Open letter to the wife - From Small House

Written by Noma (A Smallhouse)

Well. Firstly I don't want this to seem like I don't respect the boundaries of marriage, but as a smallhouse, this is my point of view....

Ladies, we don't intentionally go hunting for your husbands, we meet them like you meet people every day, through friends, at the supermarket, at work functions hell even on the side of the road.
We don't always know from the get go the man is married because a lot of these brothers don't wear rings or come with a stamp saying "taken". Half the time he's alone, there's no trace of you, even in his car!

It takes a well trained eye to spot traces of another woman, e.g. seatbelt perfume, weave strands, hair oil on the headrest, etc.,

My job in your relationship is to give him a break from reality, yes you and the kids are real but so are the bills and school fees and work stress, I'm where he de-stresses. I know my place trust me I do, I know to keep quiet when you call while we together, I know not to spend on his credit card but to ask for cash, all this is to protect you, yes you, from pain, humiliation and suffering, I get a tired frustrated man and send you a well-rested happy man, thank me don't disrespect me for it!

Calling me won't change the fact that my clothes are expensive and my car is paid off, it won't change the fact that my university fees are paid and I get to go to the weekend conferences or boy's nights out, swearing at me won't change the fact that he grips my headboard when he rocks my world and screams like a girl, something you probably don't even know about the man you married.
You don't know the effort we put behind our little rendezvous just to keep your pudgy ass happy, and feeling secure.

Trust me the more you come after me the more he wants me, the more money he spends on me, the more intense our sessions get.
A true nyatsi will never ask him to leave you; instead she encourages him to stay with you even if you have messed up badly.

We never consider getting pregnant out of fear of having to deal with your sour face for the rest of our lives. So relax, your kids are priority numero uno, even to us, we pick out the toys and clothes he shows up with, we encourage bonding time.

Consider yourself lucky if you find my number, at least you know he's taken care of when you are tired, and he's going to come right back once we done re-furbishing my apartment. Oh and trust me, I do the fighting for us, it’s my job to make sure it’s just us two, any others will be dealt with severely by me, so don't ruin your manicure, I get a weekly one so it’s okay, let me do it.

I respect you, hence I stay away from family functions and make sure I take all my stuff out of the car when I was there, I don't call after he's left the office because I know it’s your turn. I have my own things, the rest is just a bonus for having a kind and sharing attitude, I'm a professional with a great job and earn enough, I don't have time to tend to a fulltime relationship hence I don't mind when he goes home to you.

My advice to you "mama'se khaya" stay in your home, and don't pack your stuff and go tell your mom how you failed at being a wife, it just makes you look stupid and weak and our man needs strong women around him. Look after your kids, tend to your home, cook those hearty meals you so famous for, I can't cook with these nails.
Don't ask about me, he's just going to lie and toss and turn in bed thinking about me in my victoria secret set he bought me for Valentine’s Day. Let me be, I will leave on my own accord one day.

If you don't we might just trade places and you going to be saying "izinto zabantu" or I consult sangomas, I don't, I would rather spend that money on expensive holidays with our man.
Truth is, I make him feel good, I'm a reminder of when he was young and I do all the things you are afraid to do, or just won't do because you believe you are past that, I'm forever young and I compliment him, you suit him, trust me honey there is a huge difference.

I respect marriage and all it stands for, that's why I'm doing my part to help yours stay together,
so don't think I don't, I respect the nice thing you have done and I love your kids too much to hurt them. Don't cry over me or what we do, let it be, play your part and I will do what I'm supposed to do.

Yours (and your man’s)

Noma the Smallhouse

You can read Response from Wife  to Smallhouse HERE

Is the ‘small house’ all bad?

A friend of mine – a female friend, one day told a stunned group of colleagues that the ‘small house’ (a married man’s girlfriend), actually strengthens marriages, contrary to popular belief that ‘small houses’ are home wreckers. She gave three reasons for her conclusions:

            One: If a good man cheats, he compensates for his bad deed by treating his wife extremely well; a descending wife will realise that this is the time to put in all the requests and they will all be fulfilled. A lot of people will question why I am saying, if a good man cheats when almost everyone is agreed that a man who cheats on his wife is a bad man: The definition of a good man goes beyond whether he cheats or not and in most cases whether he cheats or not does not even factor into his qualification of good or bad. The cheating moments in a man’s life provides a stimulus that is needed to bring excitement and happiness to a marriage that had reached a boring patch. It is however important to note that the ‘cheating moment’ magic only works in the hands of ‘good men’; men who know that the wife always comes first and who make it clear to the small house that she will always be second best. Take a deep breath and read again; the theory is not as crazy as you think.

            Two: The small house teaches a married man how to love his wife and children. How is that so? In a bid to impress her man, the small house will make sure that he knows that she takes his family as seriously as he does by remembering birthdays, anniversaries and the occasional surprise chocolates and flowers: The majority of presents that go to the wife are chosen by small houses masquerading as secretaries, personal assistants...and the straight up small houses. A small house who understands her position as the small house will make sure that she reminds ‘her man’ that it is time to go home to the wife. Some even go to the extent of making sure school fees for the children is paid and that the man does not waste money on useless things before the family has been provided for. But again, this theory only works if the small house is in the hands of a good man.   

