A pair of blue Levis jeans and a white cotton sleeveless shirt. To a rural wife of five years this felt new, foreign and forbidden, but the truth is – I am only twenty-three.

“You know at some point you will have to stop holding on to this joke of a marriage and excuse for dresses and live your life like other girls.” Those were Asanda’s words as she threw two pairs of jeans and shirts at me, as if she had envisioned this day, when they would be of such use. But it was only a week after Qhayiya’s funeral – just too early. Asanda’s words never fell on prepared hearts; after all, she was the only child with a voice my mother gave birth to, even though hers may have been louder than my mother’s in some instances.

Constantly refusing to be boxed or blamed, my farther had given up trying to tame her roar. Sometimes I wondered if Asanda shared some understanding with my father that other family members did not. And this seemed to be more than the obvious cattle and sheep castration and marking he only performed with her.

“We are all human, we all make mistakes and sometimes fail to explain them to our loved ones, for we, ourselves, often fail to understand how it all occurred too, right father?” We were all in shock as Asanda spoke so calmly, stroking the soft, shinny hair wrapped by a blue blanket, to a furious father that had been rushing with a shambok to weep sense into her unruly daughter that had just walked in with a second child out of wedlock, when she should be setting an example for her younger sisters.

A few words that hardly made any sense to the calm room. We just assumed it was her way of apologising and maybe finally acknowledging that she had done wrong and embarrassed the family again, as Makhulu said. Left with shock and wonder of future events were her words on that day, as they were the day she handed me those jeans. I had sometimes wondered if I wanted to wear them or if I would even be in a position to wear them. Fortunately, they fit me well and though almost wrinkled from the folding, the top fit just as good with the jeans and the black ‘look like leather’ pumps.

It was finally time for me to leave it all behind. I was no longer trying to escape, trying to run away or trying to see if I had really had the courage to leave it all behind. But it was time to finally embark on a new journey.

Arranged unions
Bought rights and forced hearts
I still can’t complain
A life so short lived
My faith here seized
My tears I still contain

An escape from a life in a flash so dark
Now I leave with my head in the black
All my burdens heavy on my back
I could have explained your lack of response

But in the eyes I saw no remorse
Your hands with flickering fingers
To and fro, rocking to the drum of your own wonders
With sweet words calming their disgust that came like thunders
But to hearts with blind folds
What were my words to these fires?

My pride, my joy
In your presence I turned not to coy
Before I could sigh, their hopes had died
A quick turmoil, to me, fingers were pointed
“He takes after his mother”
“She failed to produce our heir”

Ashes to ashes
Now their tainted selves in masks before the masses
Dust to dust
I’m left to throw soil-this a must
My heart, my seed
Your smile, my shield
Your life, my strength

Qhayiya was gone and I had left the life we once shared behind. His promised inheritance now in the hands of a two-year-old, whose existence reached my ears only as village gossip -left with so many questions.

“Is this the bus to Cape Town?” A long ride of reflections waited.

The End

***

Tell us: Do you think the narrator made the right choice, running away? What would you do?