Mankhokwe...

She woke up one day to a ring on her finger: engaged. On Facebook, unknown to her, there were people fawning. And falling over themselves. Heavy with congratulatory messages. He had tagged her in a post: engaged to... Her WhatsApp was full, and overflowing, with messages. When she opened that app, she was welcomed by a group. Her friends had apparently formed that group to plan her wedding. She says it was crazy – that morning. Just below that group were messages from all over. They were all congratulating her. A few asked when the big day would be. Him. The conversation with him. It laid at the unimportant bottom. Like a pile of forgotten emotions. The last message from him was sent the previous night. It was one word: ‘whatever’. But, we will come to that later. For now, the engagement. It was her birthday. He had ignored her for the whole day (spoiler: most guys do not actually forget the birthday, they pretend! When your man – applicable to boyfriends on

He always came through. Or, maybe, we should say He almost – key word: almost – always came through. Although, for her, she would rather we remove the ‘almost’ because, well, that word never counts. So, He always came through. She says that, throughout her life, He has been coming through. Sometimes, four days late yet still on time – like that time the good book says He had to resurrect Lazarus. Her journey, especially from the University, has been punctuated by His timely showing up. The other time, He showed up at noon. The previous night, a timid and excited student happy that she was about to finish her first year, she had gone out with friends. It was her first time going out. It was her first time drinking. She blacked out. Or, rather, went into a quiet dark sleep. She does not remember what happened. But, nothing bad happened. At least, not that evening. If anything, it nearly happened during the day. That time she woke up with a headache. The moment

This moment, there is a woman. And, she might be your wife.  She has been married for a few years, maybe two or three. Or four. Even just weeks. I cannot disclose the actual duration. It might give her away. But, she is married. And childless.  Most Saturdays – and they might not even be Saturdays – she fasts. And locks herself in the bedroom. Or climb hills. Pretends to be praying. And crying. For a child.  Once in a period, she goes to a small clinic out of town to renew her vow: she gets contraceptives.  Her husband – we do not talk much about him – might be busy wondering what is wrong with him. Or her. Or them, as a couple.  He might be, at this hour, crouching under the shade of some traditional doctor. Maybe for the fifth time.  The doctor, a quack, might again make him drink something bland and bad-smelling.  “This must work,” he might tell him.  The husband, tired and frustrated, might gulp with all the urgency. Hoping that after drinking such a concoction the