His Parents Forbade Me; One Wrong Number and His Defiance Changed Everything
The day I heard his voice again, my world stopped. My old Tecno buzzed, indicating one new voicemail. I hit play, expecting a customer's request for yams or tomatoes, but instead, I heard him. "Nomsa… I don't know where to begin. I found out about the boy—our son."
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My knees gave way. The tray of ground pepper I had been sorting fell to the floor, red dust swirling around my quivering feet. I hadn't heard Sipho's voice in nearly seven years, since his parents ripped us apart, calling me a market girl unworthy of their bloodline.
Now, because of one wrong call, the man who had left me pregnant and broken was back in my life, his desperate voice echoing through time. I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or throw the phone away. But one thing was certain: life had just reunited Sipho and me for a purpose.
When I met Sipho, I was a 21-year-old market girl in Durban who helped my mother sell dried fish and plantains. He was everything I wasn't: charming, educated, and the son of Mr and Mrs Mokoena, who own half of the town's real estate.
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I still remember the day he came by my stall. He was sweating after a long day working at his father's construction site.
"Can I have some roasted plantain?" he said, smiling. His tone was kind, his eyes friendly, unlike the usual arrogance I got from wealthy clientele.
We began talking, first about simple things like books, music, and life beyond the market. Then, one evening, under a tree near the taxi rank, he said the words that altered everything: "Nomsa, I don't care about money or class. I love you."
Love temporarily blinded us both. However, when his parents found out, all hell broke loose. Mrs Mokoena stopped by my stand, flinging money on my table as if I were for sale. "Take this, and leave my son alone," she snarled.
I refused.
Two weeks later, Sipho was sent abroad for "further studies." He promised to come back for me, but his calls stopped after months.
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By that time, I was already pregnant with his child. Alone and ashamed, I gave birth to our son, Junior, and promised to raise him with or without Sipho. I buried our love until that accidental voicemail seven years later unearthed it again.
For three days, I replayed the voicemail over and over. My heart fought with my mind. What exactly did he mean when he said he found out about our son? Who informed him?
I decided to disregard it because Sipho had already chosen his parents over me once. But fate wasn't done with us yet.
Two weeks later, he called again. This time, I picked up.
"Nomsa," he whispered, as if simply saying my name was an act of courage.
"Sipho," I said gently. "What do you want?"
"I want to see you. Please. Just once."
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Despite my better judgment, I agreed. We met at a serene café located close to the main road. He appeared older, leaner, with lines of sorrow etched into his face.
When his gaze fell on Junior, who was seated by the window, sipping mango juice, he froze. "He's… he's mine," Sipho murmured.
"Yes," I replied, my voice flat. "Yours. But you were long gone."
He gulped heavily. "I did not know, Nomsa. My parents told me that you married another man. They said you moved to a different town with your husband and started a family."
I could feel a bitter laugh rising in my throat. "And you believed them."
He reached across the table, tears welling in his eyes. "That was stupid of me. But I want to fix things. Please."
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I wanted to scream, to remind him of every restless night I rocked the baby alone and all the insults I had tolerated from society. But Junior looked up and smiled at him, and something inside of me softened.
Sipho began to make more frequent visits. He brought toys, food, and money, but what really mattered was how he treated our boy. He read him bedtime stories and accompanied him to school without once raising his voice.
Then his parents found out about our rebound..
They came into my house unannounced. Mrs Mokoena's voice boomed across the compound. "So you've trapped my son again, you filthy market girl? "Do you want to ruin him completely?"
I stood my ground. "I didn't go looking for him, Ma. He found us."
Mr Mokoena sneered, "This ends today. My son will marry someone from his class. Not this lowlife woman."
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Sipho had told me he'd pass by my place, and he arrived before his parents left. "Father, if loving Nomsa and my son ruins me, then let it be."
His mother gasped and held her chest.
That was the first time I saw Sipho go against them, not as a boy they could control, but as a man standing up for what he believed in."
But fate had one more storm in store for us.
A few weeks later, on my walk home from the market, two men on motorcycles hit me from behind and ran off. I smacked my head on the ground and passed out.
When I awoke, I was in a hospital bed with Ray sitting next to me, his eyes red from crying.
"I thought we'd lost you," he whispered.
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I later discovered that it was Sipho who had rushed me to the hospital after receiving a frantic call from one of the vendors. He drove me to the hospital himself, blood on his shirt, praying out loud the whole journey.
As I healed, the truth came out: the attack was not random. Sipho's cousin had paid those goons to scare me away for good. The family could not endure the humiliation of a "market woman" returning to their circle.
Sipho confronted his parents with evidence. His father turned away, embarrassed, while his mother sobbed silently. "We thought we were protecting you," she said.
"By almost killing my son's mother?" Sipho snapped. "You protected your ego, not me."
That day, he packed his belongings and moved out.
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For the first time in years, I saw him free—not from his parents' possession, but from their control. And that love may have chosen us again.
After the chaos subsided, Sipho rented us a modest house away from his parents' estate, which was peaceful. He got a job at a local engineering firm, no longer dependent on his father's empire.
I was initially hesitant about moving in with him, scared that history might repeat itself. But each day, he demonstrated his commitment to us. He joined me at the market and helped me lift baskets, unconcerned about stares or gossip.
"Let them talk," he said one morning, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "They spoke before, and I lost you. I will not make that mistake again."
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We married quietly at the courthouse, with only two close friends as witnesses and Junior present.
Months later, Mrs Mokoena paid us an unannounced visit—this time without pride or security. She knelt in front of me, tears gleaming. "Forgive me, Nomsa." "I almost destroyed what God had put together."
I assisted her up, and my heart felt strangely light. "I forgave you the day I survived," I told her with a smile.
From that day, she began treating Junior like his other grandchild, indulging him with toys and stories. Sipho's family's arrogance faded into humility.
One evening, as the sun set behind our new house, Sipho took my hand and whispered, "You were never beneath me, Nomsa. You were always my equal – I just needed to mature enough to recognise it."
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And I smiled, putting my head on his shoulder, realising that some love stories don't require perfection—just the courage to start over.
I often reflect on how one wrong number altered everything—a single voicemail that exposed lies, reopened wounds, and led us back to the truth. Life has a remarkable way of cycling back to what was meant to be once the lessons have been learned.
I used to believe that love alone wasn't enough, that approval was more important. But I've discovered that love rooted in truth and courage can withstand any storm, even the one fueled by family pride.
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Sipho and I aren't perfect; we argue, we resolve. But our love is genuine, born from pain, defiance, and the calm resilience of forgiveness.
When I look at my small family, I thank God that the wrong number made its way home.
Because destiny whispered in that single misdialed message: Sometimes what has been torn apart must break again before it is made whole.
So, I leave you with this question: When love calls back unexpectedly, do you hang up in fear...or answer with faith?
“This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.”
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