Mongiwa's Marital Dilemmas

Acknowledgements

This book is written in present form, from a silent observer’s point of view. Real places but, with fictious characters were used to depict the current trends of dealing with a pile-up road traffic accident in a foreign country. Websites were visited and these provided tremendous help in making this book a source of reference for those Diasporas who find themselves in a pickle similar to this story line.

Friends and children sampled the script, encouraged, spurred me on and quizzed me about the next twist of the story line. Taffy, my second daughter, thank you for taking time to read and talking me though the book. Des, thank you for ensuring the printer was all set for the copious amounts of printing I needed to do for draft after draft. To Jonathan, my husband, thank you for reading the book through and picking up all those salient spelling errors.

To sis Nombuyiselo Hlabangana, I’m grateful for the cultural support in making this book authentic in its inclusion of Ndebele cultural norms and values. To a very good friend Pentecost Mate who initially encouraged me to beef up the first draft.

To all three ladies that read and made suggestions for the book to flow, I cannot thank you enough. Special mention goes to Annemieke Beemster Leverenz whose book cover design I used.

Fiction Reveals Truth That Reality Obscures

– Ralph Waldo Emmerson

-1-

Thabo Mabusela

‘I don’t like the direction my life has taken.’ Thabo Mabusela mulls over his now very secretive double life as he drives home on M1 southbound on this fateful, snowy Friday evening of December the 28th, 2012. ‘I have to involve my wife in this Kodwa sokungani sengiphuzile aagh!’ He instinctively yawns and scratches his beard as he imagines his wife’s response to his news, ‘Kanti sekaIbalathi uthini huh?’ He wears this pensive look on his face as he ponders his dilemma, ‘Into engizayithini ke manje le?’

‘Kholwani, my materialistic-oriented cousin has deserted me, yet she opened her house for me and Rachel, supported the illicit relationship. Women! It’s because of them that men commit sin. I really don’t know how I got into this mess and now I’m going to cause my wife so much pain. How do I put this across to her without causing her so much grief? What will my son think of me?’

Thabo meditates on this as he drives home.

‘Firstly … Oh no!’

A loud bang swallows the words Thabo is going to say to his wife, and sadly his wife will never get to hear them.

In the car, Thabo’s body is very still. His death is swift and instant. While his seat belt remains intact, the internal injuries, not visible to those who came to his rescue, take his life. Those who find him shake him in the hope that he’ll come round. His still pulse on being touched confirms his death at 5.35 p.m.

All the surprise New Year’s Eve plans have gone with Thabo and his family will never know what he had up his sleeve.

-2-

My Husband!

Mongiwa Mabusela looks at the dining table all set for the evening meal and smiles, ‘I’m proud of my time keeping, Thabo should be walking through the front door anytime now. Hayibo!’ exclaims Mongiwa as she looks at her wristwatch. Her eyes dart to the wall clock, ‘Look at the time! Wuuuu! Nkosi yami!’ Mongiwa, in a state of panic, quickly adjusts the wall clock that was still one hour behind. ‘Sihle!’ Mongiwa calls out to her daughter, ‘Pass me my mobile phone please, kengithinte uyihlo. I wonder what is keeping him.’

Mumbling inaudibly, ‘I need to change the batteries on this clock.’

When Sihle hands her the mobile phone, she dials her husband’s number. A loud knock on the door makes Mongiwa jump and cut the phone, placing it on the dining table. ‘Hawu! That must be your father, but, why will your dad knock when he has his keys?’ She waits, expecting Thabo to open the door and walk right in. ‘Oh! He may need help. This man hardly comes home empty-handed!’ As she walks towards the door, she stops in front of a mirror hanging in her dining hall to check on her appearance. She had just plaited her thick, kinky Afro hair into four neat buns after showering so that she is fresh smelling for her husband. She opens the door.

Two uniformed police officers stand there with snow-turned- to-water dripping down their helmets. Mongiwa gasps and puts a hand to her mouth. They both remove their helmets and look at her with solemn eyes, ‘Mrs Mabusela? May we come in please?’

With a suddenly hoarse voice, she manages to say, ‘Of course!’ and leads them to her living room.

‘There has been an accident on the M1 southbound, a pileup, and I am sorry to let you know that your husband, Mr Thabo Mabusela of National Rail Network, was caught up in it.’ ‘Was? What do you mean was?’ whispers Mongiwa.

