THEME: KNOCK YOURSELF OUT
TITLE: Her Damages
Written by Bongiwe Chonco
I had always been mesmerised by his brown, muscular body. It was what had attracted me to him. The thought of his proud, handsome face had always put a silly grin on my face, but as I looked at him as we stood in my small hut, his handsome face illuminated by the dim candlelight, his manhood hanging limply between his legs, his face didn’t mirror any pride. In its place there was a confused and almost pleading look as we listened to my mother’s incessant knocks.
“Nomcebo, I said open this door right now!”
It had all started when I met Bhekifa Khumalo on my way to visit my aunt, who lived near his home. He had seemed to come out of nowhere, his tall, lithe body blocking my path. His brown face was smooth and handsome. He reminded me of those black and white pictures of Shaka Zulu I saw in my history books.
“Awu gege la gege, ntaba ziyangigegela, Dudlu,” he had said.
Even though I knew what his intentions were, I had feigned some sort of ignorance as was expected of a Zulu maiden. I had just turned seventeen and at the prime of my youth. Younger girls than I already had boyfriends, but I had been keeping myself pure for someone special. The minute he stopped me, my stupid heart told me he was the special one.
“Awu kodwa bhuthi please get out of my way,” I had said, trying to sound angry and uninterested. That day after praising my beauty, he had let me go on my way but had continued courting me afterwards until I could not hold back anymore and gave in to him. Months later, against my better judgement, we consummated our relationship.
It was after I had avoided going to uNomkhubulwane, a sacred event where the maidens are tested their virginity, that my mother found out about my relationship with uBhekifa, and that I was no longer pure. She had been angry at first. She beat me up a few times, all the while lamenting the fact that I did what I had done because I knew my father was gone.
“Had your father been still alive, he would have killed you, noNdindwa. What is this shame that you have brought on me, Nomcebo?”
My father worked in Johannesburg in the mines at the then kwa Teba, and had passed two years earlier due to a problematic heart. I had been the apple in my father’s eyes. He always used to say I was the most beautiful girl in our village.
“MaShezi, you bore me a beautiful princess,” he would say. “My girl will not marry a commoner; she will marry into royalty.”
My mother’s anger had subsided when she learnt that the culprit was Bhekifa, the only son and heir of Zenzele Khumalo who was our village Induna and closest confidante to our Chief. Zenzele Khumalo had a huge, round belly like a pregnant woman who was at the end of her last trimester with twins, and walked about with the use of a walking stick. It was not an affliction of some sort but this was an indication of his immense wealth. His kraal boasted of over a hundred herds of cattle and goats. My mother decided there and then that she didn’t mind to be related to such an esteemed and wealthy man. Though Bhekifa wasn’t from royalty, it was close and she would take what she could get.
As was customary, she had to take me to Bhekifa’s home to demand damages. She had invited my aunt and our neighbour, MaMthembu, to accompany her to the Khumalo homestead, but upon our arrival Bhekifa had vehemently denied sleeping with me, let alone taking my virginity.
“Bhekifa, so you say you don’t know this girl?” his father had asked looking at me, disgust scrawled all over his face.
“Mntungwa, yes I have seen her around, but I swear I have never touched her Baba,” he said, his eyes playing hide and seek with mine.
I sobbed and thought of all the times he had looked deep in my eyes while he was on the brink of orgasm, how he would contentedly sigh afterwards with his head cradled between my breasts and would profess how much he loved me, yet now he was denying knowing me in front of our parents.
“Yeyi wena mfana, are you saying that my daughter is lying?” my mother roared at Bhekifa.
“MaShezi, MaShezi you are not going to shout in my house, Mameshane!” Bhekifa’s father said to my mother. For an uncomfortable minute they held a glaring contest between the two of them. Then in a low, threatening voice, he said, “You heard what my boy said. He doesn’t have anything to do with this girl, so please take your filth and get out of my house!”
He pointed towards the gate with his Iwisa.
My mother was the first to get up. I could see in her face that it was not because of the fear of Babu Khumalo’s iwisa. I know from stories told by my aunt that she and my mother used to herd their father’s cattle in their youth since my grandfather never had any boys, and so they would get into fights with boys in the mountains. My mother often came out victorious. This is how I knew it was not because of fear but because of anger, because of pure blinding rage.
“Kulungile we will leave, kodwa wena mfana, yeyi, ngithi yeyi uze ulibambe lingashoni!” my mother said to Bhekifa.
She cried unstoppably on our way back home. “Awu yeyi ngiyazisa mina, now I will be the laughing stock of this whole village. Nomcebo, I ask you again, what abomination is this that I won’t even get my umqhoyiso?” she kept repeating herself.
