I was myself again.
It felt like being reborn — not just in body, but in spirit. Every breath, every step, every morning felt new. The weight that once pressed down on my shoulders had lifted, and for the first time in a long while, I could see the world with clear eyes.
When I walked through the streets, people noticed. Some stopped and stared for a moment, trying to remember where they knew me from. Others smiled and waved, saying,
"Ey, you're looking good, my brother!"
or
"Is that really you? Yoh, you look strong!"
I'd laugh and greet them back, not with pride — but with peace.
It was as if everyone could see right through to the happiness inside me. The glow I carried wasn't from wealth or success, but from healing — from knowing I had come back from a place few people ever return from.
Rebecca would tease me sometimes.
"Now everyone's greeting you like a celebrity," she said, smiling.
I'd laugh, shaking my head. "They're not seeing fame, Becky. They're seeing grace."
Even the old men who sat outside the tuck shop would nod when I passed, saying things like, "God has done wonders for this one."
And I couldn't argue — He truly had.
My body felt stronger, my mind calmer. I could do simple things again — carry water, sweep the yard, even help in the garden. Each little task felt like a blessing. Every time I looked at Manessah crawling in the grass or heard her laughter from the main house, I silently thanked God for keeping me alive long enough to witness it.
One evening, as I sat outside watching the sunset, Rebecca came beside me and leaned her head on my shoulder.
"You've come a long way, my love," she whispered.
I smiled, feeling the truth of her words sink deep into my chest.
"I'm happy where I'm at," I said quietly. "Not because everything's perfect — but because I've made peace with it all."
The sun dipped below the rooftops, painting the sky gold and red.
And right there, in that soft light, I felt whole again.
---
It started with small conversations in the streets.
Some of the young boys who knew me before the incident — the ones who used to greet me from across the road, or run errands to the shop — began stopping by whenever I passed.
They'd say things like,
"Sho, grootman, we see you walking again!"
or
"Respect, you came back strong, mfethu!"
At first, I'd just smile and nod, but soon they started hanging around longer, asking questions. They wanted to know how I made it through, how I kept faith when everything seemed to fall apart.
I saw something in their eyes — that mix of curiosity and quiet respect — and I realized how much they'd been watching me all along.
So, I started talking to them. Not preaching, not judging — just talking.
About choices. About patience. About staying true even when life breaks you down.
I'd tell them, "You can lose everything and still find yourself again. The secret is not giving up."
Sometimes we'd sit outside Connie's yard, just talking until the sun went down. The younger ones would listen in silence while I shared bits of my journey — not the pain, but the lessons.
"You always have a choice," I'd remind them. "And every choice has a consequence. You don't have to fall to learn, but if you do, get back up. Always."
They started calling me 'Grootman' with pride now — not just as a nickname, but as a sign of respect.
And in those moments, I realized that my pain hadn't been in vain. My story was now a light for others finding their way.
Rebecca would watch sometimes from the yard, smiling as the boys waved goodbye after our talks.
"You're becoming a role model without even trying," she said one evening.
I chuckled softly. "If my scars can teach someone something good, then they were worth it."
That night, as I lay in bed with Rebecca and Manessah asleep beside me, I felt something deep and still inside my chest — purpose.
For the first time, I wasn't just living to survive.
I was living to give back.
---
My relationship with God grew stronger with each passing day.
It started when Connie began inviting me to her night prayers — small gatherings she hosted at her home with people from her church. At first, I hesitated. I didn't know if I was ready to be around that many people again, especially in such an emotional space.
But something inside whispered, go.
The first night I attended, the house was filled with soft singing and the smell of burning candles. The women were already in prayer when I walked in, and Connie greeted me with that motherly smile she always had.
"Come in, my son," she said gently. "Tonight, we thank God for healing."
I sat quietly at the back, listening to their voices rise and fall — pure, honest, full of faith. I didn't say much that night, but something inside me shifted.
From then on, I went every week.
It became a part of my life — those late evenings filled with prayer, worship, and peace. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and feel tears run down my face without warning. Not from sadness, but from gratitude.
During one of those nights, Connie placed her hand on my shoulder and said,
"You've been through fire, my child, but God was always with you. He didn't bring you back for nothing."
Her words stayed with me long after the candles were out.
As the weeks went by, I found myself praying more on my own too.
In the mornings before sunrise.
In the quiet moments before bed.
Even when I walked through the streets, I'd whisper small prayers of thanks.
My faith became my strength — the invisible force that guided me when I didn't have answers.
Rebecca noticed it too. "You've changed," she said one night, smiling softly as she held Manessah in her arms. "You pray more, even when things are going well."
I smiled back. "That's the secret, Becky — not to pray only in pain, but in peace too."
And she nodded, as if she understood perfectly.
Those night prayers at Connie's house became a reminder that I was never walking alone. God had been there all along — through the darkness, the healing, and now the light.