By

Thabo Mooke

This short story was first published by The National Writers Association of South Africa (NWASA) in their Calabash Anthology 23/24. As the world is celebrating 16 days of activism against gender violence, it is befitting to publish the short story in my Blog. The develves into the horrors of gender-based violence.

The first time it happened, someone inserted the key into the keyhole outside of her bedroom. In a startle, Ntombimbi’mbi awoke, her eyes widened, and she sat up on the bed. The house was muted. She pulled down her nightdress, clamouring on her body like her second skin as cold sweat ran down her body.
After what seemed like ages, the door creaked open and shut.

The room was semi-dark, a faint moonlight filtered through the window curtain. She noticed the short and plump figure of the intruder in boxers’ shorts and barefooted. In slow strides, he paced towards her bed. Ntombi’mbi did not scream. Even if she wanted to, she did not have a voice. She had never spoken since she was a baby.
Breathing heavily as if he had just crossed the line of a fifteen-meter race, the intruder pulled at her leg and slid her onto the bed. She kicked her spaghetti-like legs, which were too weak to ward off the man. He laid his head on her chest. She reached out and felt his bald head. She pushed away his face. His teeth clenched, the man slapped her across the face with the back of his hand. He placed his knee on her stomach, ripped off her panties, and raped her.

She covered her face with both hands, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her voice was buried somewhere at the back of her throat. She quacked like a duck whenever she wished to speak. She heard the key turn outside the door.

In the morning, dread had set inside her. Barely able to move her limbs, she forced her legs from the bed and wobbled towards the shower. She stepped into the shower, toes quivering as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. Her mind was in shreds. She could not get yesterday’s ordeal out of her mind.
Her eyes fell close, and in frantic movements, she scrubbed her body, trying to expunge from her mind the man’s heaviness. The man’s smell and his breath. She scrubbed until her skin itched. Her skin was now bleeding.

She walked out of the shower naked, a towel in hand, water dripping from her body. Ntombi’mbi stopped dead in her tracks. She did not hear the bedroom door opening. The woman who usually brought her food, stood next to the bed staring hard at the ruffled sheets soiled with blood and dry spermatozoa.
She turned, gazed at Ntombi’mbi, and gestured toward the bed. “What happened?” asked the woman. The ruffled sheets made no sense to her, she felt hot blood rushing to her face. A cocktail of anxiety and horror.

Ntombi’mbi stood rigid like a statue, she quacked and tears rolled down her chicks. A piercing pain shot through the woman’s body. Her hands shaking, she placed the tray on the dressing table. She hurried towards, Ntombi’mbi and dried her body. She sat Ntombi’mbi, at the foot of the bed, and held the girl against her breast. For years since she was a child, communication was difficult between them. Ntombi’mbi could understand whatever the woman said to her, but she responded with a nod or shook her head when they were in disagreement.

They both did not understand sign language. Ntombi’mbi expressed her appreciation by hugging the woman or with a peck on the cheek. They sat in silence, the woman clinging to Ntombi’mbi, rocking her. She kissed the girl’s head, comforting her. The woman’s husband forbade her from revealing her relationship with Ntombi’mbi. She rose and walked Ntombi’mbi towards the dressing to make her eat her breakfast.

She gathered the soiled sheets. The woman strode towards Ntombi’mbi and noticed that she nibbled at her food, and she gestured, urging her to eat.
She pointed towards the bundle of soiled sheets on the bed. Her hands fisted, she brushed two of them together, signalling to Ntombi’mbi that she would wash them. She walked out and locked the door. Ntombi’mbi was not allowed out of the room.

Nobody was allowed into her bedroom, only the woman who cleaned her bedroom and brought her food. Her husband ordered her to do these chores without fail.
There was only one set of keys for Ntombi’mbi’s bedroom, and the woman hung them on the side of the grocery cupboard in the kitchen. Other members of the family were barred from even touching the key. The children of the household were forbidden from asking who was locked in that bedroom. Only the three other wives of Ntombi’mbi’s father knew who stayed in the ever-locked bedroom. The wives also knew why that was kept a secret.

