Notes on their marriage - By Mahlatse Magau

Written By: Mahlatse Magau

Category: Poetry

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the evocative poem "Notes on their marriage," Mahlatse Magau unravels a complex tapestry of familial ties and personal history. Magau's contribution to the Poetry category in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 poignantly explores themes of legacy and resilience. This powerful piece invites readers to reflect on the intricacies of familial relationships and the scars they leave behind.

About the Work

Mahlatse Magau's poem is a profound exploration of marriage, trauma, and familial legacy. The piece is rich with vivid imagery and emotional depth, revealing the hidden complexities of personal and cultural history. Through a carefully crafted narrative, Magau examines the burdens of ancestry and the struggle for identity amidst inherited pain. The poem's intense emotional landscape invites introspection and a deeper understanding of the human experience.

Notes on their marriage

Original Submission by Mahlatse Magau

Notes on their marriage

1. My niece from her point of view thinks

I had a good upbringing growing up. I only need

to reveal the truth to her through two questions.

When was the last time you saw my father and

what does he look like?

2. I was in the womb for the ritual.

Not blessed, just bartered.

Where a dowry should’ve been delivered,

there was only my mother’s silence.

He placed a ring on her finger like a noose.

The white dress made her the lamb.

The altar: an execution site. No witnesses.

Just the ancestors holding their breath.

The hexes were disguised as vows.

I am a miscarriage walking.

3. My mother wears her trauma like a

wedding veil. She never took it off.

4. I was born drowning. There was too much

water in the womb. They cut me out before I

sank. Lungs too strong to quit, a scream too

holy to ignore.

5. I was born early, not by mistake but summoned.

My mother named me Mahlatse (Lucky).

She whispered to the stars, “I am lucky to have you.”

My mother held death in one arm, hope in the other.

6. Keorapetse, he named me. "I prayed for you"

He, the one who summoned storms

and then abandoned the village.

He prayed for me, then left me to be raised in fire.

7. He was there, crying in the hospital room that

he was receiving a miracle. I wonder if the scent of his

lies still trail down sterile corridors.

I carry the shame of his sincerity.

Even my name has teeth.

8. I was kept in an incubator, a child between worlds,

held alive by science and chanted over by spirits.

9. Our house was meant to be a sanctuary.

Instead, it became an open mouth, a feast for demons.

Muthi under the floorboards,

baloyi in the light switches.

10. The trusted healer confirmed what our bones already

knew. He had been casting since before my name

was ever put to paper. There were spells woven into our doorknobs. Salt under our feet. Bad omens in our tea.

This was never a home. It was a trap disguised as a family.

She had been dying long before the wedding.

.

11. She lit candles. He hid knives.

She sang hymns.

He buried things in the soil.

We were never alone.

12. The ancestors watched in confusion

as she set the table for him every night.

Even after he’d dined elsewhere.

My sister and I were fed on her back.

She made miracles from nothing.

Butter bread from prayer.

She was always last to eat.

13. “A ngwana wa letsogo le le bogale,”

the old women chant.

“You were born of the sharp hand.”

Meaning: He doesn’t love with palms. Only fists.

14. She thought she was a wife.

But she was a witness.

Warning. Withering.

15. Eventually she walked softly.

Learned not to disturb the sleeping devil.

The consequences of her silence would later

begin to scream.

16. She would still pray for him.

Not because she loves him.

But because she doesn’t know what else to do

with the rope she tied around her own neck

with his surname.

17. The ones who came before me:

my grandmothers, their mothers,

the queens and prophets of blood

stood at the foot of her bed and wept.

They struggled regularly to stop the bleeding

so they braided her spine with survival.

She patched her ribs shut every morning.

18. She danced in dreams with her lineage,

asking them to take him back, liberate her from

the bondage. But he’d built a dungeon where she

would have had freedom.

19. The church said that she should endure.

That she should pray harder. Forgive deeper.

At times prayer was her only medicine,

her only rebellion against a house thick with shadow.

It made her bend further. And she broke.

20. I wish her prayers were poison. Fire.

I wish they burned him from the inside.

I wish she were less godly. Or at least I wish

her God was more vengeful.

21. I was born with a war inside me.

Not because I wanted it,

but because it was prophesied.

22. My mother cannot hold my gaze too long.

The features betray her. A forehead, a mouth,

a brow that once told her love. Now just landmarks

to a man who undid her.

23. Sometimes I wonder if I had to shoot

myself in the mirror, would I finally look less

like him. Or would the bullet miss me entirely

and find its way into his chest?

Would I finally see my face alone?

24. My half-siblings perhaps were born in

bedrooms where love might have been bought

by the hour. They wear his smile, but none of

his burdens.

25. He fed other families with our sacrifice.

Children we didn’t know existed appeared

on his bank statements like confessions.

Love paid for in direct deposits.

26. We were his only, he said. But his only

has postcodes, birthdays, surnames he’s

never said out loud.

27. My mother read those names like

funeral programs. Every syllable, a spade of dirt

tossed over the marriage.

28. Five women. Maybe more.

Children like scattered embers across provinces.

Each name a secret. Each womb a wound

he never stayed to clean.

.

29. The half-siblings will grow.

They’ll wonder about the man they call father.

And I will have nothing to offer them except

a mirror and a warning.

30. The ancestors cry in the pipes.

The house groans under the weight of hidden truths.

The soil grows nothing where he’s stepped.

Rain avoids our rooftop.

The trees lean away from the walls.

Even nature seems to have chosen a side.

31. This is his second divorce.

My mother is leaving him with scraps of

herself left behind. The other women may

have been swallowed whole.

32. He has lied to her therapist about how he fears

for his life in their bed because she might kill him

as he sleeps. There is no diagnosis accurate enough

for his delusion. He calls her dangerous but it is his

fingerprints found on our mouths stitched closed.

33. He looked the therapist in the eyes

and cried like God owed him peace.

Not a single tear reached his soul.

34. He still calls himself a father.

Demands respect for it.

Even though he left his darkness

longer than his presence.

His legacy is an empty chair.

His portrait is a dent in the wall.

35. The village we came from suffers in famine .

He left our name in disrepair.

It stumbles out of mouths.

It coughs when introduced.

It has no home to return to.

Every child cries like they’ve seen something.

Even the goats refuse to bleat at night.

36. She was wife by contract, not by heart.

She was guardian, mule, confidant priestess.

All titles. No salary.

37. Every time I walk into love, I wonder

if I’ve inherited his appetite. And each time

it ends I fear I’ve inherited her wounds.

38. I will not be polite about survival.

I will not write palatable poems about a father

who buried us alive. I walk with my ancestors

in broad daylight.They don’t whimper,

they wail through me.

39. If this marriage is a curse then I am

the undoing of it. Not a footnote but the

revolution that ends the ritual.

I am my mother’s bloodline returning to her.

I am the ghost of his sins learning to speak.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar serves as a platform for voices worldwide to share their unique stories and perspectives. Celebrating diverse literary expressions, the competition showcases the creativity and depth of writers from all walks of life. It is a testament to the power of words and their ability to connect us across cultures and boundaries.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Mahlatse Magau for sharing "Notes on their marriage" with us. Your evocative exploration of family and identity in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 has added a profound layer to our understanding of resilience and legacy. We look forward to seeing more of your thought-provoking work in the future.

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.