My Husband's Ashes Were In Her Living Room

My husband went missing for three weeks. No call. No w******p. Nothing. The whole family was going crazy. My mother was praying. His mother was shouting. The neighbors were talking. His other wife — yes, his other wife — called me every day. "Sisi, have you heard from him?" Noluthando would cry on the phone. Her voice always shaking. I pretended to cry with her. "No, sisi. I am also worried. I didn't sleep." But I was lying. Because I had already found him. Three days ago, the hospital called me. Not her. Me. Because I am the first wife on his ID. The legal one. The one they call when a man dies. "Ma'am, we have a body. Come to the city mortuary in Durban. Fast," the nurse said. My hands were shaking. I took a taxi alone. I told no one. Not Noluthando. Not my mother. Not even my sister. At the mortuary, it was cold. Very cold. The smell was strong. Like strong Jik and death mixed. The man pulled the silver bed. He pulled the white sheet. It was him. My Musa. Lying cold on that silver bed. He had a small cut on his forehead. Otherwise he looked peaceful. Like he was sleeping after a long day at work. Like he would wake up and say, "Precious, make me tea." I touched his hand. It was ice cold. No life. "Mrs Dlamini, is this your husband? Musa Dlamini?" the man asked. I nodded. Tears were coming but I held them. "How did he die?" I asked. "Car accident on N2 near Tongaat. Three days ago. No ID on him, but we found your number in his phone as 'Wife - First House'. We called," he said. First House. So Noluthando was Second House in his phone. I smiled a little inside. Then he said, "You must bury in 7 days, ma'am, or we cremate. We have no space. Government rule." Cremate. That word stayed in my head. I never liked burial. Burial means everyone comes. Everyone sees. Noluthando would come with her family. She would cry louder than me. She would wear black and sit in front as wife. People would say, "Poor Noluthando, second wife but she loved him more." And I hated sharing. For four years I shared my husband. Monday to Wednesday he was mine. Thursday to Sunday he was hers. Public holidays we fought on w******p. I was tired of sharing. So I looked at Musa sleeping on that silver bed and I made a decision. I signed the papers. Fast. My hand did not shake. "Yes. Cremate him," I whispered. "I want cremation." The man looked at me. "Are you sure? Your culture—" "I am sure. I will pay," I said. I paid R3,500 from my Capitec savings. Money I was saving for my small business. I paid it all. They gave me a small white vase the next day. Heavy. Smooth. With a small gold plate that says _Musa Dlamini - Beloved Husband_. They said, "These are his ashes. Handle with care." I took that vase home to my flat in Umlazi. I put it on my shelf in my living room. Next to my wedding photo. The one where Musa is smiling and I am smiling, before Noluthando came. I looked at it every morning. I cleaned it. I talked to it. "Good morning, my love," I would say. "Finally, you are only mine. Only in MY house. No Second House. No sharing." For three days, I felt peace. For the first time in four years, I had peace. Musa was finally only mine. Until yesterday. Noluthando came for our search meeting. The two wives looking for missing husband. We decided to meet at MY house because her house in KwaMashu is too far. We were sitting in my living room, drinking tea. Rooibos with milk. Eating Marie biscuits. Pretending to be worried wives. Praying for Musa to come back. She was praying loud, "God bring back our husband!" I was praying in my heart, "Thank you God, he is already here." Then she stopped praying. Mid-prayer. She stared at my shelf. "Sisi... this vase is beautiful," she said. "Where did you buy it? It looks expensive." My heart stopped. My tea cup shook. Hot tea spilled on my hand but I didn't feel it. I tried to smile. "Ah, it's just from Mr Price Home, sisi. Long time." She stood up. She walked to the shelf. Slowly. Her black dress was tight. She had done her hair. She always does hair when she comes to my house. She touched it. She touched my vase. She touched Musa. "It looks expensive. Can I see it? Is it from China Mall?" she asked. She picked it up. Her hand was on my husband. On Musa. On his ashes. I wanted to scream, "Don't touch him! Don't touch my husband! Put him down!" But I smiled. My smile was fake but I smiled big. "Don't touch, sisi. It's very fragile. Very fragile. My gogo gave me." She smiled back, but she didn't move her hand away. She held it tighter. She looked at it close. She shook it a little. Like people shake a snow globe. "Why is it so heavy?" she asked. She frowned. "What do you put inside? Is it sand? For decoration?" Inside, the ashes moved. I could hear them. Soft, like sand. Like small stones. My heart was beating so fast I thought I would die and join Musa in that vase. If she opens it... If she opens that lid...