            Three: The small house does not carry the burdens of womanhood that the wife carries and usually has several sources of income that keep her reasonably ‘happy’. Because of this, the small is in a position to give ‘good sex’ and knows how to ‘listen’ to the man’s problems and issues. When he goes back to his wife, he is a refreshed man does who not bite her head off for the slightest ‘mistake’. The small house does not conform to the wifely burden of pretending to be a virgin whilst the likes of Mai Gunguwo are telling her that she should be a ‘prostitute’ for her husband. The small house will experiment with sexy clothing and dabble in all sorts of eroticism that will refresh the man and make him ready to face his wife with a smile.

            The three theories expounded above in trying to paint small houses with a bit of white have a lot of loopholes. One the biggest loopholes is that the small house will never fully accept that she is second best and she will always have dreams of replacing the wife. But we have to appreciate that the issue of small houses is very complex and in a lot of cases, small houses have brought happiness to marriages.

Confessions of a cheating husband

For years I had been telling people that I initially was not interested in a romantic relationship with Nomathemba Dube; a sweet, extremely beautiful young woman who now runs a highly successful catering company. I had always believed that all I wanted with Nomathemba was to help her realise her dreams. I maintained this line of thinking until Moses asked me a simple question:

“If it had been a young man, would you have shown such interest in his dreams?”

I wouldn’t have. Actually, I had been approached by several young men with brilliant business proposals prior to meeting Nomathemba. I ran a successful retail business and I was a magnet for young people who needed help with all sorts of business ideas. I realise now that it was Nomathemba’s beauty that initially attracted me to her. Reminded me of a young woman called Carol who once looked me in the eye and said:

“Relationships between men and women can only be sexual, nothing more and nothing less.”

Or something to that effect. My relationship with Nomathemba over the years has been civil and we have been jointly raising our son in relative peace. For all intends and purposes she has been my second wife and she has done excellently in that regard. She has also been an integral part of my retail business.

I met Nomathemba five years ago at Kelvin North industrial site in the high density suburb of Iminyela in Bulawayo, the second largest city in Zimbabwe. It’s a thriving industrial site. With the depletion of the more formalised industry, everything has moved to the more informalised industrial sites. And the best craftspeople, journeymen et cetera are found there. They make a lot of money and they don’t pay tax. I was referred to Kelvin North industrial site by Moses when my car’s headlights just died on me.

I was on my way home around six and I was listening to one of those clever Oliver Mtukudzi songs that get you thinking:

Hope hadzina ndima

hadzina ndima

Ukagudugudza wasaririra

Apa basa mangwanani

mangwanani

Ukagudugudza wasaririra

Aiwa basa mangwanani

mangwanani

Ukagudugudza wasaririra

...

Hatina nguva yatinofunga kuti tinayo

hayo tinayo

Hatina nguva yatinofunga kuti tinayo

hayo tinayo

hayo tinayo...

I hit a speed hump at high speed and my headlights just switched off and I could not switch them back on again. I had been assured by the car salesman that kind of thing would not happen. But then, a salesperson can assure you of anything. A salesperson can even assure you that his brand of ice will not melt if that will get you to buy. I drove home at a very slow speed and my wife’s cooking made me totally forget about the malfunctioning headlamps of my expensive car. It could have been her skimpy dress as she served the food or perhaps the very sweaty business between the silky sheets she had bought on-line.

I remember a year later my wife sobbing when she discovered that Nomathemba was pregnant with my child.

“Did I do something wrong. Tell me what I did wrong, I will fix it.”

She was scared I was going to leave her for Nomathemba. But honestly, I had not been involved with Nomathemba because there was anything wrong with my wife. She was more beautiful than Nomathemba. And in spite of being a lawyer, she was respectful and did an amazing job of running the house.

“You did nothing wrong, I love you and always will.”

“Then why?”

“It just happened.”

It sounded lame, but that was the whole truth. My wife stopped taking birth control pills that very night and our daughter was two months younger than Nomathemba’s.

Moses pointed me in the direction of Kelvin North industrial site to have my headlights fixed. I took the afternoon off to go to Kelvin North industrial site. I was to see a guy called Trevor: It was said he was the best auto-electrics guy around. There was a long queue at his makeshift garage and I jumped the queue by virtue of having deeper pockets.

As I drove in I had noticed the reserved young woman who had a coca-cola cart in front of her and did not pay much attention to her. I bought fried amacimbi from a woman a few meters away from Trevor’s garage as Trevor attended to my car and inevitably I had to buy a coke from the young woman I had seen earlier. I sat on an empty drinks crate and chatted to her as I gulped my beverage. She had on a plain, blue dress and a woollen hat on her heard and looking at her, I got the distinct impression that she was carrying a heavy burden on her youthful shoulders. I realised later that she was not struggling to the extent I had thought she was struggling. She didn't look at me as she narrated her vision. It didn't seem as if she was talking to me at all.