Now 22 years old, Ntombi’mbi saw none of the inhabitants of the house. She could only hear their voices coming from the kitchen or living room. She guessed three men and three women lived in the house, besides the woman who cared for her.
Ntombi’mbi had never seen the woman’s face; it was always covered with a black cloth similar to a niqab. She admired the woman’s eyes, her black iris, and she felt the warmth when she looked deep into them. She felt the woman’s eyes communicated a silent love for her—a strong connection Ntombi’mbi could fathom.
Over the years, the two brothers, Themba, and Mandla, had observed that there would always be female clothing they did not recognise hung on the washing line. They were curious. The dresses and skirts, they believed, did not belong to an elderly woman, but to someone younger. Someone in her mid-20s. They had also observed their father walking past their bedroom door on some nights. He entered the bedroom. Everybody was forbidden from entering.

All of their father’s four wives stayed home. It had been months after Ntombi’mbi had been sexually assaulted by the mysterious man. That night she could not find sleepiness, she lay in bed listening to the creaking insects and a baritone oeuvre of a bullfrog somewhere in the garden. At that, she heard footsteps outside her bedroom door. Was it the bald man in boxer shorts again? Will it ever end? She wondered. A blanket of the horrifying ordeal of the previous rape flashed through her mind. Her face glistened with cold sweat. Her body shook uncontrollably and tears gathered behind her eyes. She wiped off the tears and wobbled out of her bed.

In the darkness, and her hands erratic, she fumbled for something on the dressing table, anything she could use, to defend herself.
The dressing table was bare. Ntombi’mbi dashed into the shower and closed the sliding door. She heard the soft footsteps of two people on the wooden floor. The light switch clicked and the brightness of the light in her bedroom fell on the shower door. The sound of her heartbeat felt loud, her eyes opened wide with terror. The quacking was buried at the back of her throat.
“She’s not here”, said Mandla. He was the younger sibling of the two brothers.
“Quick, look in the toilet or the shower,” said Themba.

The shower door swung open. “Here she is”, said Mandla. He dragged her out of the shower and shoved her towards his brother. Her hand sagged on her sides. She stood before Themba, in her panties, and her body quivered.
Mandla’s eyes glistened with curiosity as they stared at her tiny, hunched body like she was some weird object. Her tiny breast clung to her like two golf balls, her waist narrow and her knobbed thin legs shaking.
Mandla grabbed the elastic around her panties and ripped it. He ran his hand over the small, black spiked mound of her womanhood. The brothers took turns raping Ntombi’mbi.

That Sunday morning, Ntombi’mbi lay on her back in bed listening to the footsteps and chattering of people somewhere in the house. After a while, the house became silent. She dragged herself out of the bed, strolled towards the window, and peered outside. Below the window of her bedroom, she noticed two young men walking towards a car parked next to a Volkswagen Kombi in a stone-paved driveway.
Themba and Mandla were dressed in their Sunday best. She noticed Themba carried the Bible and a hymn book. The thin lips of her mouth stretched in a sneer. She was convinced it was the two men who had raped her.

A while after the two brothers had driven off, she saw another man with a shining bald head walking towards the kombi. She exhaled. She recognised the semicircle of thin grey hair around his bald head, the man she had tried to push away his face when he raped her.

The elderly man wore a long white coat, wrapped with green, blue, and red woollen ropes around his waist. The coat had a red star sewn on the back. He held a silver pipe with a knob, wrapped with green, white, and red woollen ropes. Three girls, in church uniform, aged between twelve and eighteen followed the man.
From the window, Ntombi’mbi’s eyes caught three unfamiliar plump, and short women walking toward the kombi. They all wore navy blue skirts and white blouses fastened around the waist with white and green woollen ropes. One woman sat on the front passenger seat, the other two sat at the back.
Now a familiar figure made its way toward the kombi, her clothes similar to those of the other women. Ntombi’mbi was convinced it was the woman who took care of her. Unlike the other three, she was slim and tall. Her face was not covered.

She remained to peer through the window, wondering who all those people were. But she was convinced the three men were the rapists. As she strode towards the toilet, her eyes caught a key inserted in the keyhole on her bedroom door. She stopped, felt blood burning her face, and sighed in disbelief. At least she would have a glimpse of other rooms. Was the key left on purpose, or was it a serious mistake? She wondered. The woman who took care of her always kept it in the pockets of her overalls after unlocking the door. Not once had she ever neglected this routine. In a gait, she hurried towards the door. Her shaking hands clammy, she turned the key, but it wouldn’t barge.

