The Polygamist

Sue Nyathi

Description

Two’s company… five is definitely a crowd!

The Polygamist weaves a tale of four women whose lives become intertwined when they all fall for a wealthy banking magnate Jonasi Gomora. Seemingly indomitable, and oozing money, power and sex appeal, Jonasi is about to complicate all their lives forever.

Joyce is pampered wife number one who lives in the lap of luxury. She believes she has the perfect marriage until Matipa rears her coiffed head.

Matipa is the glamorous mistress every married woman hates. Her driving ambition is to usurp Joyce’s role as Jonasi’s lover and wife.

Essie is Jonasi’s best-kept secret — the second wife no one knows about. She cared for Jonasi long before he became the man he is, and plays the role of second fiddle knowing he’ll always come back to her.

Lindani’s main goal in life is to upgrade from girlfriend to wife. When she meets Jonasi, she thinks all her problems have been answered, not knowing they have only just begun…

Take a journey with these four women and get caught up in the explosive havoc of marriage to a multitude!

Sujets

• General officer
• Marriage
• General
• Family Life
• Fiction
• Divorce

Informations

• Publié par: Pan Macmillan South Africa
• Date de parution: 01 février 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 4
• EAN13: 9781770106901
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Polygamist
Sue Nyathi
 
MACMILLAN
 
 
First published in 2012 by Logogog Press
 
This edition published in 2020 by Pan Macmillan South Africa
Private Bag X19
Northlands
Johannesburg
2116
 
www.panmacmillan.co.za
 
e-ISBN: 978-1-77010-690-1
 
Copyright © Sue Nyathi 2012, 2020
 
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
 
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of any of the fictional characters to real people, living or dead, is neither intended nor warranted.
 
Cover illustration: Lynda Ward
 
 
To
My Mother, you inspire me to do better
and,
My Father,
for not being a polygamist.
prologue
Their eyes fell on his dull lifeless face. His features were contorted and his mouth twisted in a lopsided grin. The skin on his face was dry and crisp like burnt bacon. Even the fine smooth dark chocolate complexion he once boasted was now a darker shade of purple. The embalmer had done nothing to restore him to his former glory. He would have needed a sangoma to transform him to a fraction of his former self. He lay there, in swathes of white silk, his hands stiffly by his sides; none would have believed that this was a man who made women wet with one lustful look. Now he only brought shock and horror to the faces of the hundreds of mourners that had gathered inside the cold, grey, imposing enclave of the Catholic Church. Each person had a different reason for being there. Some had genuinely come to pay their last respects. Others had come to make sure he was really dead.
A man of style, he would have been proud of the casket they had picked for him. No, the casket she had handpicked for him. It was made of pure mahogany and the glossy exterior shone in the brilliant light of the church. Given a choice she would have cremated him and scattered his ashes in the sewer but she had to keep up the charade to the end. She was glad he was dead. Glad that he would not wake up and cause her any more pain. How she had loved this man. How she had hated him too. At least now that he was gone, none of them could have him. She exhaled deeply. The truth was she lost him a long time ago. Even the love she once felt for him had died long before he did. She gave him one last look before walking away, head held up, her arm firmly entwined with that of their oldest son who almost disappeared under her tented black hat.
The tears rolled down her beautifully chiselled face. Huge perfectly formed droplets that would not stain her waterproof mascara. This was not the man she had once loved and coveted. What had become of him, her strong, powerful, handsome paramour? She had not been at his bedside when he died. If she had been, she might have killed him quickly and spared him the misery of a long protracted illness. They had many good memories together. Memories that were soured one fateful evening when he showed her another side of him she had never dreamed existed. With her lace handkerchief she obliterated another tear that rolled down her face. Her dark red cherry lips mouthed a goodbye. Something she had conveniently not done when she literally ran out of his life a few years earlier.
Jonasi looked pitiful and sad lying there. She wanted to laugh. Even he would have hated himself had he woken up to see what had become of him. She almost felt sorry for him. Her sugar pie. Her caramel-covered doughnut. He was not a bad man, just a greedy one with such an insatiable appetite for sex. He had always boasted he could keep it going on for hours. Towards the end things had been difficult though. He had wilted like a flaccid erection. Poor man. At least now he had found peace in death. He had been in pain those last days. How she had longed to have been by his side, to give him comfort. However Joyce would not let them get close. She wanted him to all herself. Stupid bitch. She leaned down and kissed him one last time then walked out. She gawked at him from behind her Gucci sunglasses. He looked terrible. How badly he had deteriorated towards the end. He had started to rot before her eyes. All the charm and charisma had disappeared when he had started to defecate on himself. She had been glad when Joyce had finally come to take his decaying body away. After that she had avoided him like a bad curse. Would she too look like the aftermath of a Haitian earthquake? Like him, robbed of her beauty and splendour as she was ravaged with illness? She shook her head in disdain. Her perfectly coiffed hair bounced around. This was not her fate. Jonasi might have been sapped of life but her whole life lay ahead of her with a myriad possibilities. Young and beautiful as she was, she was certain she would marry again. She stepped away from the casket, swinging her hips from side to side. Her Aldo heels clicked on the tiled floor. She had deliberately worn a body-hugging little black dress, showing off her legs to her fullest advantage. There were many rich sharks that had come to pay their last respects. Many who would not mind comforting his young, vulnerable widow. As she sashayed past the coffin, her eyes met with those of a handsome well-dressed man near the front pews. A jolt of electricity ran through her and she felt alive and energised. Good riddance to the dead; she had a lot of life in her and was going to live it to the full.
 
