Home Wrecker, Husband Snatcher - By Gracious Kabungo

Written By: Gracious Kabungo

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Gracious Kabungo presents a compelling short story titled "Home Wrecker, Husband Snatcher" in the Short Story category of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This narrative delves into the complexities of marriage, identity, and betrayal as it unravels the protagonist's inner turmoil and societal judgment. Kabungo's storytelling invites readers to explore the delicate balance between personal desires and societal expectations.

About the Work

"Home Wrecker, Husband Snatcher" intricately captures the emotional turmoil of a woman caught in the web of infidelity and self-discovery. The story is rich in vivid imagery and intense emotion, as the protagonist navigates through a series of revelations and confrontations. With a keen eye for detail and an understanding of human nature, Kabungo crafts a narrative that resonates with the themes of love, betrayal, and societal judgment.

Home Wrecker, Husband Snatcher

Original Submission by Gracious Kabungo

1575

HOME WRECKER, HUSBAND SNATCHER

My back aches, I have a splitting headache, I am almost certain my head is separating from between my eyes and down to my nostrils, I stretch my hand to reach for the jar of water on the table by my side but between my headache and my drowsiness, my hand still limp cannot hold the jar that falls to the floor and has the water flowing toward the door that leads to the living room. I strive to turn to the other side for comfortable positioning but my spine feels like its coiling from right inside of me while my ribcages are popping. My bed isn’t of any help, my husband has had the mattress we sleep on since before we got married 6 years ago, it does not completely cushion the wooden bed beneath it and I can literally feel the hardness of the wood pressing against my whole body. When I finally turn, there’s a man with a face turned to the wall in my marital bed. This man is not my husband. I know my husband’s back, it is firm, well built up, his shoulders are broad and his waist surrounds his whole like a firewall that cannot be penetrated. But this back; it lacks the guts, the history of being created, the mandate to be of a man, it lacks definition and looks as uneven as a sloping hill after a landslide. “Am I dreaming” I question myself, but then he turns and I am immediately jolted up, feeling the body pains no more.

“What time is it, what time is it!!? I shout while scavenging the bed for my small phone. My husband was the best thing that happened to me, I am not quite sure now. He always loved to work, and despite not wanting to come to terms with it, I somewhat got the idea that he loved his work more than he did; me. There was a spark I saw in his eyes when he constructed either a road, a bridge, a mall or a school that I didn’t see in the reflection of our love. But the thrill of marriage though, the thrill of having someone to call your own, to have something that others don’t have yet desire, to make your aunties proud that you finally bagged a man. When he asked me to be his wife, I had no doubt that sealing our love with a marriage would be the beginning of our happy ending.

“Nzaaalaaaa” my name is just “Nzala” but he drags it as though to make it sound sexy or romantic even, but I don’t hear him speak, my focus is now turned to his missing incisor tooth. Did I not see that yesterday when I picked him up from where I cannot remember? I want him to say my name again, with the missing tooth is it, ‘Nzaaaalaaaa’ or ‘Nthaaaalaaaa’. When I study his face, mannerisms and take in his skinniness, I am disgusted by my choice.

“Get up, get up, its 5am, I told you, you had to be gone as soon as we had our last round”

“I was egthausted” he dreamily responds, and just then, I hear a knock.

“Exhausted!! You hear that knock? That’s my husband and he will kill you” I open the curtain slowly, first observing any early risers. My husband and I left most of the comfort of a civilized neighborhood in the 4th year of our marriage when his colleague framed him for the use of non-original steel bars that led to the collapse of a bridge he constructed. He had never been more married to his job since then, he must have felt the need to always lead to perfect results. The neighborhood we live in is the most decent section of a shanty community but still, houses are clustered together and people walk to work right past my bedroom window. Seeing the coast is clear, I hurry George up and out.

“Get out now, hurry” I whisper.

“What, in a boxther?”

“Shhhh and yes”

When George climbs the window and puts his hand and leg out, I help push the rest of his body till he falls out.

“My clothes” he whispers from outside.

“Just go” I respond, close the window and draw the curtains.

