Snippets and Stories

Short story, Snippet

Of speaking your piece…and your peace

The familiar sound of the garage opening reminded Sihle of her visitor. How was it that when he left, he had taken everything he owned, surrendered all his house keys, yet had felt the need to keep the garage remote? And why had he never returned it in all of the last four years?

Sihle remained seated at the dining table, facing the kitchen door. It gave her an advantage. She would see him first as he walked through and get the brief opportunity to appraise him while he was still walking in and finding his bearings. As he walked in, Sihle was very much aware of how her heart no longer skipped a beat at the sight of him. There was no hate, and there was no affection, it was almost like the way she would feel towards Greg in IT at the office, you know, the one she smiled briefly at in the staff kitchen, and only ever spoke to when she needed help with her laptop. Yep. That was how she felt when she looked at her husband. Husband. That would soon change.

He seemed to be more relaxed than usual and walked to her and gave her the usual hug. Why did they keep doing this? These hugs were as fake as a white woman’s smile to a black person in Woolies.

“How are you Hle?”

He always called her Hle. Even during the worst times in their relationship, when they had come close to murdering each other, he still called her Hle. It once had been a nickname that signified love, and affection and adoration, and had given her butterflies, but now, now it was just a name.

“I am fine Ndumiso, wena?”

She had always called him Ndumiso. Either sthandwa, or Ndumiso. Everyone else called him everything else, from Ndumi, to Ndu to Dumi, but she had always called him by the full name.

“I have to get to meeting soon, so I won’t stay long. Where are they?” He said as he settled on the seat opposite her.

Yea right, guess the meeting comes in a miniskirt and bright red lipstick.

“The kids are not here, and I didn’t request this meeting for them. Would you like a drink before we talk?”

“Yes please, any beer will do. Is everything ok?”

“I don’t have beer, juice?”



After handing him his glass, and settling down with her own, she pushed the white folder towards him.

“I had my lawyer draw these, please go through them and let me know if there is anything to revise. If not, please sign. I want this as painless as possible, and would prefer not to have a long drawn out process in court”

She was looking directly into his eyes and saw something she had not seen in a long time. Sadness. Anger. Hurt. A threat of tears. Isn’t this what he wanted? She was surprised.

“But we never spoke about this Nosihle”

Full name. So he was affected. The full name was reserved for extra special occasions. Wedding. Graduation speech. And now divorce.

“What is there to talk about Ndumiso? We are not together, so let us make it legal”

Her coldness astounded even her. Surely, she had loved this man before?

“Yes, but I mean, we never really discussed what direction we would take”

Ndumiso needed to start diluting his dagga, or maybe taking it as a brownie, because at that very moment, he was not making aaaaaany sense.

“Ndumiso, there was a time when we could have spoken, but we didn’t. You were not interested remember? Now, we are both happy, and at peace, why must we talk? Anyway, I will say my piece and my peace, so listen very carefully. I will not ever say this to you again.”

“When you left me, broken, confused, in pain, I thought I was gonna die. I did not eat for days on end. I was a zombie. I was short tempered with my children. I made mistakes at work and came very close to getting fired. I felt physical pain. Believe me, I wanted to talk to you then, desperately. But you did not want to talk”

“Remember on that last day, how I lay on the floor weeping, begging you to stay. How I even said I would try polygamy if that’s what you wanted? I was a mess. I was not myself. What had happened to the strong Nosihle that my mama raised me to be? Remember how you left me lying there, contemplating suicide? Do you know what stopped me? The image of my kids crying over my coffin…..”


She raised her hand to signal him to shut up.

“Don’t interrupt me! You will talk when I’m done. So yeah, the first six months after you left, I cried almost every night. The first year after you left, I daydreamed of the day you would come back to your senses. I imagined how our reconciliation would be like. I wrote you love letters that I never sent. Every little thing reminded me of you. I watched The Notebook over and over again and reminisced of when we first watched it together. I read Sunday papers on the bed like we used to, and wished you were there to do it with me. I slept in the one t shirt you forgot to take away with you. It was brutal. It was like a death with no funeral. And I had to go through it alone, because in my stupidity I had allowed you to make me alienate my friends and family. You’re surprised? Yes, I alienated them, because I was trying to be the wife you wanted”

“In the second year, I cried less, but I still held on to hope. Each time you came to pick the kids, I dressed myself to the nines, wore the best make up, sprayed your favourite scent, hoping you would see how beautiful I was and maybe desire me once more. But nope! No no no. I don’t blame you for that. I know now that that is not how a relationship is found, or kept, or maintained.”

