The next morning, sunlight spilled across the yard, warm and gentle.
I started my usual routine — stretching my legs, walking slowly around the yard, feeling the steady rhythm of my steps against the earth. My breathing was calm, my body lighter than it used to be.
I reached the gate and opened it, just to look outside for a bit. The street was alive — people moving up and down, children in school uniforms, the chatter of neighbors planning their day.
Then, out of Mama Connie's gate, a familiar figure stepped into view. For a moment, I froze — it took me a second to recognize him.
"Mduduzi?" I called out.
He turned quickly, his face breaking into a wide grin.
"Mbijana! My brother!"
We met halfway between the gates, his arms already open. We hugged tightly — that kind of hug that speaks more than words ever could.
"It's been long," he said, still smiling. "Yo, you're looking good, man! You're walking strong again."
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "By God's grace, my brother. One step at a time."
Mduduzi was more than just a cousin — he was like a brother to me. I still remembered the nights he sat by my bed when I couldn't move, the way he'd talk to me just so I wouldn't feel alone. Seeing him again brought back everything — the pain, the progress, and the gratitude.
"I heard you were staying this side," he said. "But I didn't want to come by until I was sure you were okay."
"Well," I replied with a smile, "you're looking at proof that I'm still standing."
He laughed. "You've come a long way, grootman. I still remember carrying you to bed some nights back then."
We both fell silent for a moment — not out of sadness, but reflection.
"Come in," I said finally. "Rebecca and Manessah will be happy to see you."
As we walked back through the gate, I felt something inside me settle — like another missing piece of my past had found its way back home.
Healing, I realized, wasn't just about the body. It was also about reconnecting — with faith, with love, and with the people who never gave up on you.
---
We stood just outside the gate, still catching up on small things — the weather, the neighborhood, and how time seemed to move too fast.
Mduduzi smiled faintly, scratching his head.
"I'll make a day to come see you properly, grootman," he said, his tone warm but guarded.
I nodded, though deep down I already knew what he meant. He lived just around the corner — a few minutes' walk, if that — yet this was the first time I'd seen him in months.
"I understand," I said quietly, trying not to show any disappointment. "Life gets busy."
He looked down for a moment, avoiding my eyes. "You know how things are… the family, they still talk. They don't understand why you're staying here."
I forced a small smile. "Yeah, I figured."
I could see it in his eyes — the hesitation, the quiet battle between loyalty and love. He wanted to come inside, to see Rebecca and Manessah, but doing so might put him in a difficult place with the others.
So I didn't push.
"Don't worry about it, Mduduzi," I said gently. "You're here now, and that's enough."
He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "You've changed, man. You sound… peaceful."
"Maybe because I've stopped fighting what I can't control," I replied, my voice calm.
He gave me a faint smile. "I'll come by soon, I promise."
"Take your time," I said. "The gate will always be open."
We shook hands again, and as he walked away, I watched him disappear down the street. The silence that followed wasn't heavy — it was thoughtful.
I turned back toward the yard, seeing Rebecca at the door with Manessah in her arms, both watching quietly. I smiled at them and thought to myself,
Sometimes peace means accepting who stays — and forgiving who doesn't.
---
The afternoon settled quietly over the yard. The sun hung low, painting everything in shades of gold and orange. I sat on the small bench by the garden, thinking about my conversation with Mduduzi.
Rebecca came out carrying two mugs of tea, handing one to me before sitting down beside me.
"I saw him," she said softly. "Your cousin."
I nodded, taking a slow sip. "Yeah, that was Mduduzi. It's been a while."
She tilted her head, studying my face. "You look… thoughtful. What did he say?"
"Not much," I replied. "He said he'll make time to come see me. But I could tell — he's torn between me and the family. They still don't like that I'm here."
Rebecca looked down for a moment, tracing her finger along the rim of her cup. "It's hard for them to understand," she said quietly. "But you don't owe anyone an apology for finding peace."
Her words hung softly in the air. I looked at her and smiled faintly. "You know, I used to think I'd never stop needing their approval. I wanted so badly for everyone to see I wasn't trying to turn my back on family… I was just trying to survive."
She reached out, placing her hand over mine. "You've done more than survive," she said. "You've healed. You've become stronger — for yourself, for our daughter, even for those who can't see it yet."
I felt a lump in my throat. I looked at Manessah, playing near the small patch of flowers, her laughter breaking the silence.
"You're right," I said softly. "Maybe healing also means forgiving those who turned away."
Rebecca smiled, squeezing my hand gently. "Forgive them, but don't forget how far you've come."
We sat there quietly, watching Manessah chase a butterfly through the sunlight. The world felt still — like time had paused just to let us breathe.
For the first time, I realized that peace wasn't about who stood by me — it was about who remained when the storm had passed.
I looked at Rebecca and whispered, "Thank you… for not giving up on me."
She leaned her head on my shoulder. "I never will."