She tried the door, and it swung open. She stood inside the room listening, all she could hear were the frantic heartbeats against her rib cage. Ntombi’mbi took out the key and peeped right down the corridor. It was muted and as lifeless as an old graveyard. In slow strides, she made her way toward the first door, it was locked. The second door stood ajar, she peeped inside, and the room was empty. She squeezed herself inside, careful not to disturb the width between the door and its frame.
She quacked and covered her mouth with both hands at the sight of an AK-47 rifle on the bed. An intense pain of hurt and resentment swirled inside her. Hand shaking, she touched the weapon. Although it was warm in the room, the weapon was cold. She assumed that is why this ‘thing’, cold as it was, was used to murder people in the films she saw on TV. She lifted the rifle to gauge its weight.
It was considerably heavy, she figured. But as anger and resentment intensified, she felt the weapon becoming less heavy. Her body stiffened with anger and resentment. In the quietness of the room, all she could hear was the erratic beating of her heart. Her mind was calm and made up. With the weapon in her hand, she hurried back to her bedroom.

She re-inserted the key into its hole and strolled towards her bed. She placed the rifle under the pillow and lay on the bed.
Outside her bedroom, she heard car doors slamming shut. After a while, she went to peer through the window. Tree shadows fell on the two vehicles that had left the house early that morning. She guessed it wouldn’t be long before the woman brought her food to the bedroom. She sauntered to the door and opened it with care. She remained inside, listened, and she could only hear muffled chattering.

She walked purposefully to her bed retrieved the AK-47 rifle from under the pillow, left the door open, and walked down the corridor. She walked past the door she had left ajar; it did not seem to have been disturbed. The chattering downstairs became louder and she could hear the clicking of plates. She descended the stairs. The rifle pointed in case someone would come up the stairs and surprise her. At the bottom of the stairs, she followed the chattering, the food smell, and the clicking of plates. She stopped in the middle of the door.

T he bald man sat at the end of the table, and one of his wives sat opposite him. The others sat at the sides of the table. The man’s mouth opened wide with shock and terror as he was about to toss an enormous chunk of meat into his mouth. Everybody turned to follow his gaze.
Their eyes stared in horror. The elderly man’s fork fell on the plate as he attempted to stand up. Ntombi’mbi quacked and directed with her free hand for the man to remain seated. She quacked again, and the woman who took care of her glanced Ntombi’mbi. She directed the woman to order the women and children to move away from the table. She guessed the women and children did not know what the three men did to her. They stood behind her.

Ntombi’mbi opened fire, hitting the bald man several times in the chest, two bullets ripped the man’s head open, and bits of his brain fell on the table. His body flew up the ceiling as his hands flapped like a bird taking off. He slumped to the floor.
She glared at him, his trousers were pulled down below his knees and his shoes were strewn on the floor. Her mouth wide open in rage, she quacked. She wished to tell the dead man that he was a rapist.

Ntombi’mbi gazed at the two brothers. Their eyes were coated with fear and terror, their bodies quivering. She imagined she felt the same way on the night the brothers raped her. Her eyes raging with fury, and her teeth clenched, Ntombi’mbi shot the two brothers. She moved in a pool of blood around the dead bodies. Her brow furrowed with disgust. She prodded with her leg at the rib cages of the three men to make sure they were dead.
She dropped the rifle on the floor and walked toward the woman who looked after her. Ntombi’mbi quacked and pointed at the three dead men who had raped her.
Their glances locked, tears trickled down the woman’s face and her voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, my child, to have put you through such an ordeal,” said the woman. She gazed at the other wives of her husband. “She killed them because they raped her,” she said.
Their heads stooped, the women gasped.

Holding hands, she told her daughter that the man who raped her was her father, the two boys were her half-brothers. The three girls were Ntombi’mbi’s sisters. Her brow furrowed with pain, and her eyes were covered in a shiny sheen. “You were born with a rare disorder. Your tongue was folded into a mound at the back of your throat, that is why you’re unable to speak,” said her mother.
The doctors could not determine the ailment, so she informed her daughter. The mound prevented Ntombi’mbi’s vocal box from producing the sound of her voice. Because of the deficiency, she could not talk or scream. When she spoke, she could only make the sounds of a quacking duck.
She told her daughter that her father had suggested having the baby secretly killed because she was also hunched-backed and would be a shame to the family.
“We cannot accept her into the family. She’s ugly, Ntombi’mbi,” he had said.
“She’s my only child. I’ll not have her killed,” Ntombi’mbi’s mother had insisted.