“You know, I want to own a one stop functions company. You know; tent, catering, wedding dresses et cetera. But well, I guess success is for the rich as I don’t have any hopes of ever raising the required capital.”

I gave her my business card and told her to get in touch with me. I might be able to help, I told her. She brought a business plan to my office the next day. My heart hammered heavily against my rib cage when she walked into my office. She had transformed into a goddess. With the woollen hat gone and with the addition of make-up and a short red dress, I couldn't recognise the plain, young woman I had seen the previous day.

She explained her business plan in great detail and explained her cash flow and her loan repayment plan. We went out to lunch and I assured her that I would finance her business. All she had to do was put the practicalities of the whole thing into motion. I financed her business and she never repaid the ‘loan’.

We kissed a month later and had sex three months after that. I had driven her to a wedding venue in Hillside and as we sat in the car chatting outside her parent’s house, one thing led to the other and we had sex on the back seat of my car. I was surprised to realise that she was a virgin and afterwards she clung to me and giggled nervously.

“My mom is going to kill me”, she whispered nervously.

She moved out of her parents’ house six months later and we developed a full blown relationship that led to her pregnancy about a year after I had first seen Nomathemba at Kelvin North industrial site.

Now we sit in the park and Leroy, our son is running around the park. He seems to be chasing something that he only can see. Nomathemba takes my hand and looks me in the eye.

“Thank you”, she whispers.

“What for?”

“You have given me a good life”.

I glance at my watch and she gets the cue. It’s time for me to go home to my wife.

A Small House called Emmah

Model: Ellen Mahlangu

I let myself in when I arrived at Emma’s flat. She had left her keys under the cushions on the swing chairs on the balcony: The same cushions, on the same swing that had rocked us to sleep under the moonlight on many nights. The janitor had complained too many times about the empty wine bottles on the balcony. The empty potato chips packets too.

I had phoned well in advance to tell her I was coming: That’s what you do with small houses. She had told me she had a hair appointment she could not miss. She was probably lying, but how she ran her life was really none of my business: I was committed elsewhere; I could not expect her to be committed to me.

                Her flat was on the fourth floor; the highest floor on a neat medium sized building in a quiet neighbourhood. The double lounge windows gave a nice view of the street outside. Jacaranda trees were a given in such a neighbourhood. Not really upmarket by any standards, but respectable enough. The streets were strewn with the purple jacaranda flowers. Pamela, who stayed in the flat next to Emma’s was standing on the street corner. She had on a daringly short, purple dress and in her hand she had a green, tiny purse. The red high heels gave me a lesson in what they call colour blocking. She got into a black executive looking car and was gone.

                I did not hear Emma come in. I just felt her arms enfold me. I turned around and she stepped back a few steps to let me have a look at her. She had nothing on but a red chiffon piece of cloth wrapped around her mid section. I deeply inhaled and knew I would have problems pulling myself away from her when the time came for me to leave.

“Have you been here long?” She asked with a motherly look of concern on her face.

“Not really, I was just enjoying the view from up here.”

“I got us some takeaways – Are you staying?”

“You know I can’t stay the night. We have gone through this several times. I am married and happily so”.

She walked over to the window and for a moment or two gazed outsized.

“Do you love me?”

“What kind of question is that? You know I love you.”

“I mean, do you really love me?”

“What do you want from me Emmah?”

“Some seriousness would be nice. A certain level of commitment at least.”

“I am here, am I not?” I could feel myself losing my temper, but the red chiffon cloth pushed the anger away.

“Just because you want sex, otherwise you would not be here.”

“I am getting a bit confused here. You are the other woman. You are what is known as a small house. What more would I want from you?”

“So you don’t love me. You are just using me”.

I put my arms around her. She almost pulled away, but settled comfortably in my arms. When I turned her around, she was crying.

“I thought everything was clear. I told you I was married before I asked you out and I made it clear that you wouldn't replace my wife”.

“I know”. She tearfully responded.

“So what seems to be the problem?”

“I am a woman, okay. You think I can just open my legs and not feel anything. Not fall for you?”

“But I am not your only boyfriend”.

“You are”.

“I am not a fool Emmah. There is no way you can be paying rent on this place on your own”.

“The sixty year old who pays rent does not count. He just loves the idea that he has a young girlfriend. We have never had sex. I love you”.

At that very moment, I gained a bit of perspective. I had viewed Emmah as slightly better than a prostitute you pick up on the street. But it seemed I was wrong.

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

“I could be your second wife”.

She got out of arms and rushed off. I heard the bathroom door bang. I heard the sound of water gushing out of the tap. She was crying. I stood by the window and looked outside. Two young women were standing by the street corner. One looked up, we made eye contact and she gave a tiny wave and smiled. I waved back and turned away from the window. As I was walking towards the bathroom, Emmah came out. She let the red chiffon thingy drop to the floor. I took out a packet of condoms from my pocket. She took the condoms from me and threw them away.

“Don’t worry, I am on the pill.”