Reneilwe Malatji
Born in Modjadji Village, she grew up at Turfloop Township in Limpopo Province, South Africa. She
completed her BA degree, postgraduate teaching diploma in Education and a senior degree in Education
at the University of Limpopo. She then served for 18 years in the Department of Education as a teacher,
subject advisor and subject specialist in Limpopo and Mpumalanga Provinces. She completed a
postgraduate diploma in Journalism and an MA in Creative Writing at Rhodes University in 2010 and
2011 respectively, going on to study for a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Western Cape. Her
collection of short stories, Love-Interrupted (2013), won the Aidoo-Snyder Award and the South African
Literary Award Nadine Gordimer short story category. She taught ELT students at Rhodes University
(2012–13) and is currently a lecturer in Contemporary and Multilingual Studies at the University of
Limpopo.
My Perfect Husband
A man cheating on his wife in our community did not make headlines. Infidelity was as commonplace as
taking a bath in the morning. In most cases, the girlfriend automatically assumed the status of deputy
wife. The community accepted her as the official nyatsi even though the man did not marry her. She
could even conceive two or more children with the man and he might provide a house for them. Then
she would be accepted by the man’s family, especially the parents and siblings. Any woman who left her
husband because of a nyatsi was considered an idiot.
“Where does she think she can get a man who does not cheat? All men cheat, it’s in their nature.” This
was always said in our township.
The more affluent a man was, the more women he would have. The chances of finding a man who did
not have a nyatsi were as slim as winning the Lottery. Some women had tried to take it up with their
mothers-in-law and all they got was: “He is better, he has only one nyatsi. His father had five nyatsis.
And look! I am still here. You just have to live with it. Be grateful that he is still supporting the family.”
Most women knew their husbands’ nyatsis. Some women fought tooth-and-nail with them, but those
who did not were considered to be well-mannered and mature. Most women lived with the pain of
sharing their men and family resources with these nyatsis.
I was one of the few lucky women in Sibasa township. My husband Mashudu was a decent man. There
were no official or unofficial nyatsis. He had never been unfaithful. Most women regarded him as the
model husband. If they could, they would have traded in their adulterous spouses for him.
“You are the luckiest woman in the world. If all these men were like Mashudu, this world would be a
better place,” my female colleagues often commented when they saw him dropping me off at work.
Mashudu was the kind of man that came home every day straight after work. He was also a soberminded man who took neither alcohol nor cigarettes. If he was not at home I always knew exactly where
he was. We went everywhere together: the shops, church, funerals and weddings. People called us the
finger-and-nail couple. Up to now I could not even drive because he took me everywhere I wanted to go.
I was a teacher at Sibasa Primary School and Mashudu was the education circuit office manager at the
Sibasa circuit office. He was a church elder at the Mbilwi Lutheran church and was also the chairman of
the church building committee.
In our house we all went to church every Sunday. After church he greeted everyone, offering the aged
and disabled a lift home. His disarming smile displayed his perfect white teeth.
About a year ago, one showery Friday morning on our way to work, he told me he had been invited by
the department to go to Pretoria that Sunday to attend an Outcomes-based Education workshop. The
workshop was to commence on Monday morning and would continue until late on Friday. He told me
that he planned to visit his uncle in Mapetla township, Soweto, on the following Saturday and would be
home a week later.
That Sunday when he left for his trip my two sons carried his bags and the provisions I prepared for him
out to our car. As he drove away, I watched him through our mesh wire fence with a feeling of misgiving
that I could not explain.
“Don’t forget to find out if they can keep the food in the fridge for you.” These were my last words as he
left.
Monday afternoon I went to the choir practice at our church as usual. My heart almost skipped a beat
when I saw Mashudu’s twin brother Ntakuseni. His tall figure with its large stomach blocked the door.
All of a sudden I could not sing. It felt like there was something stuck in my throat. For a while I
continued to hum the song. Then I recalled that Mashudu had not phoned the previous night to tell me
that he had arrived safely. I was not worried about him because he was the kind of man that did not
care for cellphones. Most of the time, he forgot his in the car.
I stepped away from the inquisitive eyes of the choir and hurried to where Ntakuseni was standing. He
looked gloomy. He took my hand and directed me to the car. I left without saying goodbye to the choir
members.
“Ah, khotsimuhulu,” I greeted him, “why are you here? Is there a problem?” I said, expecting the worst.
“We shall talk at home. Mashudu is waiting for you there. My mother and father are also there,” he said.
“What is wrong? Is everything okay? Is Mashudu okay?” I asked.
“Mashudu is fine, but there is a problem. Don’t worry, it’s a solvable one. But only you can solve it. We
will talk at home,” said Ntakuseni.
The five-minute drive felt like forever. I knew my brother-in-law well enough not to probe any further. I
knew he was not going to tell me what was going on upfront.
Mashudu and his parents were sitting on the kitchen chairs and Mashudu was on the bed. His eyes were
red and his expression grim. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His black trousers and white shirt
looked soiled. When I came in, his eyes fell to the carpet. I could feel heavy words and thoughts in the
air even before anyone said anything.
I knelt down, clasped my hands together, and bowed my head to greet my in-laws appropriately.
“Aah!” I said, still kneeling.
“Aah!” said my mother-in-law.
“Ndaah!” said my father-in-law.
“Khotsi a Tshiandze, why are you back so soon?” I said. I then raised my head but remained seated on
the carpet. I had to look down because as a daughter-in-law it would have been rude to look my in-laws
straight in the eyes.
“Tell her what happened,” said my father-in-law to Mashudu.
“My dear wife,” he began, his voice trembling.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
Mashudu looked down again and breathed heavily in and out.
“This is the most difficult thing I have ever had to tell you, but there is no other way,” he said. “There
has been a terrible accident. Our car is a write-off.”
For a while I kept quiet. That was why his clothes were in such a state, I thought. The air was still heavy.
“Well, we must thank God. A car is nothing. We will get another one,” I said.
He was silent.
“There is more. Tell her,” said my mother-in-law.
“Someone else was in the car,” said Mashudu. “She did not survive.”
“She?” I asked.
“Yes. Mark Mulaudzi’s wife, Matodzi,” said my father-in-law.
“The accident happened last night, just before the Kranskop Tollgate. We were hit by a truck whose
brakes had failed,” said Mashudu.
“I see,” I said. I kept quiet and waited, hoping to get some answers.
“The major dilemma is that Mark and his family up till now have not been informed. Mashudu is the
only person who has this information, other than the Bela-Bela police. Mashudu promised the police
that he would inform the family in person, as we are all family friends. So he cannot go there alone to
report this. It won’t look good,” said my father in-law.
“I see,” I said.
“It will look bad if they are told that it was just the two of them in the car. Mark might be suspicious or
angry. You know how people are. They could interpret it negatively and Mashudu might be in trouble or,
worse, they might even kill or bewitch him. My dear sister, you know how the Venda people are,” said
Ntakuseni.
I felt hot and cold at the same time, like someone who was having hot flushes. It was then that I
understood what was going on.
“So we will all accompany him to the Mulaudzi home. The story is that you were with them in the car.
It’s the only way we can get out of this whole thing,” said my father-in-law, as if we had all been part of
what had happened.
The disturbing and sad part was that they were not even negotiating with me. I was simply given
instructions on what I had to do.
“I need time to think about this,” I said.