“I, Nomzamo Happiness Ndaba, do solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” I chant after the prosecutor. “So help me God,” she says with much confidence.
“So help me God,” I repeat after her and I am allowed to sit down, like everyone else in the jury. She smiles briefly at me and then nods curtly prior to moving back to her desk where she had left all her sheets of paper. She remains smiling at me like she is up to something.
I thought I knew him.
I thought he knew me as his better half. I thought he loved me as such.
I mean when I said ‘I do’ all those years ago, I meant it with every fibre of my being. With every corner of my flash. It wasn’t until I met that crazy woman that I questioned my place as a wife in his life. I questioned my place in this union.
“I love you,” became a mantra, and then a phrase to avoid addressing issues within our marriage and then just three meaningless words. He loves me, I can tell by the way he still remembers the little details about me. I’m not sure if we’re still compatible though. “You’re my wife.” Until I become his punching bag.
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