The night came softly, the moon spilling its silver light through the curtains. The house was quiet — only the soft hum of the fridge and Manessah's faint giggles from her blanket fort in the corner.
Rebecca stood by the stove, warming up supper. I sat at the table, lost in thought. My mind wandered back to Mduduzi — his tired face, his voice that day, the way he looked like he wanted to say more but couldn't.
I sighed.
"I never got the chance to thank him," I said quietly.
Rebecca looked over her shoulder. "Who?"
"Mduduzi," I said. "After everything I went through, he's the one who stood by me. He put his life on hold to make sure I got back on my feet… and I never said thank you."
She turned off the stove, wiped her hands on a towel, and came to sit beside me. "Maybe it's not too late," she said gently. "You could call him, or write him a message. Sometimes words carry further than distance."
I nodded slowly, staring at my hands. "He deserves to know I appreciate him. Back then, I couldn't even speak properly after the incident. But he was there — helping me eat, bathe, even making sure I took my medication. I remember waking up one morning and seeing him asleep on the chair beside my bed. He looked so tired… but he never complained."
Rebecca placed her hand on mine. "That's love," she whispered. "The kind that doesn't ask for recognition."
I smiled faintly. "He probably thought I forgot. But I didn't. I never will."
From the corner, Manessah peeked out from under her blanket fort. "Daddy, come eat!" she said in her tiny voice.
We both laughed. I got up, scooping her into my arms and kissing her forehead. "Alright, little one. Let's eat."
As we sat down, I bowed my head for a moment before touching the food. Rebecca looked at me curiously.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said softly. "Just thanking God — for second chances, for family, for people who stayed when I had nothing left to give."
Rebecca smiled, reaching for my hand. "That's all that matters now."
I nodded. "Yeah… and maybe, when the time's right, I'll thank Mduduzi properly — not just with words, but with the life I'm building back up."
The candlelight flickered between us, casting gentle shadows across the table. For the first time in a long time, I felt a quiet sense of completion — like the pieces of my life were slowly finding their way back together.
---
Days went by, and I still hadn't heard from Mduduzi.
Funny thing is — he was right there, every single day.
From where I sat in our back room, I could hear the laughter spilling from Connie's yard — his voice blending with the others. The sound of young men teasing each other, the clatter of bottles, the rhythm of their jokes. It was all so close that sometimes I'd look up, half expecting him to call out my name over the fence.
But he never did.
Each day I told myself, tomorrow I'll go over and greet him.
Tomorrow came and went — and still, I didn't move.
It wasn't pride holding me back. It was something deeper. Maybe fear. Maybe guilt. I didn't know how to show up after all this time, after he'd carried me through the worst days of my life. Maybe I was waiting for the right moment, a sign — something small to bridge the silence.
Rebecca noticed my quietness.
"You've been listening out again," she said one afternoon, catching me by the window.
I tried to smile. "He's just there… laughing like nothing ever happened. It's good to hear him happy."
She came closer, her hand resting softly on my shoulder. "Then go say hello. You can't heal from a distance forever."
I looked down at my hands. "It's not that simple, Becky. I want to… I just don't know what to say."
She smiled gently. "Then say exactly that."
Outside, Manessah was playing with Tessa, her little hands full of flowers from the garden. Their laughter mixed with the sound of birds and the faint voices from next door. For a moment, everything felt still — peaceful, yet heavy with unfinished things.
I thought about the night Mduduzi found me bleeding, how he shouted for help, carried me when I couldn't walk, made sure I lived to see another day.
And now here I was — alive, stronger, and yet unable to cross a fence.
That evening, I made a decision.
"If he's there tomorrow," I told Rebecca, "I'll go talk to him."
She smiled, knowing it was more than just words. "Good," she said softly. "It's time, love. He deserves to know you remember."
That night, I lay awake, listening again to the faint laughter drifting from Connie's yard — and whispered a quiet prayer:
"Lord, let tomorrow be the day I make things right."
---
He never showed up.
I waited a few days, thinking maybe he'd pass by again, or call my name over the fence. But it was quiet — too quiet.
By then, it was clear I'd put him in a tight spot. I could feel it in the silence that followed. Maybe he mentioned to someone that he'd seen me by the gate. Maybe word had already reached the family — and now, he had to keep his distance.
Still, I couldn't be angry with him.
He'd done enough for me already.
I knew he lived just around the corner, with his older sister and two little brothers. Sometimes I'd hear their voices playing in the yard, the sound carrying through the still afternoon air. It reminded me of how simple life used to be — before all the noise, before people chose sides.
When I thought of Mduduzi, I didn't think of his absence — I thought of his courage. Of how he once helped me walk again when I had nothing left in me. Of how he never complained, even when my pain made me short-tempered or quiet for hours.
Maybe staying away was his way of protecting both of us.
And maybe that's what love looks like sometimes — quiet, distant, but still real.
Rebecca could tell something was weighing on me again.
"He'll come around," she said softly while folding laundry beside the bed.
I nodded, though I wasn't sure if I believed it.
Later that evening, as the sky turned orange, I sat on the steps with Manessah on my lap. Her little fingers tugged at my beard as she laughed, and I realized — this is where I need to be. With her. With Rebecca. With the people who chose to stay.
I whispered to myself, "Some goodbyes aren't said out loud… they just happen quietly."
And with that, I let it go.
---
Days began to feel lighter again.
Maybe it was the morning sun that found its way through the small window each day, or maybe it was Manessah's giggles echoing through the yard — but something inside me started to shift.
I'd wake up early, just before Rebecca, and sit quietly with a cup of tea. Watching the sky turn from gray to gold became my new peace. The world outside was still the same — busy, loud, unpredictable — but inside, I'd found a rhythm.
Most mornings, I'd water the garden while Manessah crawled behind me, trying to grab the hose. She'd laugh every time the water splashed her little feet, and I'd pretend not to notice, just to see her joy again.
Those small moments — they healed me more than any medicine ever could.
Rebecca would step out, still in her gown, smiling at us from the door.
"You two are inseparable," she'd say, shaking her head.
I'd smile back, thinking how right she was. Everything I once thought I'd lost, I could now see in that little girl's eyes.
After breakfast, Rebecca would head to the shop or help her mother with chores in the main house, while I stayed with Manessah. We'd sit outside, under the mango tree, watching neighbors pass by. Some greeted with warmth, others with curiosity — but I'd learned not to mind anymore.
Peace doesn't come from how people treat you. It comes from accepting where you are, and choosing to stay grateful.
Rebecca's mother, Lungelwa, often reminded me of that. She'd come by, wiping her hands on her apron, and say,
"You look stronger every day, my son. Keep your heart clean, and you'll see blessings multiply."
And she was right.
Even without much, we had enough — laughter, love, and a roof over our heads.
At night, when Rebecca and I lay down, I'd whisper a silent prayer:
"For this peace, Lord… thank you. For this family, thank you."
Each day wasn't perfect, but it was ours — and that alone made it beautiful.