“I’m coming honey” I force a shout while I walk around gathering George’s clothes that are scampered all over the floor, then pushing them under the bed. I walk out of the bedroom and to our small living room which harbors the door through which my husband knocks.

“Welcome home, how was work?”

“Good, thank you” I attempt to shower him with a hug, he doesn’t notice and walks right past me and to our room.

“Why is the bed this scruffy? And why is there water on the floor?” Before I can answer, we hear shouts outside, we can’t quite hear what’s being said so I open the window and place my ear out through the bars and it sounds like a group of people calling out –witch.

“A witch in this day and age” I blatantly stare at my husband in search of acknowledgement

“We should check it out, we could be affected” I continue “Remember I mentioned hearing footsteps on our roof at night?”

“Okay, yes” he agrees unenthusiastically.

Having had my wrapper wrapped over my breasts, I grab a shirt from the washing basket, throw it on my body and walk behind my husband.

About 4 houses away, a crowd comprised of women dressed for work, men in work suits, children in school uniforms and marketeers with either basket in hand or goods tied on their backs obstruct what is the focus.

“Eh, Eh it’s this serious” I clap twice and hug my body, my husband pushes through creating way for us to have eyes on the spectacle, upon reaching the middle of the circle one of my crocs get stuck in the crowd. I bend with my front amongst the people to pull it out only to turn back looking directly in the eyes of George who is on the ground, in his boxer pants and worn out sneakers. I look at my husband, back at George and at everyone else. There’s a churning going on in my stomach. The shouting of the crowd makes it worse, I hear all sorts of words and sentences. Others call him a witch whose fuel ran out while flying on his broom, others call him a male prostitute, some women are chanting prayers, and declaring that his evil intentions will not prosper and others are declaring that he dies today and now. A dirty looking man picks a stone next to him that he aims at George, my heart skips a beat and George holds the top of his head with both his hands as a way to shield himself.

“No, no, no, bossman, this man does not even look like a witch” My husband stands between the man with the stone and George.

“I have told them sir, I have told them I am not a witch” George cries out.

“Tell us who you are then, tell them or you will die” My husband demands.

“Uhm, I am uhm” George hesitates amidst the silence while everyone’s ears itch for what he has to say. For me, the silence is dreadful, what can be said now could either be detrimental or life saving for me.

“Witch, evil man” I shout nervously “You have no other excuse”

“Yes, witchhhhhhh” the crowd responds and continues in chorus. “What have I done? Why did I shout?” I nervously whisper to myself, I never would have thought myself to be the kind of person who would do all it took to save herself, even condemning an innocent person to death by stoning. “What will I do now?” I ponder within while unable to look George in the eye. Just when the people begin to pick anything harmful they can use against George, he stands up, allowing for everyone to see him, his skinny body and really trying beards.

“If you are to kill me, you must begin with her” he points straight at me and begins to slowly circle the crowd while taking in all its energy “yes, you’ve heard me right, I slept in her husband’s bed and she pushed me through the window naked when her husband returned” Everyone looks at me with disgust, disregard even lust but I can’t explain the look in my husband’s eyes, even then, I can tell that the brokenness in our home will only be defined by my infidelity.

“Who’s the witch now? tell me” George continues “Who is the witch?” When everyone begins to walk away, sulking and spitting at my sight, I watch my husband’s feet tread away toward the direction of our house. A marketeer pulls out one of the two wrappers around her waist and throws it over George who is standing directly opposite me. As we stand in silence, our attention is caught by a woman running toward us from a distance, when she reaches, breathless and perspiring, she throws herself at George visibly happy that nothing bad has happened to him. She turns to look at me upwards and downwards about four times, rolling her eyes then proceeding to say “Home wrecker, husband snatcher” before walking away hand in hand with George.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious event celebrating the creative talents of writers worldwide. This competition provides a platform for diverse voices to share their stories, poems, and essays, fostering a global community of literary enthusiasts and offering a stage for both emerging and established writers to shine.

Thank you, Gracious Kabungo, for sharing your remarkable story "Home Wrecker, Husband Snatcher" with us. Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 is a testament to your creative prowess and ability to engage readers with profound narratives. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your exceptional work.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.