It was overcast that day. Large silver clouds drifted slowly across the sky, now and then obscuring the sun. I hated cloudy days. It was a grey-sky day when Luvhengo left me with two kids for a younger woman. And it was hazy the day my recent husband first hit me and called my sons bastards.

A few days later, when the anger had subsided, I appreciated the fact that at least Luvhengo had been upfront with my son. I recalled the incident of Mumsy’s son, who also went looking for his father. The boy found out that his father was in fact a well-to-do someone – or rather he gave the boy that impression. He promised the boy all sorts of things – a PlayStation, a bicycle, new clothes, and to take him out of government school so that he could go to a private school like his step-brother.

Mumsy warned her son not to get too excited as his father was the most unreliable person she had ever known. But the boy chose to believe him. They had set a date on which they were going to meet to buy all these things. The man did not pitch, nor bother to postpone. From that day on he avoided the boy’s calls. When Mumsy’s son used a public phone, he dropped the phone as soon as he heard the young boy’s voice.

One late afternoon on a Tuesday, Mumsy came home from work, tired. She opened the garage door to park her car, only to find her worst nightmare. Her son was hanging from the garage ceiling.

I talked to my son and told him that it was not the end of the world. I assured him that his father’s rejection did not define who he was, and that it wasn’t his fault. It would only affect him if he allowed it to. I said that there were many great men who had grown up with absent fathers. I told him the story of Walter Sisulu. Sisulu’s father, a white man who employed his mother as a domestic worker, died denying that he was Walter’s father. And look at how successful he became. He was now a world-known icon who had fought for South African democracy.

Gamza’s face lit up, and he said, “Mom, don’t worry. I am fine. I understand.”

I was relieved. “Now don’t go and do anything stupid – like committing suicide without discussing it with me first,” I said, and he laughed.

A month after that incident, my new husband asked me for money to install a music system in the car that I had bought for him. When I refused, he shouted at me, calling me a selfish bitch. He told me that he had done me a favour by marrying me, with my two bastards, as no other man would have done. He was shouting so loudly that I was sure my sons could hear him. I decided to shut myself in my office and catch up on some work, to distract myself from my angry thoughts.

That day my two sons, fifteen and seventeen years old, decided it was time to discipline my husband. They knew he hated loud music and played it anyway. When he came downstairs, he screamed at them as usual, telling them that they should go and live with their father because they were disturbing his peace. Normally my sons would have kept quiet and lowered the volume.

“If you want your peace, why don’t you go and buy yourself a house? Like a normal man. This is our home. You found us staying here. You must adapt to our ways or go to wherever you came here from.”

“If it was up to us, you would not be living in this house. We are just putting up with you because we have no choice,’ said my older son, Rudzani.

“What?” my husband responded.

“We are sick and tired of your verbal abuse. Go and feel sorry for yourself in your own house and abuse your own children, if you have any,” the boy added.

“Just who do you think you’re talking to?” my husband raged. “How dare you! You don’t know me. I will …” He tried to punch Rudzani, but Gamza came from behind and hit him with his cricket bat. The boys were stronger than my husband had imagined. At that moment they attacked him jointly, overpowering him. Side tables and vases were knocked over as he stumbled out of the room and headed upstairs. He burst into my office, where I had been listening to the altercation, hoping to avoid having to get involved.

“I can’t live with those savages anymore. I am going. You can call me when they are no longer there. Maybe I will still be available,” he said.

“What do you want me to do? Kill them? They are my children. You are the one who has turned them into monsters. They learnt violence from you,” I said.

“Then you must sleep with them. I am going,” he said.

“Where will you go?” I asked. “Don’t ask me questions,” he said. “Okay,” I said quietly.

I was tired of him treating me like I should be grateful to have him. I was drained by his abuse, his irresponsibility and sense of entitlement. Fortunately we were married out of community of property. The wisest decision I ever took with regard to him. I’d insisted on it despite his efforts at dissuasion, as I had a lot more to lose.