‘He died on the spot, Mrs Mabusela,’ replies the male officer, ‘and I am really, very sorry …’

Without waiting to hear more, Mongiwa, with both hands on her head, lets out a piercing scream that brings all her three children flying down the stairs one after the other. Ibalathi, her eldest boy, gets hold of his only sister, Sihle, and his brother, Themba, and holds on to them tightly at the bottom of the stairs while observing the scene before them. Maxine, Sihle’s friend, just stands at the landing with hands on her mouth, shell-shocked by the scene before her.

Mongiwa throws herself on the floor wailing, ‘Mayeeeeee mina nge jaha lami, mayeeeee!!’

Sihle extricates herself from her brother’s hold, rushes to her mother, and throws herself on top of her. She then sits her up and holds her tightly to her chest while Ibalathi tightly holds on to Themba. ‘Aw ma bakithi! What happened, Ma? What’s wrong? ’coos Sihle in her mother’s ear. Mongiwa’s screams have turned to sobs and Sihle rocks her like a little baby.

‘Erm, Mrs Mabusela,’ the female officer speaks as she places her hand on Mrs Mabusela’s shoulder, ‘we need you to, erm, please come with us to the Luton and Dunstable Hospital, we will drive you to and from there.’

‘What do the police want, Ma, where’s Dad?’ whispers Sihle with fear etched all over her features.

‘Awu mtanami! What do I say to you ngoba lami angizwisisi ukuthi bathini laba!’ Mrs Mabusela writhes on the floor like a woman in labour. Sihle helplessly holds her mum, letting her own tears fall unattended. Pulling out his phone, Iba quickly dials a number and nervously waits. Twenty-three-year-old Zenzo Nkomo answers and the conversation is very short. Within minutes Zenzo enters the front door, takes in the scene before him, and strides towards Ibalathi, who quickly pulls him to the side and whispers, ‘Something’s happened to i-Timer lethu, very bad from the sounds of it. What do we do bhudas, huh?’

‘Eish, lami it’s beyond me. Let me call Dad.’ Zenzo goes to the kitchen to call his father and Ibalathi tells the police to wait for his uncle, who should be here soon. The police remain standing. Mrs Mabusela remains in Sihle’s arms, moaning softly. Iba regains his place at the bottom of the stairs with Themba, who remains glued to the spot watching the scene unfolding in front of him. Lots of people entering the house but not his father. Eventually Zenzo’s dad, Mr Bongani Nkomo, arrives, eyes surveying the scene before him. He beckons the police to join him outside in the cold, snowy night.

‘Hello, officers, I’m the nearest family friend and neighbour, Mr Bongani Nkomo. We’re from the same country, Zimbabwe. Please update me, what happened?’

The male officer clears his throat and speaks. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the M1 pileup about two hours ago, where at least five people have lost their lives. Unfortunately Mr Thabo Mabusela has been caught up in it and we’ve just informed his wife.’ Bongani bows his head in respect for his friend, now family, due to being far away from home.

The officer adds, ‘We were about to go with Mrs Mabusela to identify the body at Luton and Dunstable Hospital and we should be making a move now.’

Bongani responds in a choked voice, ‘That’s fine, officers, I’ll quickly chat with the boys and join you.’ Turning to go back into the house, the male officer speaks and Bongani freezes at the doorstep, slowly turns to look at the policeman.

‘Erm, sir, please remember that a death has to be registered within five days of it happening so that a death certificate is issued and used at all relevant offices that the surviving spouse or children may need to visit on behalf of the deceased.’

‘That’s very helpful information, officer, and I’ll bear that in mind. Thank you.’ He walks into the house and summons Ibalathi and Zenzo to him, whispers instructions only for their ears. Ibalathi hurries upstairs and brings a tartan blanket and a coat for his mum while Zenzo gets on the phone to Mr. and Mrs. Dupree, Maxine’s parents. Mr. Nkomo also calls his wife, Londiwe, to come over and be with the children.

‘I’ll go with Mum’ chips in Ibalathi. ‘Sie, look after Themba, Aunty Londi will be here soon.’

‘Yes bhudi,’ whispers Sihle as she cuddles wide-eyed Themba.

