Taken By a Mafia King

He's serious

My alarm rings at 5 a.m. I need to wake up, and for the first time since I started working at the workshop, I don’t feel like going to work. But I have to. My clients have been understanding for the past week, and I can’t take advantage of that. They need their cars today or tomorrow.

I can’t stop thinking about Bonga. I can’t believe he had a wife, and I didn’t know. God, I’m so stupid. I wake up and take a shower. When I walk out the door, my dad is sleeping on the couch. He’s been watching me all night since the day I received the pictures. I wake him up so he can go sleep in his bed peacefully. I take his car and leave.

I get to the workshop at 6:45, and there are five people waiting for me. I greet everyone and open the roller door. I do all the administrative work, and after 30 minutes, I start working on the cars. It looks like I’ll be able to finish today before 5 p.m.

My stomach grumbles after I finish working on the fifth car. I look at the time—it’s still 9 a.m. I’ve been up for so long that, in my mind, I thought it was already midday. My body is tired, but I have to work to keep my mind off things. Bonga’s betrayal cut very deep. A whole wife, and I didn’t know? It doesn’t add up—we always talked at 8 p.m., and we always said “love you” before we hung up. Where was the wife then?

I’m so deep in thought, the spoon halfway to my mouth, when Mr. Deep Voice decides to grace me with his presence. He’s all smiles, like he didn’t kill my boyfriend, send me pictures of his chopped-up corpse, and threaten to kill my dad. Bastard. I ignore him—probably the dumbest thing to do, but guess what? I don’t care.

“How have you been?” he asks, smiling. Such a beautiful smile—if he wasn’t a murderer, I’d be charmed, and I’d definitely smile back.

“What do you want?” I ask, annoyed.

“We need to discuss our wedding that’s in a month,” he says, looking very serious. I choke on my food. What?

“I can’t marry you,” I tell him, getting emotional.

“You can, and you will. Unless you want your dad to follow your unfaithful boyfriend,” he says, dead serious.

I don’t answer him. Instead, I walk to the next car that needs to be fixed. I’m trying to see what the problem is when he walks over to me. I feel like screaming—can’t he see I’m trying to work?

My phone rings. It’s my dad.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Zeh, I just got a letter from the Khumalo family. Why didn’t you tell me the good news? Are you that angry at me?” he asks seriously, but I know he’s smiling by the way he’s talking.

“Khumalos? I don’t know anyone by that surname, ma—” I don’t get to finish because the guy chokes me.

“What did I tell you?” he asks.

“How would I know your surname? This is a bad idea.”

“Are you okay?” my dad asks. I nod, forgetting he can’t see me, so I tell him I’m fine and we’ll talk later today. I apologize for not telling him sooner, saying I wanted to surprise him. I hate lying to my dad, and I’ve already done it twice today.

“I don’t even know the little things about you. My dad is going to ask me questions,” I tell him.

“I’m Zwelibanzi Melusi David Khumalo. That’s all you need to know. Don’t bother telling me about you—I know everything,” he says, smiling.

“What exactly do you know?” I ask, challenging him.

“You’re Zekhethelo Zethembiso Mazibuko. You turned 24 on September 25th. You live with your dad—your mom left 20 years ago with Joe, your father’s best friend. Your favorite color is black. You just finished your BA in Literature at the University of Johannesburg. You dated that unfaithful boyfriend of yours for four years, though you’ve known him all your life.”

My God, if he wasn’t a murderer, I’d fall for him. But at least—no, he is a murderer. I want to ask him so many questions, but it doesn’t look like he’ll answer, so I just keep working. He tries to help, like he cares. Maybe he does. Stop lying to yourself. A girl can dream, right?

“Look, I need all the information I can get about you. My dad is going to ask me questions, and if I don’t even know the smallest things, he won’t allow me to marry you. I know you said he’s next—I don’t want to lose him, so I’m marrying you so my dad gets to live, not because I want to. I hope you remember that,” I tell him, looking around my tools for a screw.

We spend the rest of the time talking, trying to get our story straight for my dad’s sake. I work until 6 p.m. I thought today wasn’t going to be long.

I need to walk home, but Zwelibanzi won’t let me. I don’t feel comfortable with him dropping me off—it’s disrespectful, and I know my dad won’t like it. But every time I say no, he threatens to kill my dad, and I can’t take that chance. So I agree.

Ten minutes later, I’m home, and the whole family is there—my grandparents, seven aunts, and four uncles. They hug and kiss me. My grandma tells me how proud she is—she thought I was going to die single. It’s a beautiful night. My dad didn’t tell them about my mom, or maybe they don’t want to talk about it.

“Did Baba tell you that Nonhle came by twice with her family?” I ask, looking at my grandma. Judging by her face, my dad didn’t tell them. My granddad looks so angry—if he was still a child, I’m sure he’d have gotten a hiding.

“When did Nonhle come here?” my granddad asks, ignoring my dad.

“A few weeks back,” I tell him, then start tidying up.

I’m washing the dishes when I hear my grandma shouting at my dad. I can’t make out the words, and I’m not interested. As soon as I’m done, I walk to my room. It’s been a long day.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about this marriage. One minute I want to marry Zwelibanzi because I’m forced to, but the next minute, I want to marry him because Bonga’s betrayal cut so deep. I’ve been so stupid.

“I hope you’re thinking about that boyfriend of yours,” Aunt Thembi says when she walks into my room.

“I’m just worried about my dad. He’s going to be lonely here. I told him I’m not against the idea of him marrying another woman. Nonhle left, mos,” I tell her.

She tells me Nonhle is my mom and I shouldn’t call her by her name—it’s disrespectful. I roll my eyes, and she leaves. I follow her out soon after.

The next morning comes too early. I walk to the workshop—it’s a little hot, but I need to keep my mind off things. We didn’t really discuss the letter from Zwelibanzi’s family, and he might come around today to bring it up again—and threaten to kill my dad for the millionth time.

It’s been a long, productive day, and it looks like it’s going to rain. I know my dad will be busy, so I’ll catch a taxi home. Today is my lucky day—I only wait five minutes.

“We have to discuss the letter. We don’t want the young man thinking we’re ignoring him,” my grandma says as soon as I open the door.

It’s been a long day—I was hoping we’d discuss this tomorrow, since I won’t be at the workshop. I left a notice for my clients saying I’d be off. I tell her I’m tired and we’ll talk tomorrow. Grandma won’t let me rest until my granddad tells her to let me sleep.

I should’ve known my grandma would wake me at 4 a.m. My God, I thought she’d let me rest. I tell her I’ll join her in 30 minutes, take a shower, and make my bed.

When I walk into the lounge, the whole family is up, staring at me. It’s not even 8 a.m.

“Sanibonani,” I greet. They greet me back.

“We need to discuss this letter. Your in-laws are coming this Saturday.”

So he was serious about marrying me within a month. Who sends a letter on Tuesday and expects the family to be ready that same weekend?