“But something changed in year three”

She dramatically stood up to pour more wine before continuing,

“In year three, something shifted. I started to have real conversations with myself. I forgave myself, for ever thinking I was not enough. I forgave myself for ever reducing Nosihle to a pathetic beggar who begs for the attention of a man. I forgave myself for my role in our problems. Oh yes, I did. I acknowledged my role, but also reminded myself that my role is not the reason why you left. No one can make one person stay or leave. You left because you wanted to, and that is ok. It’s ok! It really is. I realised it late and I forgave myself for that. I started asking myself what it is I really wanted in life. I even dared to start living. To have a little fun. I started accepting invitations again. Heck, I even attended a wedding for the first time in two years! My kids noticed. They hugged me more, they spoke to me more, they wanted to do things with me more, and they told me they loved me more. Things that I had deprived myself of for two whole years!”

Ndumiso’s demeanor had changed from shock, to irritation, to really listening throughout this rant. He looked like he was going to cry at any minute. Nosihle was not deterred.

“Don’t take the relationship we have had in the last few months for granted. We are cordial and in a good space, because I deliberately decided that it was better for the kids if we got along. I was intentional in making sure that I avoid unnecessary conflict. I accepted the apology I never got from you. Don’t ever mistake that for weakness. I am much stronger than I was when we first met. I mean look, when it comes down to it, you are not a bad person, neither am I. You made choices, so did I. Now, Ndumiso, I choose to live in beauty rather than ashes, so I celebrate what we had. I tell our kids how we met, so they know they came from love. I tell them of the great things you have done and of the silly jokes you have told. I mean, let’s face it, no one, at this moment, knows you better than I do. I know your strengths and weaknesses, I know your likes and dislikes. In a way, that contributed to our demise, because it meant I could always call out your bullshit. I could always tell when you were lying or being insecure or jealous. And you hated that. You hated my honesty. You hated the challenge. You interpreted it as disrespect. But it never was. I was just being me. And being me meant not taking shit. It meant the inability to eat shit in all its forms – fried, baked or grilled”

“So Ndumiso, there are no more hard feelings. Read the papers. Have a lawyer go through them. Revise and be reasonable about it. Then let’s sign and go and live our lives!”

“But Hle, I’m not even with her anymore……”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s not about anyone. It’s about us. If you are single, then that gives you an opportunity to go out there and meet new people”

She was done. She had said her peace. They sat there for at least ten minutes before he gathered the guts the pick the papers and say his goodbyes.

Sihle exhaled. It was over.

A short story by Zwi, for Amazwi.



Short story

A generation that does not exist

The bus ride to town from the village only takes an hour, but it is a bumpy one. Each time I start dozing off, I am cajoled back to reality as the bus hits another bump. The road is very bad, and it does not help that it is the rainy season. It has been like this for as far as I can remember, and each new village counsellor that comes into power promises to ensure that the road will be tarred, but we know now that all those are empty promises. It gets better during autumn and winter, when the villagers work on the road as part of the food for work program which was introduced by the American donors. But in summer, the rain washes away all the gravel, and erosion leaves potholes big enough for one to grow a small garden.

The bus is a full house today. I was lucky to get a seat. It must be because it’s a Monday. Some villagers who spent the weekend at home are returning to town where they work from Monday to Friday. There are also several mothers with babies. It must be baby clinic day, and they are on their way to the mine clinic. The bus is a melting point of smells and sounds. There is the smell of cooked maize which many are going to sell at the town market, and there is the smell of boiled eggs. There is the smell of baby powder and there is also the smell of armpits and dirty shoes.

I relax when the bus reaches the mining area, where the road is tarred and well maintained. The white miners tarred the road from the town only up to their mines and did not bother expanding the good deed to the village. I clutch my rucksack and plastic bag in one hand, and the other hand holds on tightly to the rail of the seat in front of me. I don’t want a repeat of that embarrassing episode when I found myself on the floor of the bus when the driver hit a sharp turn. It did not help that on that day I had been carrying a pot of amasi which I was going to deliver to my younger brother, Ndumiso, who works at the town council offices. I quickly dismiss that uncomfortable memory and start thinking of my mission for the day.

We arrive in town early enough for me to get a spot close to the front of the queue at the registrar’s office, but first I must rush to the public toilet because I could urinate on myself any minute now. I can never get used to these town toilets, I am more comfortable squatting over a pit latrine, but I have no choice, do I? I climb on the toilet seat and squat uncomfortably, tightly holding my long skirt around my waist because I don’t want it to get wet with urine. Once I’m done with my business, I wet my small towel and wipe my face and armpits. My mother always taught me that a woman’s armpits must never have an odor, and today I am visiting offices of very important people, so I must look my best. I adjust my doek and make my way to the offices.

