AN AFRICAN BREW

This story is part of a 3-part ‘Brew series’. It also happens to be an unfinished story, how would you finish it? Feel free to let me know in the comments …

Sometimes, I dream that I am flying. Or perhaps, a more accurate description would be that I am floating. Floating in the air. It’s a peculiar sensation, almost as though my spirit has been lifted from my body and is being carried towards the clouds. I am soaring freely, a curious mix of power and overwhelm. I am both in-control and out-of-control. It is unnerving and yet liberating. Right now? Well, I am awake, seated across from the man that I love and that same soaring sensation I feel when I am asleep, is slowly consuming me.

Sweet and spicy aromas linger in the room and fuse with our own scents, a fragrant reminder of home and intimacy. I wonder what he thinks or how he feels when he looks at me, does he think of me the same way as when we first met? These are the silent thoughts I ask myself as I stare at this fine specimen before me, handsome, broad shoulders, big hands and powerful legs. A man I smugly call mine, my husband, my Mwila. Its five years today, and the slow comfortability of our union reflects in the slight rounding of his belly and cheeks. Mwila eats excitedly across the table from me and catches me staring. Mwila smiles, I smile back sweetly. One of his big brown hands reaches for my own darker one and it is now cupping mine as his fingers dance over my skin in smooth soothing circles. Looking into his loving eyes now, I am reminded of the sweet promises the end of dinner will bring. My stomach and thighs clench in anticipation.

I took great care with dinner tonight. Smoked isabi with a tangy tomato soup, nshima for the starch and ifisashi for the greens. I even added extra peanut powder in the ifisashi because he prefers it that way. I topped it all off with curried beans, his favourite meal. He lets go of my hand so that he can more thoroughly indulge in his meal. I eat slowly reminiscing of our early days. The day I first met him, his strong hands caught me as I tripped and fell out of the mini-bus at the UNZA bus station. He was in the last stretch of his masters’ degree in finance and I was in my last year of my bachelor’s degree in social welfare. As I looked up into his eyes, I just knew. Funny, they always say when you know you know, right then and there I knew.

******

He is gazing into my eyes as if in awe, and I feel as though he can see right through me. He pulls me away from the bus I have just stumbled out of and his hand stays clasped to mine. He opens his beautiful mouth to speak. ‘Suddenly, I’m extremely glad I took the bus today.’ His eyes twinkle as he speaks, cheeky grin splitting across his face. I smile shyly up at him, and then shift uncomfortably as embarrassment at my ordeal and my now torn skirt takes over, I quickly look away trying to fix myself and make myself more presentable- mostly for him.

******

‘Tapiwa, you’ve out done yourself tonight my love.’ Mwila says, looking up from his plate. His meal is almost half gone now, and he is picking out bones from the steak of the smoked fish in front of him. ‘I thought I should prepare your favourite meal tonight, honey.’ I respond politely before continuing with a sour, yet playful sulk, ‘After all, you won’t get to taste it for the next two weeks, I wish your business trip to Dubai wasn’t over our anniversary weekend.’ I look down sadly at my dinner plate, as Mwila gets up from his chair, leans across the table and kisses my cheek. I do not mind his fishy breath. He sits back down as he responds. ‘Hey, don’t worry; I’ll be back sooner than you think, and I’ll take you on holiday to make up for it’. I smile back up at him, the twinkle in his eye reflecting in my own, and we continue to eat in a comfortable silence.

We dated for two years before he proposed. We were engaged for a year before we got married. We don’t have any children. This is by choice. We both agreed it would be better to get our careers going first before expanding our family. We are happy this way. Our extended family however, disagrees. Mwila’s auntie Shiela in particular, often voices her unhappiness at our lack of children frequently. She even resorted to bringing a n’anga to our home once, -to drive away the evil spirits that were preventing us from having children. Honestly! A witch doctor? -In my home? Auntie Shiela is always putting her nose where it doesn’t belong. Like most women her age and from her background, she doesn’t quite understand the concept of a young career woman not wanting to have children. To them, if you don’t want to have kids within the first year of marriage then you are cursed. A social pariah, an outcast.

