12/05/2025
The Long Road to Healing
On the third day, Bongs called my doctor. I was admitted to a mental health facility—but I couldn’t stay long. I had to help plan Grams’s funeral. It was a beautiful send-off. I couldn’t have done it without Bongs. He stayed close, sensing my suicidal state, even though I never attempted it.
After the funeral, we returned to P.E. I asked if we could have s*x. He refused. He explained that it would act like a drug to me, feeding an addiction. In my mind I thought, “Uyazi njani? How do you know I’m chasing a high?”
I went back to hospital. Admitted again—for 8 weeks. I was discharged just before giving birth.
Straight from there, I went to the maternity ward. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.
Two days later, Bongs proposed again. I gave a provisional yes. He was happy. I told him I wasn’t who he thought I was. I carried too many skeletons. I didn’t want him to bear my burdens.
We agreed to see a psychologist—if, after hearing it all, he still wanted marriage.
My psychologist, an Indian woman, was shaken by my story. I told her everything. She asked if I still craved blood. I said no. That craving stopped when I stopped drinking. But s*x? I still yearned for it. I explained how it soothed me. She explained that untreated grief and trauma could manifest as compulsive s*xual behaviour—not necessarily addiction, but pain looking for relief.
She advised me to be honest with Bongs—but leave out the murders.
After that, I felt lighter. I understood myself. I could live with my truth.
She referred us to a male psychologist for couple’s counselling. He started by asking Bongs to disclose his truths first.
His scandals couldn’t match mine—he had cheated, lied. He said he feared who I became when angry.
Then it was my turn. I told him about the r**e, the abortion, the s*x in varsity, the men in Central. He was livid. He said, “If I didn’t respect you as the mother of my child, I’d say you were Satan’s firstborn. But I can’t say that to my child’s mother.” I remember thinking, “Swine, undiqhela isithende ngoku.” 😊
After that session, he moved out. But we continued with therapy. It was clear—he didn’t want me anymore. I respected that.
We co-parented. I was breastfeeding and couldn’t take psychiatric medication. I stayed sober. I went back to my psychologist—twice a week for the rest of the year.
Then, I applied for work in Gauteng. I got the job. BabyBongs and I moved. I told Bongs—he didn’t object. He just asked why. I told him PE held too many ghosts. I needed to leave to heal.
My employer provided an apartment in Pretoria. We settled in. Bongs called every evening to speak to our daughter.
A year passed. I missed him. Missed how he loved me, cared for me. But I knew I couldn’t tell him. It wouldn’t be fair.
In the second year, he called—asked to visit BabyBongs. I agreed. I asked him to stay with us. I gave him my car. He agreed. He slept in the guest bedroom, went out, returned in the early hours.
One night, he came home tipsy. I had fallen asleep on the couch—it was hot. I was naked. He sat on the floor next to me and asked me to wake up. I asked him to pass my gown from the other side of the couch. He did. I covered myself.
Bongs cried before he spoke. What was beautiful was how he praised my commitment to him: “Yhooo, unxilile Bongs fondin, ukhalela nton kengoku,” while crying, ke phofu. He declared how much he missed me and how much he wanted me now, but he knew it wasn't appropriate. Yhooo, I became wet as he said this, and my heart swelled as he spoke. He then approached me and kissed me deeply.
One thing about my man—he knows how to kiss. We kissed, and he went down on me. I cried tears of joy as he pleasured me. I shuddered, mhamha, as he tightened his hold on me. He continued, his actions firm and determined. He paused and whispered, “Do you have a boyfriend, my love?” Out of breath, I answered, “No, nana, I don’t have one.” He continued, “I want us to get married before anyone finds out you’re pregnant again. I will send your uncles next week.” I agreed and asked him to make love to me. “Do you really want me?” he asked. I replied, “Yes, nana, I want you, all of you.”
He kissed me deeper and began slow, deep thrusts that sent me soaring. As I was almost there, he asked, “Do the men from Central do it like this?”
I answered, “No, baby, I wasn’t looking for enjoyment there.” He stopped and walked to the bathroom. I followed him, finding him sitting in the bath, crying. I sat on top of him, took his face in my hands, and said, “Babe, please look at me. I know I have hurt you. I know how much you love me, and I betrayed that. But please forgive me. Only you and your feelings matter now.” I felt him growing hard again, but I resisted the urge to entertain what was happening.
“I love you and only you,” I said, “You have my heart and you always will. I will wait for you to be ready.”
He pulled me closer, inserted me, and said, “Please continue, baba.” This time, I let him take control. As we moved together, I suggested we go to church and give ourselves to the Lord. He agreed.
We made love again with deeper passion, and this time, I felt the presence of something spiritual, like a cleansing. I cried, but the pain lifted from my soul. In that moment, I felt lighter. When we finished, we showered and went to bed. I slept in his arms, feeling for the first time like I truly belonged.
The next morning, he took me to work and, as he kissed me deeply goodbye, he told me to inform my mother that people were coming for lobola negotiations. We both agreed, and everything moved quickly from there. Six months later, we were married, with no one suspecting I was pregnant.
After the wedding, Bongs moved to Pretoria for work.
