A Letter To My Wife:
African Short Stories.
Simosami Ndlovu
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, incidents, and events are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Disclaimer:
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the author except for quotation purposes be it reviews, scholarly referencing or otherwise.
Copyright ©2023 Simosami Ndlovu
Book design by Marbellous Designers
ISBN number EH0886352578
Contents......................................................Page
Contents……………........…………...3
Introduction..................................4
Footprints in The Sand.............................07
Will you marry me, Jack Mabaso?........11
Paying for the Sins of their Fathers......32
The Broken Arrow.....................................45
Marrying Zinhle..........................................54
Betrayal.........................................................69
Man of the House.......................................79
A Letter to my Wife...................................111
The Ex-Convict...........................................140
To Think I Had the Bird in the Bag!......166
Ntobeko………......…....168
Fatal encounter...........................................200
Mostly penned from the personal experiences of the author, directly or indirectly, A Letter To My Wife isn't just another short story collection but a deliberate research on and observation of various behaviors of social institutions and individuals.
It is a book for the scholar, the learner, for one who wants to pass time, for the preacher and everyone from all walks of life.
It is the author' s sincere hope that this book not only entertains but also helps readers widen their scope of understanding the basic principles of life that are vital in maintenance of morality and empathic approach to every day to day circumstances. The author also firmly believes this will be of paramount help to those who seek to grow intellectually and spiritually.
Through the stories like A Letter to My Wife; Thicker than Blood; Man of the House; The Ex-Convict; the author seeks to bring hope and sanity to the said to be defunct marriage institution with hope the reader can get to understand the fundamentals of love, successful relationships which ultimately definitely lead to a successful marriage. It is a book meant for the young man and woman who's about to enter the thresholds of love. It is for the husband and wife who are finding it hard to endure the pains and pleasures of marriage and it is also for those who celebrate the beauty of marriage and family.
Paying For the Sins of Their Fathers will be deemed as controversial by some, unChristian by others and real by many. Prior to going to the press, the author was given an option to leave the story out however, it was and always will be the author's wish that this story reaches to all, readers be allowed to exercise their right to draw their conclusions, however the reader is greatly enticed to bring his attention to the voice of the Chronicler on the preceding pages of the story to fully understand and follow the true meaning of the narrative.
Some of the stories of course, are meant to tease although the author can safely say they all carry strong moral lessons.
Lastly but most importantly, the author takes the time to express his heartfelt gratitude to the reader in choosing to read A Letter To My Wife which happens to be the author's maiden publication.
Your feedback to the author will be greatly appreciated. The author's contact details are availed below.
+27 63 271 2028
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Footprints in the Sand.
The sea; beautiful and calm, rose gently to caress the beach, whispering soft-sweet nonsense only lovers who'd heard the same whispers from the wind while walking slowly hand in hand bathed under the moonlight on a warm night would vehemently defend, before it rolled back into the heaving swells with an audible watery sigh. Content, beautiful and gentle as a mother's love. One would have sworn vehemently it had not lent a hand to the travails that'd beleaguered the man who was now inert on the water's edge with parched and broken lips; a result of exactly one hundred and forty-two long, cold and miserable minutes swimming mechanically in sea water without sense of where he was heading until with infinite relief, his feet struck the bottom.
It was a short victory for the man's calamities took a new twist: thirst! He couldn't remember the rest. He believed he had fallen asleep afterwards with exhaustion after the past days of fighting to stay afloat and of course, alive. His need for water drove him senseless, until his vision became distorted with lights that danced sharply in kaleidoscopic patterns to explode violently into a darkness so thick he could reach his white, bloodless fingers and scoop handfuls of it into a cup.
He'd then blissfully lose consciousness until another wave would reach higher, breaking past the preceding one, its salty fingers jerking him back to life. He'd awaken with a start, croaking a name that did not make any sense to him (for he'd long lost a great part of his voice and most of his memory. He knew he was supposed to have a name but he couldn't remember who he was or where he came from. The loss of memory didn't trouble him, the cataclysm at hand dwarfing that of his lack of recollection.