The walk from the bus rank to the registrar’s office is fascinating. There are scores of people walking from the high density residential areas on their way to work in the town center. They all came from the different villages scattered in the district, seeking for greener pastures. There is lot of noise, with taxis hooting and touts shouting while hanging from the windows of the same taxis. I could never live in town, it all seems chaotic and scares me a little. I strike a conversation with a fellow walker, who is also on her way to work. She is very chatty, and I barely get two words in.

“I must not be late for work, let’s walk faster. My mlungu is very strict. But as for the birth certificate, you will get it. It’s not a problem at all. But why didn’t you get it when the child was born? Anyway, I have to turn left here, just keep walking straight and you will see the office, you won’t miss it, it has a big flag hanging next to the gate”

And with that she takes a left and leaves me to my thoughts. I wonder why she felt the need to give me directions to the office. I shrug internally and walk even faster, because I feel there is a suspicious looking teenager following me. I don’t trust these town boys, they are pickpockets, and I am not about to lose my return bus fare.

I am determined to get a birth certificate for Nyembezi today. At 7.30am, one of the registrar employees appears and starts shouting instructions. He is a short, skinny man who should probably never find himself in a fist fight, because he would lose. Even I, as a woman, could take him on and beat him into a pulp. I decide then to refer to him as Cigo.

Cigo is rude and shouts out instructions as though he is talking to a group of two-year olds. The queue is made up of mostly women, and no one dares challenge him. We move according to his command.

“ID’s, door number 6!”

“Passports, if you don’t have an ID, just go back home! Or join the ID queue!”

“Birth certificates! I hope both parents are here! Door number 10!”

My heart skips a beat at the last announcement. Nyembezi does not have a father. But then I remember that this should not be a problem because her father died. Surely, they can’t expect me to produce a corpse? They will understand and give me the birth certificate.

I move quickly to join the queue for door number ten, and I am in luck because I am number seventeen in the queue. A young woman starts inspecting our documents. For each person she checks if there are ID copies for both parents, and if the parents are married. I see a few people leaving the queue with disappointed looks. When she is now on number twelve, I hear her saying,

“Mama, you are not married to the father of the child, so it does not matter that you have his ID, we want him hear. Go back home and bring him with you”

“We are married, he paid lobola, we live together, we have three children”

“Do you have a marriage certificate for this marriage that you speak of? And why are you using a different surname to his? Mama, don’t waste my time. Go and bring your so-called husband if you want birth certificates for your children”

I am now convinced that one of the requirements for getting a job here is rudeness, first it was Cigo, now it’s Nswintila!

The woman who is being addressed is obviously unhappy, but there is nothing she can do, so she leaves the queue, disappointed that she travelled all the way from her village for nothing. I wonder if maybe her husband had just refused to travel with her, or maybe there wasn’t enough bus fare for both of them?

Nswintila finally gets to me and asks for my documents, which I quickly hand over, my hand shivering. I’m scared of her. I’m scared that she will find something wrong and give me a tongue lashing.

“Mavis, where is the father of the child?” she barks

“He died” I say simply

“Do you have the death certificate?”

“No, we never got one”

“You never got a death certificate? How then did you bury him? Do you have a burial order?”

“No, we never buried him”

“Mavis, you think we are here to play? Who buried him then?”

“No one knows”

She looks at me as if I have lost my mind.

“I don’t understand what you mean Mavis. You will have to talk to Mr Dzingai inside. Stay in the queue”

This gives me hope, at least I can go inside and explain to Mr Dzingai. Mr Dzingai must be Nswintila’s boss then. I am sure he will understand my predicament.

At 10.00am, the door to the office closes. It’s tea time. I am now number three in the queue, so I am sure I will see Mr Dzingai before lunch. Because I am now closer, it means I can now sit on the bench in the corridor. I take out my water bottle from my plastic bag, together with my mealie cob which is wrapped in a newspaper and start eating. The family sitting next to me, seem to be looking strangely at my food. I think they are a town family because they look very clean and are eating fresh chips. The smell of the vinegar on the chips makes me even more hungry, and I quickly eat my maize and drink my water.

The office still doesn’t open at 10.30am, even though that is when tea time ends. There are disgruntled murmurs in the corridor, but they end when the door opens again at 10.45. The queue seems to move faster after that and I soon find myself sitting in front of Mr Dzingai. He takes my documents and inspects them without even greeting me.

“Mama, where is your husband” he asks sharply. He speaks a different language and I struggle to fully grasp what he is saying, but I understood that that he is asking about my husband.

