CHAPTER 1

AMANDA MOFOKENG – CELE.

After eight long hours on the road, the board finally reads "The eThekwini Municipality welcomes you." I release a slow, shaky sigh. I still can't believe I went through with this. But here I am doing what I've always done, pleasing my father. Phoka Mofokeng, the man we all grew up worshipping like a god. Pleasing him has always come before pleasing ourselves. He never failed us, and so, in return, we were taught never to fail him.

The thick shawl covering my shoulders feels unbearably hot, but I don't dare remove it. A makoti must look the part.

As our car turns into a dusty gravel road, my stomach tightens. When we finally stop, I glance through the window — rows of curious faces stare back. Women, men, and children fill the yard. The women drop what they're doing and start ululating while the men rise to their feet, singing in deep, rhythmic voices. Is this… a wedding?

"Makoti, we're here. Manje sizokungenisa emagcekeni ako Ndosi, respectfully. This is your late sister's marital home," the aunt who fetched me from my mother says.
(Now we'll be entering Ndosi's yard, respectfully.)

Oh, Moleboheng!
From a big double-storey in the suburbs to… this? I just bow my head and nod. Mme gave me clear instructions before I left.

"Latela ditaelo tsa bahweng ba hao, Manda. You won't suffer, if you do so."
(Follow your in-laws' instructions, Manda.)

And so here I am — following them exactly. They help me out of the car, and now the ululations and singing grow louder. The air feels thick — filled with joy I can't share. The male elders of the Cele family walk in front, while the aunt and I follow behind.

After a few minutes, the songs grow nearer, and then the ululation stops. A moment later, even the singing fades into silence. The men now stand before us.

"Keep your head bowed down," the aunt whispers. "I'll lay the grass mat for you inside."

I nod again and lower my gaze. Then, a deep voice begins reciting the Cele clan praises.

"Cele, Ndosi!
Nombedu,
Khumbuza,
Nkomo kayivuswa,
Nkom'isengwa ilele,
Wayisenga imile iyakhahlela,
S'qunga esihle esingahlalwa nyoni,
Siqunga esizalela amasakabula!"

My skin prickles as his voice rolls through the air — proud, heavy, commanding. Then he adds:

"Sibuye naye umakoti wethu njengokwethembisa kwethu."
(We came back our bride, as we had promised.)

The men move aside, and suddenly, all eyes are on me. The women erupt in ululation again. Through my lowered gaze, I see a pair of pink Cavella shoes and black Brentwood trousers stop in front of me. I can't see his face, but I already know who it is.

He crouches down. My heart freezes. Fuck… it's Mabutho.

"Welcome home, mkami," he says, his deep voice brushing against my skin. His breath smells of mint, mixed with that woody, spicy cologne he always wears.
(Mkami – my wife.)

I stay perfectly still. What a great day it must be to be Mabutho Cele — the man who loses a wife and, like a cruel twist of fate, gets another one handed to him for free.

After a moment, he stands up and steps back. The singing begins again, louder now, and from under my bowed head I can see his foot lift — he's dancing. And I just stand there, still as stone, as everyone celebrates a marriage I don't even want.
.
.
.

The sun has long set, and here I am — sitting quietly on a grass mat, listening to the aunts and makotis (brides) of the Cele clan lecture me on how to "take good care of my husband." My husband. The words still taste bitter on my tongue.

I don't owe Mabutho anything, but I sit here and listen anyway — because that's what a good daughter does.

"Makoti, indoda iyaphekelwa. Uyiphakele indoda yakho ize ikhalise okwengane encane,"
one of the older women says, her tone both playful and commanding.
(Makoti, you must dish up for your husband. Serve him until he cries with joy like a small child.)

The others nod, some smirking, others giggling behind their hands. I blink, trying not to roll my eyes. Serve him until he cries? Please. The only tears Mabutho will see from me are not of joy. I'm not even going to sleep with him — not today, not tomorrow… not ever.

"That's all, mntanami," says the woman who introduced herself earlier as MaDlamini.
(... my child.)
She's also married into the family — a calm, soft-spoken woman, unlike the others who keep throwing suggestive smiles my way.

"We're going to leave you with your husband now. Take good care of our son, Makoti," says the aunt who came with me from home.

I nod politely before answering softly,
"Eya mme, ke tla etsa joalo."
(Yes, ma'am, I'll do so.)

One by one, the women rise, giving me warm hugs — some genuine, some staged — before walking out of the room, their laughter echoing down the passage. And just like that, the door closes. Silence.

I exhale deeply. My chest feels heavy, my throat tight. This is it. I think this is one decision I will regret for the rest of my life.