Death was coming swiftly. He could smell it…almost touch it and he was ready to embrace it. But suddenly his vision cleared with a clarity so strong he'd swear he'd been touched by a witch's magic wand. Then a new feeling overwhelmed him. He would live, yes he would live!
Water, where was water? He sobbed! Pushing drunkenly on both his elbows, he trembled himself upright until his eyes could take both stretches of the endless masses of the beach's sand that went far to both his right and left, then disappear around some bend, then reappear until it met the hazy, distant horizon which was as far as his dilapidated vision would allow him. It was then he spotted the footprints on the sand.
Water, screamed his mind!
The footprints. Footprints meant people and people were sure to have water. He heaved himself up and for the first time felt the sharp, stabbing pain on his left ribs, turning to inspect this new source of trouble he saw with a sinking feeling the blood that had seeped into the greedy sand, forming a frothy and grainy puddle. He felt himself swept into a deep abyss of despair as he saw the broad blade of a crudely home-made knife, with its shaft broken sticking from his ribs. The knife was immersed deeply into his side. He had been stabbed and probably left for dead. Whoever had plunged that evil looking blade had meant to puncture his lungs or maybe his heart. He felt immense relief whoever had done him had been too hasty to beat a retreat before making sure he was a really dead man.
But why? He stupidly asked, staring at the indifferent heaving masses of sea water as if honestly expecting for a revelation from its swells. Whoever had left these footprints, had tried to kill him or least known something about what had tried to kill him! Of course waves had erased the telltales of activity around where he lay. But casting his eyes at where the footprints began, he could only make out one set, deep in the sand and barefooted. Someone large and heavy. A man? He had no doubt they belonged to whoever had tried to kill him. He slumped back onto the sand, momentarily defeated yet determined to gather once more some strength and go after the footprints, to seek water...water and answers.
Will you marry me, Jack Mabaso?.
If the girl who stood against the bar negligently toying with an untouched glass of Coca-Cola she was obviously not interested in drinking at the expensively furnished Vintage d’Leroy Sports Club had any inclinations of getting the anticipated signal to the man who had a large withered cloak draped negligently across his shoulders then she had to make the move for the man acting like a complete idiot and drinking merrily from a frothy, tall beer glass sent her the signal that he was ready. She sent the message. She let out a high pitched girly shriek that was simultaneously accompanied by the sound of glass shattering on the hard floor.
Still maintaining engrossment in the game of chess with the swarthy looking fellow with a long, squat set nose and black masses of curled hair that went cascading over his shoulders, he let out a string of curses that would have made an American's swearing sound like a child's ranting at the clumsiness of young women in African societies.
The swarthy looking geek ignored the curses and suddenly seemed to have brought down a winning move or something akin to that for he suddenly let out an unmanly shriek of his own that amused the girl as she bent to pick the glass shards, pleasure written all over his face and stood up to triumphantly dance about a bit. The other eyed him unenthusiastically with a coy smile spreading across his finely chiseled face. When the swarthy man was done with his rather dramatic celebrations, he sat down to the game, gleefully flipping his great coat tails from under him with such comic relish in preparation to deliver the winning blow. He reached out for a piece, then with a look of disbelief etched on his face, he slowly let go. He looked at his opponent and looked at the board again and back at his opponent, growing disbelief cast on his face. The cheat was obvious.
With a cry of anger laced with disbelief, he grabbed the small table between them and sent it flying into the other’s face. The other calmly stepped up and delivered a chopping blow on the table, the force splitting the board in half. Both men sprang out from their chairs. They circled each other warily. The swarthy faced guy raised one boot and calmly extracted a knife tucked into his left boot. The knife suddenly went into a frenzy of twists and turns with so much speed that would have hypnotized his opponent had he kept his eyes on it. The man who stood before Curly Hair with a smile as calm as death itself never smirked a brow. His eyes rested easily on his opponent's.