‘Hatshi mtanami, we’re here for you, myself, your Aunty Londiwe, Johan and Nomzaca Dupree. We’ll support your mum. You are to be here for your siblings, angithi siyezwana?’ Bongani directs these words at Ibalathi, who is taking control of the situation.

‘But, malume!’ moans Ibalathi.

‘Nangu uZenzo lizasala lonke, I’ll take Johan with me. Please.’ Bongani firmly responds to Ibalathi.

Ibalathi grumpily helps his mum up, holds the coat for her, places the blanket over her shoulders. As they leave the house, Mrs Londiwe Nkomo waits outside and hugs her friend, mumbles words of condolence to her. Amber Close, a cul-de-sac in Limbury, Luton, is awash with people attracted by the flashing police lights, who brave the cold to see and hear about that which has befallen the Mabusela family. Ibalathi unobtrusively calls his best friend from school, Percy Drakes, who is also quick to come over and be with his friend at this sad unfolding of events.

Sihle’s friend Maxine Dupree is always around and is now a part of this family, much to Ibalathi’s annoyance, as the girl is currently obsessed with him.

-3-

Death in the Family

Mongiwa comes back from the hospital to find her lounge holding a few of her neighbours who had heard the sad news. A mattress is already in place in the lounge for her to sit on, thanks to Mrs Londiwe Nkomo, her Zimbabwean friend who knows the Zimbabwean way of mourning.

Mongiwa throws herself on the mattress, her mournful wailing joined by Sihle and Londiwe, while Mrs Nomzaca Dupree looks on wide-eyed. Neighbours on either side, Mrs Sinclair and Mrs Hassan, both wearing sorrowful expressions, silently leave for the kitchen to make tea for the mourners. Ibalathi takes charge of Themba and sits him next to his mother. Sheer confusion is plastered on the child’s face as he looks at his mother and wipes tears off her face. Mongiwa wails even louder and hugs her little boy tightly. Ibalathi picks up Themba and takes him upstairs to their shared bedroom.

There is silence in the room when Mongiwa finally quietens down. Mr Bongani Nkomo speaks first and addresses those they have found in the house, ‘Hatshi UNkulunkulu uyapha aphinde athathe. We’ve identified Thabo, a very unpleasant experience.’

With that Mongiwa screams and writhes on the mattress, yelling, ‘Not my Thabo bakithi! Hatshi uThabo wami hiii hiii!’ Sihle holds tightly to her mother, saying nothing, only tears streaming down and deep grief etched on her face. Mrs Londiwe Nkomo helps Sihle up and takes her upstairs to her brothers, as it is time for the elders to say prayers and plan what to do next.

‘Erm, bantwabami, you have to miss school tomorrow and Tuesday. I’ll call in and advise your head teacher of this turn of events, siyezwana?’ Mr Nkomo finds the children in the kitchen having fruit juice on a Sunday afternoon. He goes on about the next steps.

‘We need you to be at home for the next two or so days while we figure out the way forward with this development. Only for these two days will you be home as we know the penalties of long absences from school. Sengikhulume logogo uMabuya, your mother’s mum and your uncle Lizwe to let them know that we are waiting for the police report. Meanwhile keep Themba occupied, he’s got lots of questions ngoyihlo, your mother is too fragile to deal with him right now. Here,’ Bongani gives Iba some money to take his siblings out to Cineworld at the Galaxy while their mum has a siesta.

There are people coming in and out of the Mabusela household as the news of Thabo’s death spreads all over the Zimbabwean community and workplaces. As soon as Mr Nkomo walks out, Sihle turns to her brother and hisses at him, ‘How come you’re so calm, haven’t seen you cry, aren’t you sad Dad died?’

‘Sihle, I’m the oldest, a boy, if we all cry ngubani ozalikhangela huh? Mrs Nkomo is taking care of umama and I have to take care of you lo Themba.’

‘You can cry too you know, Dad’s gone and it hurts right here.’ Sihle points to her chest and starts crying all over again. Ibalathi draws her closer.

‘I know, little sis, I know.’ Silent tears flow and he quickly wipes them away.