“I left him at home” I respond nervously. What has Ndlovu to do with Nyembezi’s birth certificate?

“The father must be present for the birth certificate. Why didn’t he come?”

“He is not Nyembezi’s father. Nyembezi’s father is dead”

He looks at me briefly and I sense a bit of pity from him.

“Where is the father’s death certificate?”

“I don’t have one”

“Who has it? Does his family have it?”

“No, they don’t. I don’t know where his family is”

“Mama, your story makes no sense, where was he buried?”

“We never buried him” I say with no emotion. I stopped crying over this a long time ago.

“Mama, I don’t understand your story. Right now, your child does not exist! You need to get witnesses and go and make affidavits. Once that is done, come back here and we will give you a letter which you must take to Harare. Such complicated cases can only be handled in Harare!”

He says Harare, as though Harare is Canaan. I once travelled there when it was still Salisbury, but everything seemed confusing. I don’t think I could go back there by myself, I will have to find cousin Mehluli’s phone number and contact him. He works there and once a year he comes to the village and tells us of the tall buildings and fast Toyota Cressidas.

“I cannot help any further mama, next!” Mr Dzingai startles me back to the present.

He is still speaking that language, but I take it that I’ve been dismissed. I gather my documents and quietly walk out. I will go and look for Ndumiso. He will know what to do. I don’t understand why Mr Dzingai thinks Nyembezi does not exist. I gave birth to her in my grandmother’s kitchen, surrounded by three village grandmothers, and after that we went to the hospital. Nyembezi is my daughter. She exists! There are many Nyembezis in my village, whose parents died or disappeared during that dark, unspoken period. It’s a whole generation of Nyembezis.

I get to the town council offices before lunch, and I wait until lunch time before I can see Ndumiso. I narrate the morning’s events, and I can see him frothing with anger.

“First, they kill us, and then they deny our children their rights! How will Nyembezi sit her grade seven exams without a birth certificate?”

“I also don’t know, mnawami. We never buried her father, they buried him in a mass grave with twenty other bodies. Where do they expect us to get this death certificate?”

We sit there quietly for a few minutes. We are both thinking of that fateful night. I had grabbed Nyembezi and ran fast as I could to my family’s homestead, and we had watched from a distance as the Ndlovu home went up in flames. We were told the following morning that no one had been spared. All the Ndlovu brothers and their father had been shot and buried in the forest. Nyembezi no longer had a family. Her father, uncles and grandfather had died because they were suspected of harboring dissidents.

Ndumiso seems to finally have an idea.

“We need a lawyer. Magwaza is a lawyer. We will go and see him. He will help us with everything. We can pay him in installments. He helps many people from our village, and some pay by working in his father’s field. That’s what we will do. It’s late for today, so go back home, I will go and see him in the morning and then during the weekend I will come and tell you what he said”

I trust Ndumiso, he is clever and speaks English. I know he will speak to the lawyer and solve this problem. I make my way back to the bus rank, and board the bus back to the village. I still do not have a birth certificate for Nyembezi, but I have hope.

Written by Zwi for Amazwi. 



Fresh Starts

The Empress' Musings

The hot summer’s day was tapering to an end as Siya’s bus finally pulled to a stop in the middle of the City. It parked clumsily in the centre parking and straddled a number of parking bays, much to the annoyance of commuters who were scrambling across the wide street in the middle of rush hour traffic to make it into the taxis so they could be home before the sun dipped completely behind the horizon. The cacophony of city noises that exploded into the bus as the driver opened the door jolted Siya from her reverie. She quickly felt blindly for her satchel underneath the worn seat, stretched and double checked that her belongings were all in place. She rolled up her earphones and dropped them into the concealed pocket inside the bag. She then felt for the thick envelope that her grandmother had smuggled to her as she…

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Short story

Zanele – I choose me.

Zanele was a beautiful woman. A beautiful high-flying dentist with her own practice in the heart of the city. She was the kind of woman that women envied, and men wished their wives could be. What was there not to envy? She had an amazing career and had grown to be well renowned motivational speaker, encouraging and motivating women and girls to aspire for more. Her husband was a well-respected IT professional who graced boards of telecommunications companies. They had two children, a boy, Lesley Junior and a girl, Nobuhle, and theirs was the picture of a perfect nuclear family.

Zanele believed she could take the world. She was one of the most driven people. She had grown up poor but loved and protected. Her father had done everything in his power to make sure that she got the best education, and since she had the brains, she hit straight A’s and eventually found herself studying periodontics, making her the only female periodontist in the country. She hated it when people referred to her as a dentist. She was a snob, and in her mind, being a dentist was like mini cooper whereas periodontist was like Bugatti.