This was Jack Mabaso, Captain in the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police Department (JMPD). Easily standing with legs slightly apart, he never let his eyes off those of his opponent. He had not earned the black belt in Kyokushin through succumbing to hypnotic knife games in the hands of amateurs. He had earned it through hours of shedding blood, sweat and a split shin bone.
An hour later, as he dabbed at his eyebrow in the car where the knife-welding fellow had taken a swipe at his face and honored him with a small cut that was nothing much but was smarting a little. He pulled out his phone and dialed a contact saved as ‘Mbali’ which is Zulu for flower, in his phone. The call was answered on the third ring as usual. He smiled to himself at his girlfriend’s habit, something she had gleaned from one of her chain of 'prominent motivational speakers.'
“Hey s’thandwa! I’m on the way”, he said.
He couldn’t understand her obsession with motivational speakers. On those rare days when she was a few inches high from the wine she took ‘to rejuvenate my blood and keep it healthy’ after a quote from some prolific dietitian and nutritionist from Canada who did this study on the benefits of taking a pinch of the red wine once in a while, she would crawl up to him and quench his protests on the never ending stream of people who set the pace and drove every inch of her life. She would whisper that he need not be piqued as he was the most special, handsomest and the wisest man she’d ever met. He had been one to intensely abhor being patronized but he would of course have to admit that the words coming from her mouth did mean something to carry home proudly and he somewhat wholly believed her. Why not? Was he not Squad Captain in the police force of Johannesburg? Was he not a ‘force to reckon with’ as fellow policemen would whisper when they thought he was not listening? He was and he was not disillusioned to believe that.
“Hey hey handsome, was about to call you! Make sure to get here early!" Cooed the voice on the other end lovingly.
"Well, they'll never nominate me for coming home early, but I always do", he teased.
"I know s’thandwa sami, just that today is kind of special. I have some amazing news to tell you and I can hardly wait!” she bubbled excitedly.
"News huh?" Now there's a good reason for a man to be home early to his woman…amazing news!" He mused.
News, hau! She always had news but this time he couldn't help but notice the huskiness in her voice. He couldn't point a finger exactly, but he could swear something larger than Tshaka, son of Senzangakhona, king of the ancient Zulu people, was brewing.
“Well, I am almost home”, he chipped in.
“Oh really, does that mean you are driving and calling again?” she accused.
“Err...well, you may say I am talking while driving, yes. It is not like I am holding the phone to my ear with my other hand and gesticulating with the other. I actually have both my hands on the wheel…” he protested defensively.
“You know I don’t like it when you do!”, she said. Cluck-cluck Mother hen, he thought.
Aloud, “You were going to be upset if I did not take your call too!” There was a merrisome, short laugh on the other end of the line.
“Well, it is not against South African laws to park by the road-side to make a call, is it?” she asked, all giggles.
“Not so sure about the highway traffic laws on that, but I'll ask the next patrol car I'll meet along the high-way”, he replied.
“Well get your sweet self over here and stop haggling with me like an old man,” she said, as an afterthought added, “This house always gives me a scare when I am alone”.
“Rest easy Mbali yami, your Faithful Zulu Warrior will be with you shortly to serve and protect you as always", he ended.
She chuckled, then added,
"Well, see you soon, my faithful Zulu warrior...!" There was a pause, as if she was waiting for something and he knew what it was, but took pleasure in not saying it a little too promptly.
“Well…?'' she queried, drawing a chuckle from him.
“I love you, my Queen”, he said earnestly.
“I love you too, my King”, and she meant it, her voice heavily pregnant with love.