-4-

Monday Post Death

Two days after the death of Thabo Mabusela, Mongiwa is at Amos’ Tow Company in Dunstable to collect her husband’s belongings from his National Rail Network company car. Looking at the car wreck that held her husband before, Mongiwa acknowledges that there was no way he could have survived. With that thought, she decides not to be a fan of God. Where was he when he could have been watching over her husband as she’d be requesting day and night? She is handed her husband’s work bag and a Debenhams carrier bag. Ibalathi takes hold of it and Mongiwa holds on tightly to her husband’s work bag and walks out to the car. Mr Nkomo, who has remained in the car, starts the engine when he sees Mongiwa coming out. Bongani clears his throat and speaks, ‘Which funeral parlour should we take uThabo namfana?’

Silence.

The drive back home is deathly quiet, save for Mongiwa’s sniffles. Ibalathi holds his mum’s hand very tightly and looks straight ahead, his face expressionless. Getting out of the car, Mongiwa says, ‘The co-op Funeralcare in Dunstable, I’ll give you the paperwork.’ Mongiwa goes straight to her bedroom, shuts the door and lets herself go.

Ibalathi knocks a few times but all he hears are heartrending sobs from behind the locked door. He takes the carrier bag back to his room until further notice. That evening, Zenzo and the Mabusela family friends Maxine Dupree and Percy Drake have a pizza night together and Mongiwa doesn’t leave her bedroom for the rest of the day. Themba tries knocking as well, but, his little voice doesn’t move his mother to open the door for him either. He accepts to be ignored by his mother and chills with his siblings, who are still at home waiting to fully take in and acknowledge their change in circumstances before they can face their classmates back at school.

Londiwe, carrying a tray of is ’tshwala le nyama elombhida, knocks on the door until her knuckles hurt. She leaves the tray outside her door.

-5-

Reminiscing

If the Mabusela household knew then what they have experienced now, they would have made their 2012 Christmas the best and cherished it more than ever before.

That year, Thabo as always had done and completed his Christmas shopping in September and hid the presents in places that the family would never find even if they searched high and low for them. The amusement on his face when watching his wife, Mongiwa, running around like a headless chicken in early December trying to fit in all the Christmas shopping in one week was always a sight for sore eyes.

Christmas Day dawned. The Mabusela family was ready for it, though Thabo had to chip in and help Mongiwa wrap presents for their children, which then joined the rest of his in their hiding place. As always, Christmas in Zimbabwean style is never celebrated as a single family unit, but with relatives and good friends who are in the UK. This particular year of 2012, the Nkomos, the Sinclairs, the Hassans, Thabo’s cousin Kholwani Dliwayo, her husband, Zulu Dliwayo, and son, Denny, Thabo’s workmates and their families came to celebrate with them. The Duprees travelled to South Africa for Christmas.

The food was an array of all sorts of sweet and savoury dishes that the Mabuselas had prepared, including the most cherished is’ tshwala, which can be eaten with any relish.

Soft Afro jazz music by Hugh Masekela serenaded the group in the background of chatter and laughter. Later as the day progressed Mongiwa and Thabo took to the dance floor when Ibalathi put on their favourite song. Looking into her husband’s eyes during a slow waltz to Ringo’s ‘Sondela’, Mongiwa whispered, ‘Ikhisimusi enhle mkami,’ and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

Thabo gave her his disarming smile and replied, ‘Lakuwe s’thandwa sami. More Christmases like this ahead of us nkosikazi. Sizaphinda umphehlo yini?’

Mongiwa replied with a shrill, ‘Hatshi bo sthandwa! Ngiphinde ngipheke kanje? Asiphe abanye itshansi labo!’

They both laughed and kissed again. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes and danced silently and lovingly. ‘Hmm, remember we have kids here Mr and Mrs M!’ chuckled Mr Hassan. Thabo extricated himself from his wife after giving her a peremptory kiss on the cheek and taking a bow, to everyone’s amusement. Song and dance went on until the wee hours of Boxing Day when everybody went to their homes. Nobody had known that in three days’ time Thabo would be dead.

There is never rest for some. Thabo had to go to work on a night shift on Boxing Day at National Rail Network, where he worked as an engineer.

The Work Bag

Mongiwa is a mother of three children, a woman who exudes an aura of love and warmth. Those that she comes across receive a trickle of her love and are transformed by it. When upset, Mongiwa will close her small, brown eyes, shake her bun-plaited head side to side, causing her permanently-on, small-hooped gold earrings to sway with