Chapter 11

IQANDA LE GROOTMAN
CHAPTER 11

ZOBUHLE ZWIDE

I was furious. Manqoba did this on purpose. At only 21, I'm now married. Married! My life is no longer mine. I thought I had cried my last tear, but deep down, I'm still breaking. I don't even know if choosing Sihle… or marrying a man I met just three days ago… is the right thing.

We arrived at his house and my jaw almost dropped. Bugatti. Range Rovers. Fortuners. Polos. GTIs. This man is swimming in wealth.

And the house? Yhu! It could accommodate an entire village.

I whispered to myself, "Zobuhle, don't let this man charm you with money. Don't."

He parked the car and locked the doors. My chest was pounding.

"Zobuhle, we need to talk," he said.

"Talk? About what?" I snapped. "About how you abducted me? Or maybe how you flashed your money around, thinking you could buy me?"

His brow shot up. Calm. Collected.

"I wasn't trying to buy you," he said softly. "I just… I can't deal with the pain of watching someone I love be with someone else."

My heart skipped. He loves me that much?

Before I could process, he opened my door like a gentleman. A woman in her 30s came walking toward us. Sharp eyes. Perfect makeup. A smile that screamed fake.

"Babakhe, you found us a new maid?" she asked.

My stomach dropped.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," he said, suddenly holding my hand tighter. "Mama, umnakwenu lo — uZobuhle. Zobuhle, this is my wife."

I snatched my hand away instantly.

His wife smiled, showing all her teeth. "Wamukelekile, sisi." (You are welcome, sister.)

But her tone? Cold as ice.

"Baba ka Sisonke, we need to talk," she said, still smiling like we were in a photoshoot.

He picked up my suitcase and followed her down the corridor. And me? I followed them like a child being handed over to foster parents. This house was massive. Too massive.

I sat alone in the lounge, my eyes traveling across expensive furniture that could probably pay for my whole degree. Then I heard them. Footsteps. Laughter.

Five kids marched downstairs — two girls and three boys. And hayi, they were grown, some already teenagers. Clearly this man and his wife never believed in spacing!

The kids stared at me, whispering. Then came the whistles.

"Nkosi yam…" I muttered under my breath. "I hate being this short."

One of the girls tilted her head. "Probably one of Malume Mnotho's sluts," she spat.

My eyes widened. Yho! So disrespect runs in this family?

Before I could respond, one of the boys — cute, but cheeky — grinned.
"Vala imbhebezane enkulu… muntu omuhle ingubo endala ilala izingane ezincane," he teased.
[Close your big mouth… Beautiful lady, an old garment is used by young boys.]

I couldn't help it. I laughed. Their boldness was unreal. And just for a second, I forgot I was trapped in a forced marriage.

I love kids. Just… not kids of my own. Not yet.

Then, a stern voice cut through.

"Yenina! Untanga yenu lo? Xolisani!" [Hey! She's your elder. Apologize!]

It was Manqoba.

But one of the girls,rolled her eyes.

"Khona intombi elayikhaya? Wazini ngezingubo ezindala?" [So you brought home a girlfriend? What do you know about old garments?]

The whole group erupted, giggling.

He continued face dark with anger. "Simlindile! Is that what I taught you? Calling grown women sluts? From today, no monthly allowance. No phone. For two months!"

Silence. Heavy.

Then, casually, the man introduced me. "This… is your mother."
I froze.
The kids froze.
Even the walls felt silent.

The other boys stood awkwardly, some shaking their heads in disbelief.

A stepmother? At 21?

This family… ay, I could already tell… was a storm waiting to swallow me whole.