The house to the Mabaso residency rests on the hilly suburbs of Johannesburg's Eastgate just north of the Eastgate Mall, directly opposite the Taxi Rank. It is a beautiful yet archaic structure that consists of five bedrooms and a magnificent kitchen majestically sitting adjacent to the large lounge. Flora of all sorts is strewn strategically about the yard. Artemisia, a perennial plant grown more for its silvery flirt throwing beautiful and scentful white foliage and Anemone also known as the Windflower ranged the pool. Also gracing the immaculate walkways is the tuberous Cypress Vine which throws up poppy-like blooms in early-to-mid spring. The demarcating hedges which line the walkways and other various stone paved patches are largely of the dwarf sized Box Wood, a versatile evergreen hedge plant which is a popular border plant for both formal and informal gardens. In other places these are allowed to grow taller to create a dense green wall to block out undesirable snoopers where sits, deep and large, a giant swimming pool lined with beautiful blue and white striped resting bleachers under large fallible umbrellas that range the pool.
The furniture in the lounge is that of Victorian style, for the man from whom they bought the house was a full-blooded Englishman through and through and had maintained that through the furniture that spoke English loudly. Of course, he had spent a huge part of his lifetime basking in the African sun hunting lions and elephants and gallivanting all over the bushveld with that enthusiasm typical of the white man’s obsession with nature that baffles most native Africans. It wasn’t until a wounded buffalo had decided to waylay him and render to him a taste of his own medicine, leaving him with both legs fractured and four broken ribs that he was dragged by the wife and his sons back to England in the year 2017 in the fall of the summer to have his broken ribs put to order. Those present on the day would tell of his ferocious anger as he turned on one of the Park guides who raised his Enfield rifle to stop the animal. The guide had escaped with a mangled hand himself when the gallant old man had shot the gun out of his hand and the buffalo, satisfied with its mission of vengeance, had disappeared with triumphant bellows never to be identified again into the thick Kruger National Park bushes.
There had been hell to pay too afterwards, from the media. The old man was accused, by the media of course and subsequently by those who read grape vine news, the juicy news, of being racist. Which in fact was true of the old geezer for he hated his fellow white man for what he felt they had done to Africa but not so true in the case of the shooting as those who accused the old man were neither aware nor cared to be, that he had shot another white man anyway. The old man had to be protected from the marauding gangs of grapevine journalists and racists who hated with a vengeance anything the white man did, good or bad. These took a knack in waylaying him at various areas he frequented as they all tried to get to the core of the story of what had transpired. His family of course soon took into account the peril the old man was in and decided it was time he bade farewell to the healing African sunlight and return to the land of his forefathers. There had been a deadly cold war, naturally. The old man had put up a formidable terror attack which included mundane strategies such as refusing to eat and talk to anyone which he couldn’t maintain for too long to outrageously daring war declarations and battle tactics that involved disowning them all, including their mother, he'd add pointedly. Sense would prevail at the end of course. He had begrudgingly agreed to move back to England after a petrol powered missile exploded onto the portico, nearly setting the old man ablaze. The two sons had approached Jack, who was then nothing more than a rookie in the police department and offered him the house. Jack had always been considered family and the price had been fair enough for a novice in the police department. It had taken him a full three years to pay the house off. He was proud of this beautiful two-hundred and forty square feet house with its high ceilings and the gentle swaying chandeliers that were as majestic as the gardens. His favorite spot; the floor to ceiling shelves that held books produced by the minds of the world’s most finest literature creators that ranged from the great works of H. Rider Haggard, Herman Malvile, Michael Crichton, even Christopher Columbus and his volumes of the great African expanses and novelist, Wilbur Smith who cared not much for the proper use of the local languages, a mistake he is affectionately pardoned for. A study table that must have once served in Winston Churchill's office back in the late 1880's stood against the far wall. A taxidermied large male feline with snarling fans that promised a terrible death and yellow fierce eyes focused on nothing in particular that made one shudder in their own skins was propped just an average standing man's height next to the table. On the table sat an old ink pot with an as ancient Onoto fountain pen dipped permanently into it. These were treasures the old man had left, souvenirs of his prime, and Mabaso had kept them as they were, in honor of the old gentleman.
