Life in Lungelwa's home had a calm rhythm to it. Mornings were filled with soft voices and the smell of tea brewing in the kitchen. The sunlight always found its way through the thin curtains of our backroom, waking us up slowly to another day of small blessings.
Rebecca had found her peace again. I could see it in the way she smiled at our daughter, Manessah, and how she hummed while folding her tiny clothes. Even Tessa had grown closer to her niece — their laughter often echoed through the house, filling it with warmth.
It felt like things were finally steady. Not perfect, but peaceful — the kind of peace that comes after surviving too many storms.
Then one morning, everything changed.
I woke up feeling strange. My head was heavy, like the room was moving faster than I could catch up. I brushed it off at first, thinking I just needed more rest. Rebecca had gone to help her mother in the kitchen, and Manessah was playing in the main house with Tessa.
The laughter coming from inside made me smile. For a moment, everything felt normal.
Then it hit.
A sudden stiffness ran through my body, my muscles locking as if electricity shot through me. The world went blurry. I tried calling out, but no sound came out. My hands shook uncontrollably, and I felt myself falling. The floor came up too fast, and then everything went dark.
When I opened my eyes again, Rebecca was kneeling beside me. Her face was pale, tears running down her cheeks.
> "You scared me," she said in a trembling voice.
Her hands were still shaking as she tried to keep me still. Lungelwa stood behind her, holding a wet cloth, her eyes full of worry but steady — she had seen enough in life to know when to stay calm.
> "It's over now," she whispered, pressing the cloth against my forehead.
I tried to sit up, but Rebecca stopped me gently.
> "Don't move yet. Just breathe."
In the distance, I could hear Manessah's faint cry. Tessa was holding her, trying to keep her calm. That sound broke me more than the seizure itself — my daughter had seen me like that.
I lay there on the floor, helpless and exhausted. My chest rose and fell heavily, every breath reminding me of how fragile life could be.
Rebecca held my hand tightly.
> "You'll be okay," she said, her voice breaking. "We'll get through this."
And in that moment, I realized how much she had already carried — the weight of our past, the burden of being blamed, and now the fear of losing me. Yet she stayed.
That day, Lungelwa insisted we go to the clinic. She walked beside us the whole way, never once letting go of my arm. Her strength reminded me of my own mother — the way women carry entire worlds quietly, without ever asking for recognition.
The nurse said it was a seizure brought on by stress and exhaustion. I needed rest, medication, and peace.
Peace — the very thing we'd been trying so hard to protect.
That evening, after everyone settled down, Rebecca sat beside me in the quiet. Manessah was asleep between us, her small hand resting on my arm. I could still feel the tremors faintly in my fingers, but her touch calmed me.
> "I thought I was losing you," Rebecca whispered.
I turned my head toward her and said softly,
> "You'll never lose me. Not while I still have reasons to stay."
And there they were — my reasons, lying right beside me.
In that small backroom of Lungelwa's house, I realized healing wasn't just about getting better. It was about facing what came after — the fear, the weakness, the uncertainty — and still finding the courage to love through it.
The days that followed the seizure moved slowly. My body felt heavier than before, and every small movement took effort. But what weighed more was seeing the worry on Rebecca's face. She tried to hide it behind her soft smiles, but I knew her too well.
At night, I'd wake up to find her sitting quietly beside the bed, watching me sleep. She'd touch my forehead gently, checking if I was okay. Sometimes she whispered a prayer under her breath — words I couldn't always hear, but I could feel the love behind them.
Lungelwa was a steady presence through it all. She made sure I took my medication, cooked light meals, and reminded me to rest.
> "Don't rush healing," she'd say. "The body listens when the heart is calm."
There was something motherly in her care that comforted me deeply — like she had taken me in as one of her own sons.
Tessa was a little sunshine in the middle of it all. She'd peek through the door every morning with a big smile and say,
> "Uncle Tebelo, are you better today?"
Some days I'd nod, other days I couldn't answer. But her energy never faded. She'd bring Manessah to the bed, and the little one would climb onto my chest, pressing her small hands against my face. That simple touch reminded me I still had a reason to fight through the weakness.
Rebecca was my rock. Even when she was tired, she kept the house running, looked after the baby, and still found time to check on me. I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, but she never complained.
