband was lying on the sofa. His right arm was in a sling, but he seemed generally okay. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out as my husband struggled to his feet and walked towards me with a broad smile on his face.