Miss Thandeka Solwethu Macebo, Thandi as she was affectionately called, popped open the blue box that contained a plain but handsome silver male engagement ring that lay submerged in some white fluffy quilt and fingered it reflectively. It was beautiful, she thought. He would like it, she knew with that certainty typical of women. They, Thandi and Mabaso, had been staying together for over five long years now and the only thing she wanted was to be his rightful wife. She had spoken to her trusted friend, Lebogang Mahoney-Dakalo and they had agreed that nothing ventured, nothing gained. There was no reason why they should not get wed. He loved her and she loved him. What was with the long wait? Tonight she was going to propose. Yes, she'd take matters into her own hands. Why wouldn't he say yes? He had not said no that time six years ago when she had made the first move to initiate their first kiss. He had never courted her, not directly. Forever hiding behind that he was more attracted to lady friends than males when she knew he did not have a single lady friend. She had been the one who had made the bed that was their relationship now. He had never had a problem with it. She saw no reason why he would have a problem with it today.
This was what they both wanted and she knew he was a little thoughtless...a little inconsiderate of those 'small things that mattered,' just like most men. She smiled a little. He was a handsome man, her king. He would be home soon and she cast a last glance around to ensure everything was as it was supposed to be. Satisfied, she made her way out of the bedroom to the kitchen where she was preparing his favorite dish; roasted fish lightly sprinkled with lemon juice, with warm chili sauce, to go along with the palatable rice. For savory, they’d have pumpkin and bacon stuffed portobellos with browned butter sage.
Mabaso backed the car into the garage and got out to lock the door. He wondered where she was today, it was habitual of her to meet him by the garage door leading to the kitchen when he had packed the car. He chuckled lightly, thinking she was probably still busy with her evening bath. He was home early today and she was one of those immaculate creatures who followed a particular daily routine, another idea probably gleaned from one of her great philosophers. She always had her bath at 6.30pm, and it was now just about her bath time and he knew that she was still tending to herself. He was one lucky son of a gun to have her. He pushed the kitchen door, his nostrils picking on the aromatic smells of her cooking.
"S’thandwa, I'm home!", he shouted, hanging the car keys from the key holding rack just behind the kitchen door.
"In here!", she returned sweetly. ‘In here’ turned out to be their spacious bedroom with its massive and majestic queen-sized bed. A little puzzled at her today's unusual behavior, he trod evenly through to the bedroom. He gasped aloud at the erotic spectacle before him. On the bed covered with a crispy new white sheet, carefully sprinkled with red roses, lay his beautiful girlfriend. She was dressed in a nightie that whispered too loudly of a pleasurable night to come. He stood there, dumb-struck. The laced black and white lingerie clung to her supple body in small folds like a second flimsy skin. Her slim but immaculate curves were pronounced delicately by the crossed legs. Her chest rose and fell with uncontained passion. He felt himself develop a sweat and had to loosen the collar of his shirt that had suddenly gone way too tight for his throat. She beckoned at him coyly with one finger and he found himself magnetically drawn towards her. His breath came in short constrained gasps. She giggled like a schoolgirl on a bet date with the popular school nerd at his clumsiness.
"You're so beautiful...", He gasped.
"Shhh, don't say a word", she said, taking his hand and drawing him to the bed.
They held close, devouring into each other's eyes, looking deep into each other’s souls until they were lost deeply in those places only lovers could be. His lips trembled with raw lust as she slid her hand under his shirt and expertly drew lines with her fingers on his chest. He suddenly tore at her, ravenous beyond words.
"Easy now, tiger...easy now. I'm all yours, I'm here always for you to have all of me anytime you want", she gushed seductively.
"And this tiger wants you now", he rejoined huskily.
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