Mwila finishes his meal and releases a large burp. Yuck. I look at him with annoyance, disgust and love. ‘Tsk! I hate when you do that!’ I say kissing my teeth, allowing the annoyance in my voice to seep through as I rise to clear the table. Mwila chuckles an apology, follows me to the kitchen and washes his hands at the sink. He hugs my waist from behind as I rinse off the residue on the plates and stack them neatly in the sink for our house girl Carol to wash up tomorrow, I would do them myself, but just not tonight.

He turns me around and the fishy smell from our dinner lingers in the short space between us. We don’t mind, so we kiss slowly. The sound of an over-boiling pot cuts-short our embrace and I rush to the stove to turn it off. The inviting whiff of amataba fills the small space of our kitchen and as if noticing it for the first time, Mwila exclaims excitedly like a small child, ‘honestly! you’re going to make me fat. Maize sure? Hmm, and roasted ground nuts? What other surprises do you have for me?’ Mwila is at the stove now, reaching in to grab a steaming hot cob from the pot, he bounces it from palm to palm in an effort to cool it faster in his excited state. I grab two bowls from the cupboards and dish out some roasted groundnuts before proceeding to grab his cob from his hand and placing it in one of the bowls after reaching into the pot and grabbing my own juicy cob, I lead him out of the kitchen and into the living room where our favourite telenovela is showing. Mwila will never publically admit to our friends that he enjoys telenovelas just as much as I do.

******

 ‘Till death do us part,’ my heart is swelling with fullness in what I can only describe as sunlight radiating out of me, and my hands shake as the priest lays his final blessings upon us. The weight of the words we just repeated after him are only now just sinking in. Light is streaming into the cathedral and brightening up the grey walls. The weather is sunny and the décor of the hall reflects the feelings I have inside. Pale gold ribbons and white drapes encase the walls and a combination of white lilies and red roses fill the room. We stand underneath a gazebo made of replica cherry blossoms and gold ribbons and as we turn, the merry applause of our family and friends consumes the room.

******

I head back into the kitchen and open the fridge. The final touch to this meal I’ll have with my husband is his favourite drink. Munkoyo. I made sure to make it extra sweet and sour. So I left the roots in the container for two weeks, to allow it to brew and mature more thoroughly. I join him on the couch in the living room and hand him a cup of the brew. He smiles at me happy and speechless taking a sip, he seems content.

He is always like this. Happy, helpful, caring and so visibly grateful. So, I always try my very best to give him what he wants where and when I can. He takes a large gulp and coughs a little, almost choking but not quite, I rub his back to comfort him. My Mwila. It’s a shame that his is the last sip he will ever take of his favourite drink.

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. They also say that poison is a woman’s weapon of choice. How ironic. I love Mwila to death. Literally. It’s been three months now since I found out and I don’t know how I missed the signs. His behaviour hasn’t changed, it never did. He is as smooth and as handsome as he was on the day we first met. How can someone continue their day to day life as though their whole entire existence hasn’t been disrupted? Well, I’ve had three months to acknowledge the fact that it’s incredibly easy. With the right amount of self-control, one can keep anything from their loved ones, including infidelity.

He is going to Dubai with his lover. That’s no surprise to me, although I was hoping he would at least have the decency to respect our anniversary. When I first found out, I was like many other women who find themselves in my position. Devastated does not begin to describe the level of pain that washed over me. How long? Why? Am I not good enough? Is she more beautiful than I am? ‘I can’t wait to see you again tonight my love,’ it read.

Those are the words in the text from a number in his phone saved as ‘N’ that gave me enough detail to know for a fact that my husband, my Mwila, had another. I hope he enjoys what little time he has in Dubai with his lover, because he will not be coming back.