By Siyanda Khumalo

Woman is what you may pronounce her, but she’s more than that. Nomandla is her name which translate “mother of Strength” . She was named by her mother who joined her late parents in the underworld shortly after she delivered her .

She had woke up early in morning, before the sun had shone its beautiful yet scorching rays. And breastfed her little infant, Prudence is what she called it. Shortly after that she began setting fire which took long as woods were wetted by the heavy rain which struck them the former night, many believing it was accompanied by Inkanyamba “The Storm Dragon ”. Soon when the fire flames were maturing she placed on top of them a black scorched metal kettle filled with ice cold water. Proceeding by taking two slices of bread from a green plastic bag , spreading them with one day to be stale butter. She then took a gaze at her thin wrist, tattooed in bruises. Looking at this map of misfortune on her wrist reminded her of terrible experience she had after the storm.

Where she woke up suffocating, thinking she had been visited by a sleep paralysis demon. Except the demon hasn’t visited her but it was her husband, Hamilton. Her husband had hardly pressed a pillow on her face, hard enough not for her to be able to move, breathe and even scream. She tried to move , sliding up and down of which wasn’t enough to fight pressure pressed onto her. At the point where she realized that her soul was about to escape her flesh. She recall of what a woman who is the treasure of thier beneficiary scheme had once whispered to her. “Man’s weakness”, squeezing very hard man’s genitals is powerful enough to weaken him, to bow him down. So she proceeded with that, in a glimpse of an eye Hamilton jumped out of the bed, giving Nomandla a chance to draw in the oxygen she had lost during a pillow pressed on her face. Rage rushed into Hamilton’s cold heart, not blaming him as he had never been challenged by a woman before, not even Cynthia who was as rebellious as a bull. So he drags her out of the bed and beat her to pulp.

Once the fire was pronounced a conflagration the kettle whistled as the early 1800s steam engine train would do when it was about to reach the station . She took it out using a quite a rag but clean dishcloth . She poured a waterfall of boiling water in a mustard metal cup. Which was already displayed on a tray with plate carrying finely sliced bread which resembled two symmetrical triangles. By the plate there was a can labeled “SUGAR ” followed by another one labeled “TEA ”. Once the cup was full , she placed a kettle next to the fire. Following by lifting up the tray, making out her exit out the hut that was puffing smoke from it ears and mouth, just like how uncle Jimmy would do if had smoked his pipe. She passes a grave circled with perfectly so round stone that was by Iyisi “the cottage house” that was normally used by visitors. Making her way to a hut furnished with patched couches and a small plank table. Sitting room is what they called it .

Before she entered the hut , she took off her shoes which were so old that they exposed her pinky toes when wearing them. Proceeding by kneeling and bowing down her head , as she would normally do when serving food to her husband. She then walked on her knees not so few inches towards a couch where Hamilton was seated. Once reached the couch she raised tray to her husband, her face staring the ground. She spat her voice soft and steady, “Your food father.”

Hamilton’s right foot, a booted missile aimed for the tray holding his breakfast. Cans of sugar and teabags turning on the floor just like Tina Turner’s big wheels from her hit Proud Mary, two perfect triangles of bread scattered on the floor just like fallen dominoes. “What nonsense is this?”, he shouted. “F…food father”, Nomandla responded with a quivering voice. “Quite woman!”, Hamilton shouted. His fist came flying, but Nomandla was done . Years of flinching were replaced with a flash of defiance. It was the time she embrace the true meaning of her name. She grabbed his wrist, shoving him against the wall. “This ends now!”, she said, her voice shaking but firm. “ That was the last time you ever raise your hand to me. I’m done.”

Without waiting for a reply , Nomandla marched to their bedroom hut . Stuffing clothes into her bag. She took a glance of this hut, her eyes watered. Images of her husband beating, torturing her and forcing himself on her flickered on her mind , especially of those sleepless nights her crying in silence.

Stepping out of the gate , tears streamed down her face confluencing at her chin , but they were tears of strength . She wasn’t leaving empty handed. She was leaving with her child, her dignity, her future she would build in her own term and a promise. A promise that she’ll never her daughter in presence of abusive man and that she’ll encounter that she’ll protect her at any cost. A scary as the world was , she wasn’t going to face it alone.

THE END.