Zanele had built this beautiful life for herself, and to an extent some thought she had forgotten where she came from. She no longer found pleasure in going back to her childhood home because she found it too small. She had two helpers, one for the kids and the other to clean and do laundry. She hated house chores and the only activity she enjoyed was cooking. She had not ironed a shirt for her husband in years and was not planning to do so any time soon.

Her little haven was however falling apart. Cracks were beginning to show. For years, Lesley had complained about how she did not behave like a wife. And it had been a constant thorn in their marriage. She believed she was a good wife, she brought home a good income, she made sure the house staff had clear instructions on what to do, the home was always clean, meals were always prepared, the kids homework was always supervised. Hell, she even had the mandatory sex three times a week. What more did this man want! She attended his business meetings looking like a trophy wife, only saying something intelligent when it was necessary without over shadowing him, smiling at the right time and having the appropriate amount of wine. She even visited his mother once every month, so what else did he want!

Yet it never seemed enough, and it had escalated to a point where even the sex was now once a week. Basically, they were now just tolerating each other. The cracks were glaring, Lesley had attended a gala dinner by himself, which had never happened before. She had not asked why, but had just instructed the staff to make sure his tux was ready, like the good wife she knew she was.


Zanele was sitting at the dining room table, helping Buhle with her homework. It was a Wednesday, so she had an afternoon off. She never took any bookings on Wednesday afternoons, because she chose that as the day when she spent an afternoon with her children, before going out for a pamper session at the spa. Sometimes it was a massage, and on some days just a facial, or even a wax, but she did not compromise on her Wednesday me time as she called it, and she believed it was her way of destressing and re-aligning her energies without any outside noises. It was almost amusing, how this girl, who grew up in a tiny two bedroomed home in the densely populated dusty suburb of Emakhandeni in Bulawayo, now saw herself as this madam who needed her energies aligned. She was known to make statements like, “I don’t understand women who never go for facials”

How had she survived all those poverty-stricken years without a facial? How had her mother before her survived it and still had the most flawless skin? How had her grandmother before that survived it? But this was Zanele, when she was growing up, her dad had told her to shoot for the stars and aspire for a great life, and she had done just that and came out successful, well, at least according to her definition of success. Her dad had told her that she could do anything she wanted to do, and she did. He told her being a female was not a limitation, and she proved him right. He told her she could be better than any boy, and indeed she always graduated top of anything be it at undergrad or PhD. Even in her home, Lesley knew that their debates were always intellectual, and he was fascinated by her intelligence, and maybe a little threatened, although Zanele never knew that she threatened him. It was Lesley’s little secret. When an African, Ndebele man, observed them, they clicked their tongue in irritation of how she could easily stand at par with him without cowering, yet they got excited at the power she exuded. They, without a doubt wanted a taste of that, but probably would not be able to handle that, and would most likely turn into control freaks if they had her. Maybe that is why Lesley was always eager to speak highly of her, and brag, maybe it was just a front to hide his insecurities, and not appear as though his wife had cut his balls off.

Anyway, Zanele was sitting at the table with Buhle, when Lesley walked in, and gave both girls the mandatory kiss on the cheeks.

“Hi daddy,” Buhle said in her sweet but manipulative voice that was specially reserved for her dad. She was a little princess who was thoroughly spoilt by both parents. It was worrying how she would turn out, because no man would ever live up to her dad’s ridiculous standards.

Lesley and Zanele exchanged the usual pleasantries – could a marriage be more void of affection than this one? Then he asked to speak to her in private.

“Can I finish with Buhle?” she said.

“Now, Zani” Lesley snapped.

Ok. He obviously had something up his ass. She raised her brows, but stood up and followed him to the bedroom, hoping there would be no confrontation today. Not today please. Not on a day when she was going out for her me time. She did not need it today.

“What happened this morning Zani?” Lesley said the moment the door was shut.

Zanele was lost. What was he talking about.

“What do you mean sweetheart?”

“Did I not ask specifically for my pin stripe shirt? Why was it not ready this morning? And you thought it was a good idea to leave without giving me an alternative?”

Oh dear Lord, Zanele thought, I married a different kind of stupid.

“Gosh! Sorry, I totally forgot, I had a lot on my mind, am so sorry. It must still be in the laundry room, I’ll check with the girls” she said referring to the helpers.

“Well, I am not married to the helpers Zanele, I don’t remember ever paying lobola for a helper”

“No need to be nasty, Les, I said am sorry, I’ll fix it”

“Well, maybe nasty is the only language you understand! You watch too much soapies and forget who you are and who your husband is”

Hayi bo! Lesley was itching for a fight, it was one of those days! He often had these episodes when he snapped and told her she was not good enough for marriage and it always a broke a little piece of her heart. The problem was that there were so many of those little pieces broken that she no longer felt love or affection for Lesley, and she was beginning to resent him.