 
one
I am usually good at concealing my innermost emotions. But even I could not hide my disgust when my daughter announced she was getting married. She searched my face, looking for at least one wrinkle of approval. She found none.
“Why in hell do you want to get married?” I asked, “Are you in competition with your father?”
She stared at me, taken aback, “How can you even say that Mum? How can you even compare me to that moron?”
“He’s your father,” I replied pointedly.
“And your husband,” she responded tartly.
Four wives later and yes I was still married to Jonasi Gomora. I don’t know if I was fortunate or unfortunate to be wife number one. I guess it depends which way you look at it. Anyway the point is I can say with certainty that I was his first wife. I doubt others could say with certainty they would be his last. At 44 my husband was still hurtling along like a rolling stone. He had recently added another wife to the harem. Our own modern version of King Solomon. His latest acquisition had made a rather dramatic exhibition of herself at my daughter’s 21st birthday. (My son could tell you more about that.) Anyway my husband likes them young. I had only been 16 when I met him. He had been 21 so it had not been so bad. How did anyone explain an age gap of almost three decades?
“I’m sorry Rudo. If you want to get married I can’t stop you," I replied flippantly.
“Mum I want you to be happy for me,” she replied. “How can I? Marriage is just bullshit!”
“Mum it’s not every marriage that is bullshit. There are happy couples out there. There are good men out there. Trevor is good. Trevor is a God-fearing man...”
I rolled my eyes heavenwards as she went on and on listing the merits of Trevor Sithole, the love of her life. Everyone finds some sort of escapism from an unhappy home. For my daughter it was religion. When she was old enough to realise what an asshole her father was she turned to God. I promise you it’s due to God’s grace that we are all alive to tell this story.
“Rudo, if this is what you want, my darling, you have my blessing.”
“Mum do you really mean that?”
“I do,” I replied, reaching out my hands to her and embracing her.
I faked it. I had to. This was my life now, faking the funk. Fake smiles, fake hair, fake nails... I even had problems wondering what was real anymore! Don’t get me wrong. I love my daughter. I love her very much. I just want her to be happy but I'm not sure if she'll find the kind of happiness she wants in marriage. Especially not marriage to a black man. My sister is married to a white man and after thirty years she can still stand up and say they are happily married. Her husband always jokes that one wife is stressful enough! Why on earth would he want three? Maybe it’s a status symbol for Jonasi, accumulating wives like he accumulates investments. It’s true that gluttony is a sin and my husband is greed personified.
When I first met Jonasi he had nothing. N.O.T.H.I.N.G. My mother beat me when I announced that I wanted to get married to him, but there was nothing she could do about it. I was already four months’ pregnant. This was considered to be the height of shame in my family. You see we were considered to be Zimbabwean royalty. My father was from the heart of Masvingo, and we could trace our ancestry to Great Zimbabwe. He had fled from what was called Rhodesia to study abroad. My father, being politically connected, served in several posts in the ZANU PF cabinet. Like many ministers’ families we lived a life in the lap of luxury. I had everything I could possibly want or so I thought until I met Jonasi. I was hanging out at the shopping centre in Mount Pleasant waiting for my driver when he showed up. He was with three of his friends, but they paled in comparison. That was Jonasi for you. He stood out in a crowd. Jonasi was captivating with his handsome looks; there was no way you could ignore him. I had never seen anything like him before. Right there and then I thought Blair Underwood had stepped out of L.A. Law and into my life. He was in his first year of university then, studying finance and accounting. We chatted and he bought me an ice cream. I could tell he too was smitten. I’m a looker too you know