NGITHWELE WITH MY HUSBAND BECAUSE HE WAS A STINGY MAN

 NGITHWELE WITH MY HUSBAND BECAUSE HE WAS A STINGY MAN.

The Price of His Betrayal: A Confession I Can Never Take Back

I never thought I would reach a point where I would do something so dark. But life pushes you, tests you, and sometimes, it corners you. This is my story. A story of love, pain, betrayal, and a decision I can never undo.

When I married my husband, I thought life would be beautiful. We had dreams, plans, and promises. But as years passed, I realized I was married to a selfish man.

He was a police officer, earning a good salary. But that money was never for me or our children. He took care of everyone else—his family, his friends, even strangers. But for us? We were always last.

When payday came, he would disappear. And when he disappeared, I knew exactly where he was. His mother and siblings always came first. Every month, before even thinking of his wife or his kids, he would make sure they had everything they needed. If his siblings needed new clothes, he would buy them. If his mother needed groceries, he would stock her house as if she were the only one who depended on him.

After them came the endless stream of girlfriends. Young, beautiful women who only loved him for his money. And he loved them back—showering them with gifts, taking them out, spending nights in expensive lodges while I sat at home, wondering how I would stretch the little food left in the house to last until his next payday.

Then there were the friends. Loud, greedy, and always ready to drink his money away. They would laugh with him, praise him, and encourage his reckless spending. He played the role of the generous man, the big spender, the one who always had money to throw around.

And then, as always, when his money ran out, he would return home. Quiet, defeated, and pretending to be a good husband and father. He never came back because he missed us. He came back because he had nowhere else to go. Home was just a place to push time while waiting for his next paycheck.

I swallowed my pain. I tried to be a good wife. I hoped that one day, he would change. But he never did.

One night, after another month of struggling to feed my children while he wasted his salary elsewhere, something in me snapped.

I looked at my babies, hungry and tired, and I felt nothing but rage. How could he be so cruel? How could he be so selfish?

That’s when an idea crept into my mind. A dark, dangerous idea.

I had heard stories of women who had turned to sangomas for help. Some went for love potions, others for protection. But I wanted something else. I wanted justice. I wanted revenge.

I knew a woman who had visited a powerful sangoma before. I asked her for help, and she gave me the directions.

The sangoma’s hut was deep in the village, surrounded by thick trees. The air was heavy with the smell of herbs and burning incense.

He looked at me with deep, knowing eyes and asked, “What do you want?”

I hesitated for a moment. Was I really going to do this? But then I thought of my suffering, my children’s suffering, and my husband’s selfishness.

“I want him to suffer,” I whispered. “I want him to pay for what he has done to me.”

The sangoma nodded. He didn’t ask too many questions. He simply smiled and said, “It will be done.”

A week later, it happened.

My husband was on duty, driving a police vehicle. It was late at night, and the roads were wet from the rain.

Then, out of nowhere, a truck lost control and crashed into him.

The news came early in the morning. He had survived, but he was paralyzed. He would never walk again. He would never talk properly again. He would never live a normal life again.

I should have felt guilty. I should have felt something. But all I felt was relief.

Now, he is a helpless man. He sits in a wheelchair, unable to do anything for himself.

Ironically, he gets two paychecks every month—one from his job (injury on duty) and another from the Road Accident Fund.

For the first time, his money is actually being used to take care of his family.

I feed him. I bathe him. I take care of him. He is completely dependent on me. And every time I look into his eyes, I wonder if he knows.

Does he know that this was no ordinary accident? Does he know that his suffering was planned?

Sometimes, at night, when the house is quiet, I think about what I did.

Was it right? Was it wrong? I don’t know.

All I know is that my children no longer go to bed hungry. All I know is that, for once, I am in control.

But the darkness never really leaves. Because deep down, I know that I have blood on my hands. And no matter how much I try to justify it, I can never undo what I did.

This is my confession. A story I will take to my grave.