“Lesley, I am not standing here just to listen to your insults, I am gonna get ready to go out, I have a spa appointment”

“Like hell you do, ucabanga ukuthi ungubani wena Zanele? You are not going anywhere! You will stay here and be the wife you are supposed to be” he shouted.

“I am not staying here Lesley” she said, still as cool as a cucumber, and that always made Lesley even more angry, how she never raised her voice, yet somehow, she made him feel disrespected. It was something she had mastered as a teen, when she led the high school debate society. She always stuck to facts and hardly brought emotion to any argument.

He yanked her with her arm, and threw her on the bed.

“You are not going anywhere, uyezwa? Awuyi ndawo” He said, pronouncing each syllable, clapping his hands in a dramatic fashion.

Zanele was shocked, surely, he was not going to hit her? He had clapped her once before, and it had been the single most humiliating event of her adult life, which she had never shared with anyone. It had been years ago, she had threatened him with arrest and public humiliation. He had said he would never do it again. She still had flashbacks to that day, and it could have been the turning point in her marriage.

She sat still on the bed, and it was only when he walked into the shower that she allowed the tears to fall. When he walked back into the room, he looked at her with disgust in his eyes.

“You think crying will save you?”

She did not respond.

“You know what your problem is? You think you are special, yet you are nothing. I make you special, without me you are nothing. You are nothing Zanele. You cannot even iron a shirt, such a simple thing! And you call yourself a wife, nc nc nc,n do you even understand what a wife is?”

He paused and looked at her again, and she still remained still and quiet, the tears having dried up again.

“I don’t get you, you were raised by an amazing woman, why could you not learn from her?”

“I want a divorce” she whispered.

“What did you say” he asked.

“I want a divorce, Lesley, I want a divorce. Go and find yourself a worthy wife.”

“Hahahaha, with pleasure. Let’s see how far you will go without me, stupid bitch” he said as he finished dressing up and walked out.


It had been a year since the day Lesley had moved out of their home, and in spite of the pain, Zanele was experiencing a different kind of peace, which she had not felt in a long time. She had spent years chasing her dreams, then got married and continued chasing her dreams while trying to be a wife. For the first time ever, she was able to exhale. Recently, she had started chatting with Lesley, and their are conversations had progressed from angry, forced and painful, to cordial, and now to a friendship. This is the friendship they had in the beginning and she was surprised at how much they really got along, and even felt the affection coming from Lesley.

She realised that they never stood a chance before. Their expectations had been so different. Lesley was a proud, Ndebele man who had been raised to believe that there was a place for women, and this place was the kitchen. He was like her father, but this is where it got complicated for her. Her father was a controlling man, and her mother treated him like a king, cooking his meals and raising Zanele and her siblings. He never wanted her mother to work, her place was in the home. Yet, he raised her like most people in their community would raise a boy. He raised her to be a trailblazer. There was a clear disconnect. How exactly had daddy dearest expected Zanele to fare in marriage. Her aunties often told her that she should have been a man, and when she was younger she had thought it was a compliment, but now she knew better.

You see, she had come to appreciate that she could not have it all. She had to choose between a man and the life she wanted. Money could not replace the expectations that Lesley had of her. It made her sad because she wanted it all. She had recently opened up to Lesley about this, and told him that she chose herself, therefore she chose her career. She chose a pampered life. She chose to read a good book with a glass of wine instead of pining over laundry and other house chores. She even joked that maybe what she needed was a white man. Lesley had understood, or maybe pretended to understand and said there were no hard feelings. They were now waiting on their lawyers to draw up the divorce paperwork.

She was sitting on the couch, pondering these things when her phone rang. It was Lesley, maybe he wanted to discuss the kids’ holiday plans.

“Hi Les” she said as she answered the phone.

“Hi, are you guys ok?”

“Yes, they just went to bed, maybe they can call you tomorrow?”

“No that’s ok, actually, it’s you that I wanted to speak to” he said.

“Oh ok, what’s up” She was now alert and curious, maybe the lawyers were ready to move ahead with the divorce papers.

“I was thinking about what you said. About you choosing you, and I respect that. But I was wondering, what if I also choose you, how would that work?”

Zanele was stunned.

“What are you saying Lesley”

“I’m saying I want you and the kids, and I choose you. And I think we can work the rest out, and take it one step a time”

At that moment, she started sobbing. She had no answer. But she knew she was happy to have been chosen for a change, instead of choosing herself.