To say my mother was angry would be an understatement; she was livid and her dignity was bruised. I on the other hand was humiliated and heartbroken by Bhekifa’s denial of our love affair and more so, by the rumours that followed us of his impeding engagement to a girl from our neighbouring village. Unlike me, she was a virgin.
True to her word, my mother and I became the talk of the village. I was the girl who gave away her virginity to a ghost since Bhekifa had denied taking it, and my mother, the woman who had a loose daughter. I imagine that I was used as an example by mothers to caution their young girls about the dangers of sleeping with boys. Every time I passed a group of girls from my village, a chorus of laughter would follow me and then they would get on a song and dance.
“Uyozsholo wena, Uyozsholo wena, ukuthi why ubuntombi ungasenabo”, which loosely meant, You will explain it all to the elders why you no longer have your virginity.
When I questioned Bhekifa, he said that it was only because he feared what his father would do to him had he admitted to deflowering a girl. He told me he was being forced by his father to marry the girl and that he didn’t love her. He assured me that he was still very much in love with me and begged me to not tell my mother.
We resumed our relationship in secret, but that meant we couldn’t visit each other. My mother was watching me like a hawk. Days passed and my mind started working. I devised a plan. When my mother told me about a vigil they were to hold at a neighbour’s house that particular night, and my plan came together beautifully.
I invited Bhekifa over and told him that my mother would be back the following day. We had missed each other so much. We both agreed that he would have to leave at dawn to avoid being caught. He was overjoyed.
That evening I heard his knock and opened for him. I brought him his bath water like I always did. After his bath I tidied up everything and picked his clothes from the floor, but as I went to hang them by my single bed, I mistakenly dropped them in the basin with the bath water.
“I’ll take them to the kitchen and leave them by the wood stove,” I said. “By the time we wake up, they will be dry.”
After we got in bed that night, I reveled at how his body could bring me so much pleasure even though I was so bitter inside. I had heard that the delegation had been sent to his future wife’s home, but what could I do because as they say, the heart wants what it wants. We pleasured ourselves until at last we slept in each other’s arms, spent.
At dawn we were jolted awake by my mother’s voice and her knocks.
“Nomcebo open this door, I know you are in there with that Khumalo boy!” she hollered. “You see today, this boy will know who MaShezi is. Open this door right now, Nomcebo!”
Bhekifa and I could hear that she was not alone; there were two other voices with her, that of my aunt and Mamthembu our neighbour, urging her on.
Bhekifa got out of bed and paced around my small hut. He was beside himself with fear. Who wouldn’t be? He was caught with his hand right inside the proverbial cookie jar that he had denied seeing. The anger of the women outside was palpable.
“I need my clothes, Nomcebo!”
I explained to him that his clothes were a wet heap outside. I had forgotten to dry them.
“Awu Nomcebo, you have ruined me, my father will surely kill me today,” he said.
I caught him sizing up the window a few times, looking for an escape route, but my window was too small. I got dressed and went to open the door – only partially.
“Mama, please calm down,” I pleaded with my mother who was now threatening to break my door. Bhekifa was right behind me clutching a blanket to cover his body. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.
“Open the door Nomcebo, that boy and his father were very rude to us and now he must come out and explain himself,” my aunt said.
“All I need from him is to tell me what he is doing in my house, that is all,” my mother shouted angrily.
You could tell then that she was in her element; she had managed to trap her enemy. The neighbours who were laughing and gossiping about her would now be forced to sit down and take notes from her.
“Mama please, uBhekifa is naked. You cannot come inside.”
“Ihhehhe ntombi KaKatshana, so you are telling me that this boy is naked in my house, my house. Sister, are you hearing what I am hearing? Isn’t this the boy who denied knowing my daughter?” my mother asked, clapping her hands dramatically and roaring with sinister laughter.
“It is the same one, my sister.”
“MaMthembu, hurry and send for this boy’s parents,” said my mother. “Tell them to come get their dog and his mother to bring him some clothes. Oh, and tell that rude Khumalo to bring my cow for umqhoyiso and while at it bring another one to cleanse my house.”
I could feel Bhekifa shaking behind me. He was still hiding behind me like a scared little boy.
A devilish smile lingered on my face. I hadn’t known that revenge could taste so damn sweet. Bhekifa Khumalo had messed with the wrong women.
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PUBLISH’D AFRIKA Magazine Facebook Short Story Competition is funded by the National Arts Council, Department of Sport, Arts and Culture and Presidential Employment Stimulus Programme 3
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