The sun was out and hot at, M’vimbeni village. There were no clouds in sight, and the small breeze that blew in the air, provided a little hope for rain, for the residents at the small place.

I walk to the tap, my feet hurting, as it has been over 30 minutes walking to the tap. I am heavily pregnant, and I keep gasping for air, with the huge bucket in my left hand. I am dragging myself to the community tap, I spot three kids playing soccer, and six adults in a line to get water.

I rush to the tap, my feet carrying me faster than I had expected. I wipe the sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand, and stand silently behind the last woman in line. She doesn’t notice me standing there, until she whips her head around. She quickly faces forward and takes her bucket, then runs out of the line.

“Witch!” She screams, as she runs from the tap.

The other women look back and see me, then they all gather their empty buckets and head home, scurrying away. I have gotten used to this kind of behavior from the people in my village. I bend slightly, as I pick up the black bucket and drag myself to the now empty tap.

I watch as the water flows to the bucket freely. I wish my problems could flow like water too. Impossible, isn’t? Especially with this predicament like mine. I knew I wasn’t welcome in this village, and even though my husband, Mphikiseni tried to be supportive, sometimes I saw that, he was tired, and maybe, he had fallen out of love with me.

After all, who can be patient with a wife who has been pregnant for 17 months?.