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Snippet – Good Girl

Below is a snippet from the novel Good Girl, written by Sizwile Sibindi. Enjoy!

I am now a second year at varsity! The excitement is buzzing at campus. I can see how my dreams will come true very soon. I am still hurt about Lungile, but I also know I have to loosen up and live a little, and maybe even date. I am definitely not going to commit to anyone. I will not even think about marriage for the next hundred years, Lungile has shown me that happily ever after is a myth.

It’s the second month of the semester, and we are over the registration period so classes have now begun in earnest. I am walking from class to res, when a red golf stops next to me, window rolls down and I hear,

“Thembie my baby”

Whaaaat? Jabu now has a car, trouble if you ask me. And I am baby now? Such a chancer!

“Jabu hi” I say

“Get in, I’ll drop you off” He never gives up ne?

I get into his car and he drives to my block. He is driving very slowly.

“How are you? You are scarce this year”

“I’m good Jabu, and you?”

“Could be better” he says looking at me and smiling.

I raise my eyebrows.

“Well, you have turned me down a million times, but could be better if you go out with me this Friday….as friends?”

I did say he never gives up. Let me shock him, seeing as I am single and ready to mingle.

“Sure, where and what time?”

“You joking! Ha! Cool, will pick you at 8 on Friday”

We are now parked outside my building. I come out of the car and so does he. He walks round the car to me, and stands in front of me, very close I must say.

“So Friday then?” He says. He is so handsome, why is my heart beating so fast.

“Sure, will see you” I turn to go.

“No hugs?” he asks.

I shake my head, turn back and give him the hug. He hugs back and boy does he smell good. A far cry from Lungile’s Brut.

I walk away, and I know he is watching. I am wearing shorts and I know them legs are killing him right now.

“Girrrrrrl, what was that about” says Lerato the moment I step into our room. We are still roommates and besties.

“I take it you were watching me through the window and saw me give Jabu a hug” I say stifling a laugh.

“Well, yeah!” she obviously wants a story, and I don’t have one to give her.

“He asked me for a date on Friday and I said yes, I am single so why not.” I say matter of factly.

“Ok girl, just be careful, you know Jabu and girls,” she says.

“Don’t stress girl, I am just having fun after that pig broke my heart” It still hurts a little, but I’ll be strong.

“Yeah girl, after saving the cookie for him” she says and we laugh.

“So what are you wearing on Friday, you gotta show them legs, they don’t call you miss brainy legs for nothing”

Yes, I am called miss brainy legs because I am super intelligent and have the most amazing legs, which I only truly embraced when I got to varsity.


Friday evening is here, I am dressed in my short denim jumpsuit, with a boob tube cut and high heels. I look hot and I know it. Jabu picks me up, looking hot as always.

He kisses me on the cheek while giving me a hug, ok that’s unexpected.

“You look so hot girl” he says as he opens the car door.

“Thanks, you don’t look bad yourself” I say and he laughs.

“Where are we off to?”

“Dinner and then Moloko”

Ok, Moloko huh? Our student budget usually ends at CoFi and News Café but oh well, I guess his budget is set up differently.

We have dinner at Brooklyn square and the conversation is flowing. I am enjoying talking to him. We have never really had a long conversation other than when he is hitting on me, and I realise that he is not what I expected. He can actually talk about other things besides music and clubbing. He is also quite funny, which is a plus.

“Excuse me sir, the kitchen will close in 10minutes, if you would like to order something”

Wow! Where did the time go? Was the conversation that good?

He pays and we leave. As we walk to the car, I am very aware of his hand on my back.

“We could skip Moloko” he says, “We will not have a conversation there”

“Sure, so what do you suggest we do then?”

“If you don’t mind we can go back to my place, chill and I’ll drop you off later” he says.

“Ok sure,”

He lives in a flat and so we go there.

I take off my shoes and we sit on the balcony and have drinks. We are sitting on cushions on the floor and just talking.

“Where is your roommate?” I ask.

“It’s Friday girl, who knows” he says and we laugh. He takes out his phone and sends a text.

“He says he’s eating his youth in Joburg, he’ll probably only be back in the morning”

“Mmmm ok” I say, why am I happy about the roommate being away? Could it be because I want to sleep with this boy and forget about Lungile?

I am now lying on the cushion with my head on his lap.

“So why did you finally agree to go on a date with me,” he asks

“Because when you asked before I was in a relationship, and I don’t cheat, but now I am single” I say.

“Wow! Ok – you are something else” he says

“What do you mean” I ask.

“You have a way of just saying it like it is, and you don’t seem intimidated by anything or anyone. Most girls would have said the time was not right or some shit, but you just…..I don’t know”

I laugh a little, I usually do the intimidating, not the other way round.