One evening, as the sun was setting, she sat down beside me and said softly,
> "You scared me, you know."
I smiled faintly. "I scared myself too."
She looked down, twisting her fingers nervously.
> "When you fell that morning… I didn't think I could handle seeing you like that. But then I remembered — you've handled worse."
Her words caught me off guard. It was true. We'd both handled worse. We'd been blamed, abandoned, misunderstood. Yet somehow, here we were — still standing, still holding on.
Over the next few weeks, things slowly got better. My body began to respond again, the shaking stopped, and the heaviness started to fade. But the experience had changed something in me. I no longer took the quiet days for granted.
Sometimes I'd just sit in the backyard, watching Manessah play with Tessa, their laughter filling the air. Rebecca would hang clothes on the line, her hair tied back, humming softly to herself. Lungelwa would be inside, cooking, her voice floating through the open window as she sang along to an old song.
That was my peace — simple moments, ordinary days.
One afternoon, while helping Rebecca with dinner, I turned to her and said,
> "I don't know what I did to deserve all of this — you, your family, the love."
She smiled, placing her hand over mine.
> "You didn't have to do anything. You just had to stay."
And that hit deep. Because for the first time in a long while, I realized she wasn't asking me to be perfect — just to be present.
That night, as I held Manessah close, listening to her quiet breathing, I whispered to myself,
> "This is what home feels like."
Not the walls or the roof — but the people who refused to let you fall apart.
After the seizure, I became a quieter version of myself.
The world outside Lungelwa's yard felt too loud, too unpredictable. I found safety in staying inside — in the familiar sounds of Rebecca's voice, in Manessah's laughter, in the rhythm of home.
Most days, I'd sit under the small tree at the back, watching the sunlight move slowly across the ground. My right hand had stopped working the way it used to. It hung there, stiff and heavy, a constant reminder of what I'd lost when I was stabbed in the head.
Simple things became harder — buttoning a shirt, holding a cup, even writing my name. I'd get frustrated, sometimes angry at myself. But Rebecca never let me sink too deep into that darkness.
> "You're healing," she'd remind me. "It just takes time."
I wanted to believe her. But there were mornings when I woke up and felt trapped — trapped in my own body, trapped in my fear of facing people again. I didn't want anyone to see me this way.
The only person from my family who came to see me now was Uncle Sibusiso.
He'd knock gently on the gate every few days, always carrying something small — sometimes fruit, sometimes bread. He never asked too many questions. He'd sit beside me under the tree, and we'd talk about simple things — the weather, football, memories from when I was younger.
He never once judged me for leaving home. One day, as we sat quietly, he looked at me and said,
> "You did what you had to do. Sometimes peace costs distance."
Those words stayed with me long after he left.
Still, most of my days were spent inside the yard. I watched people walk by, heard their laughter beyond the fence, but couldn't bring myself to join the world again. The idea of crowds, noise, even small talk made my chest tighten.
Rebecca tried to help me take small steps.
> "Start small," she said one morning. "Just go buy bread at the shop. See people. Breathe the air."
It sounded simple, but it felt like climbing a mountain. She smiled and slipped a few coins into my hand. "I'll be right here when you come back," she said.
So I went. Slowly. Step by shaky step.
The walk to the shop wasn't far, but my heart pounded the whole way. Every sound made me alert — footsteps behind me, cars passing, people talking. I kept my head down, clutching the money in my letf hand.
When I finally got to the counter, the woman at the shop looked at me kindly.
> "Morning," she said, like it was just another normal day.
And maybe that's what I needed — a small reminder that life was still going on, that I could still be part of it.
I bought the bread and walked back, slow but proud. Rebecca was waiting by the gate, smiling like I'd just run a marathon.
> "See? You did it," she said.
That small walk became part of my healing. Each trip to the shop was a step toward trusting the world again.
Even with my right hand not working, I learned to do things differently — to carry the baby with my left arm, to eat slower, to find patience in my own limitations.
Some days were harder than others, but every evening, as the sun dipped behind the houses, I'd look at Rebecca and Manessah, and realize something important:
Even broken things can build beautiful lives.
And though fear still lingered, love always found a way to lead me outside the gate — one small step at a time.