Four years went by, and I fell pregnant again, you were always happy when you came across the news of my pregnancies. You grew up an only child, so you wanted as many siblings for your kids.

Again with the fourth child, everything was all bliss and fairytales. I gave birth to a healthy baby boy and we named him “Bafana.”

I had had enough, I didn’t want any more kids, my love. But you, you wanted kids, more kids, Mthandeni. You wanted to grow your family name, baby, even though we had four healthy boys, you wanted more.

A year passed and I fell pregnant again, I wasn’t happy about it, but I tried to mask it. It was like, I was a baby making machine, that just stayed home and trapped you with more babies. I wanted to further my studies, have an Art degree. You wanted me to stay home.

I started to despise the baby growing inside me. I hated him! I knew it was going to be a boy again. I wanted him out of me already.

You were happy as always, bringing clothes and preparing a nursery. I was angry. All I wanted was to study, Mthandeni. I was only 31, but I already had four kids, no University degree and I fully depended on you. You were soon turning 45, maybe you felt threatened that maybe when I got independent, I’d meet other men. 

If only you knew how beautiful you were, you aged with grace. You didn’t look a day over 30, and I was the one who fought and went to the gym to stay young and in shape for you.

“I just want to have a degree, Mthandeni.” I tried to reason with you.”

You grew angry, “What? Do I not give you enough money? Okay, I’ll give you 100k a month from now.”

I tried to show you, it wasn’t about the money, but about my independence as a young black woman. For the first time, in our marriage, you hit me. 

You hit me so bad, for wanting to be independent