“I mean, you are the first girl that I have pursued for this long” he says

“Why? Why do you keep pursuing me? You always have a girl on your arm, so why me?”

“To begin with, you are different, it’s like you are just not impressed about most things, and Girrrrrrl, have you seen them legs”

We laugh out loud, he is silly.

He gently moves my head off his lap, then lies next to me, and he kisses me.

I feel like this is a first kiss. He kisses so well. He teases me with his tongue and I respond.

After what seems like an eternity, we stop and hold each other.

“Do you wanna go inside?” He asks.

I nod, and he takes me by the hand and leads me to his room. It is such a neat room, I wonder if it’s because he knew he would be bringing me back here.

He leads me to the bed, where we start kissing again, very passionately. We start undressing, and I am so roused nothing can stop me now.

“Are you sure” he whispers.

“Yes, are you?” I whisper back and he looks me in the face and the grabs a condom and puts it on. Great, he doesn’t compromise on safety.

He comes on top of me, and his finger is working on me. Eventually he slides in, and ohhhh he is well built. I feel him as he comes in and I close my eyes as I wrap my legs around him.

He starts to move and I move with him. Slowly at first, but the pace increases. It is so sweet, I cannot even say how I feel. When I come, my body feels like an explosion. This is the greatest sex I have ever had, with my little experience.

Once we are both done, we lie there cuddling without saying anything. At dawn I am woken by his kisses and we do it again. This time he enters me from behind, and it lasts longer. I cannot get over how well-endowed he is. I can feel him in each every corner. By the time he is done with me I am groaning.

“It is better than I imagined. You are beautiful Thembie” he says.

I kiss him and not say anything.

We finally fall asleep again.

It is 2pm when he finally drives me to res on Saturday.

“Why don’t you get a change of clothes, then later we can go dancing” he says.

“Ok” I say as I get out of the car. Again he comes out and comes to my side.

He gives me a kiss and says,

“See you now, sexy”

I blush a little.

I walk away and know that there are a million eyes watching me through windows. No wonder it is called the walk of shame. Interestingly, for boys it is called the walk of fame. Male patriarchy bullshit.

I am relieved that none of my squad is here, I am not in the mood for explanations. I change clothes into casual shorts and flat shoes, then pack something to wear later, and for tomorrow as well. I walk back to the car.

“That was fast” he says. He is still standing outside the car, his legs crossed and he is checking me out from head to toe.

“We go?” I say

“Yep, can we go back to my place? Those shorts are giving me ideas” he says stroking my thigh.

This will be scandal! We are still standing outside the car and I am sure the million eyes are still watching.

I blush a little and say, “We can go back, would love to see a demo of those ideas”

He looks surprised, pleasantly surprised.

We drive back to his place and we shut ourselves in his bedroom again. This time I am on top, and I squeeze and let go and he is groaning. I move, and stop just long enough to tease him then move again. I don’t even know where I know all this from, because Lungile and I were not that adventurous.

He eventually flips me over, and rides me like a bull. When we come together, it is fireworks. How can sex be this good? Jabu knows his story shame, it’s too bad I cannot love him, but as for sex, I will be giving it to him for a long time because he is that good.

That night, we go out clubbing and end up with my squad and his squad. My friends are surprised at how Jabu and I are touchy feely, and when we go to the bathroom I give them a sneak preview.

“Girrrrrrls, let’s just say, the last 24 hours I have done it at least 3 times” they all scream.

“You savage! Aaaaand? Does he live up to his rep?” Nyasha is asking for details.

“If he didn’t, would I have opened these legs 3 times?” I say and they scream again.

I refuse to tell them more and we go back to join the guys. I can see my girls looking at him differently. I sit on his lap and we stand to dance at some point.

We eventually leave the club, drop off my friends and head back to his flat. The roommate is in, but in his bedroom, obviously with a girl. I wonder if they will be comparing notes tomorrow. I don’t care, I will be comparing my own notes with my girrrrls!

Enjoyed it? Want to read more? Place your order by emailing The book retails at R160. Bulk orders from stockists are welcome.


New book alert


Book cover final“I have not cheated on you in months” he shouts.

“That’s not the point, the point is you have cheated! And I did not get the memo that says we can now both stop cheating” I shout back.

He is unbelievable!

“Look Thembie, I am committed you and yes I have made mistakes, but you are just not committed to me – you never do anything I ask and you just do as you please all the damn time! I cannot wait around for you to decide whether you are in or out”

I think he is about to break up with me, but I expected that. Men never forgive a woman for cheating.