Are married women the property of their husbands?

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Sometime last year (2012), a man in Entumbane suburb in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe caught his wife in bed with another man. In anger he forced the couple to walk in the street naked. And walk they did, to loud jeers from the crowd that quickly gathered.

                Reading the article, I asked myself if it was perhaps within this man’s rights to humiliate the cheating couple in the manner he did. Surely not; he was not supposed to have humiliated her in this way. When people get married, to what extent do they lose self and become part of the other person? African men have been known to react violently whenever they catch their wives with another man or when they hear talk of their wives cheating on them. Too many women have been beaten up by their husbands because of the way they interact with other men: It can be a smile, conversation…

            A few ago in the suburb of Nketa 7 in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, a 36 year old married woman got stuck to a 16 year old boy she was having an affair with. Allegations are that the two were separated the following day when the woman’s husband returned from his trip. The man is alleged to have 'unlocked a padlock' and the two were mysteriously set loose. They were reportedly given a hiding and thereafter the woman was sent packing. Many might argue that the woman deserved what she got – let he who has not sinned cast the first stone. But that’s another issue altogether: What I have problems with is not the woman’s morality, but how adults treat each other. The woman in question is planning to sue her husband, "What I did was wrong but for him to go to that extent is a violation of my rights. I believe I would have a strong case against him," said the woman who believed her rights were violated.

Why do African men behave as if they own their wives? If a man believes his wife is cheating on him, why not just divorce her instead of resorting to barbaric behaviors like Lunyoka/Runyoka, assaulting the woman or/and her boyfriend. Where does the sense of ownership African have come from?

            It is important to note that African men whilst being the most possessive when it comes to their wives and girlfriends are also the biggest culprits when it comes to cheating on their wives. Does a woman become the possession of her husband upon getting married? Is the idea of being so and so’s wife enough for African women that they have to give up all else and be reduced to the status of children? Is the marriage contract ever discussed before people get into a marriage?

            I am of the opinion that whilst marriage is supposed to be binding and the contract supposed to last forever, this is not always possible. Marriage is a contract between two adults who are totally different and were raised to totally different sets of value systems. Marriage is at best a wait-and-see thing. It might work or it might not. A few months into the union you might realize that you and your chosen partner are not compatible. It is very possible that your partner will discover that you can hardly give him/her what he/she expects from a marriage.

            This nonsense of married people behaving as if they own each other is very nonsensical and people should outgrow this illusion that they can own another person: The days of slavery are long gone and it should be realized that an adult, in a marriage or out of it is still an individual and will not always behave according to the ‘rules’ of the other person.

My boss, my lover

My husband was forty-five and I was thirty. We had been married for ten years and had two boys; aged ten and seven. We had an okay life. We rented two rooms in the high density suburb of Lobengula West in Bulawayo; the second largest city of Zimbabwe.

            My husband had managed to acquire a residential stand in the sprawling suburb of Cowdry Park and we hadn’t started developing it as yet: We were hoping to one day develop it and own our own house. That dream was shuttered when my husband’s employer; a textile company shut down its operations and and relocated to Harare. Six months after the closure of the company, the severance packages promised the hundreds of workers who had lost their jobs had not come and we had to sell our stand in Cowdry Park.

            Our landlord was very patient but he was going to evict us from our lodgings at the end of month. We had received our final letter of demand from our sons’ school. So when I went to Sparkling Clean cleaners to look for a job, I was trying to fish my family out of this impossible situation it found itself in. I have been judged harshly for what I did, that’s why I thought I should give you give you some background to the story. When I went to Sparkling Clean cleaners, I was looking for any kind job, but most likely a cleaning job.

            There was no receptionist when I got to the company premises along Lobengula street. I walked in and  and then walked back out and knocked on the door. A  man about my husband’s age appeared and regarded me suspiciously.

“Yes?” He said and looked me in the eyes. I told him what I wanted; a job, any kind of job. He pulled a chair to the desk and sat down and was silent for what seemed like an eternity.

“Jobs are hard to come by and there are so many of you who are looking for jobs. What can you offer so that I can consider you ahead of the others?”

“If I had anything to offer, I would. But I am a poor woman who is desperate for a job.”

“But you are willing to offer anything for this job?”

I knew what he wanted and I had to make a quick decision. He made it easier for me by jumping to his feet and inviting me to his office which was a tiny cubicle with hardly any free space. I wondered where everyone else was. I realised later that there was no one else: The many women who did the cleaning all over the city were part-time employees.

            He shut the office door and wasted no time at all as my skirt and panties lay on the floor and I was holding the desk in no time at all. I shut my eyes, gripped the edge of the desk and waited for the ordeal to come to an end. He was done in a few minutes. Whilst in the process of pulling up his trousers he said:

“You start at eight tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t know what I was starting tomorrow morning, but I was too ashamed of myself to ask. It hadn’t been as easy as I thought it was going to be. I was devastated. Even thinking of my starving family did not help at that moment. I dressed up and fled.

            When I got home, I locked myself in the bathroom, cried a lot, took a bath, breathed in heavily and exhaled. I was ready to face my husband. I told him I had found a job as a cleaner. He was overjoyed.  I told him I was actually a receptionist the next day when my new boss told me that was my job. He laughed when I told him I thought I was going to be a cleaner.

“What! A beautiful woman like you can’t be a cleaner?”

The other thing I was wrong about was thinking that the copulation that had been used as my job interview was going to be a once off thing. When he attempted to pull me into his office, I threatened to quit the job. He seemed genuinely shocked.

“But I thought you were okay with this.”

“I allowed you to do what you did yesterday because I was desperate for a job.”

He was silent for a very long time. Did he honestly not know that what he had done was rape: Well, maybe not exactly rape since I had not said I was not interested and he had not used  any force. But surely he knew he had used the prospects of employment as bait. Surely he knew I was desperate for a job. Everyone, including me, knew that my threat to quit was an idle threat. I held the desk once more.

            Over the next few weeks, the relationship with my boss developed from sex in the office, to lunches, dinners and sex in lodges and eventually at his place. My husband found a job in South Africa and when he came back three months later, I refused to have sex with him. He took my hand and looked me in the eye.

“I knew I had lost you the day you told me you were not a cleaner but a receptionist.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I wasn’t a man anymore: I couldn’t take care of my family like a man should. I was hoping I would get you back the day I became a man again.”

I took him into my arms and one hour later, we lay naked and highly satisfied in each other’s arms.

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.

           

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.