Joyce was still fighting me — not with fists, but with words that cut deeper than anything I had survived. "You're choosing Rebecca over Angela?" she'd shout through the phone whenever she felt cornered. To her, everything looked like betrayal. To me, it was exhaustion — I was begging for peace while she kept demanding war. How could I choose anyone over my own child? All I ever wanted was to be included, to be present, to be a father.
But even as I battled for space in Angela's life, I was also fighting a different war — the one inside my own body. After months of physiotherapy, sweat, pain, and believing that I was finally getting somewhere… they suddenly told me not to come back. No explanation that made sense. Just a cold discharge note and a forced smile from the therapist:
"You've made… enough progress."
Enough?
Enough for who???
My fingers still trembled. My hand still failed me when I needed it most. My mind still felt trapped in a body that didn't respond. I walked out of that building angry and confused — the kind of anger that doesn't shout, but sinks into your bones like a reminder: You're on your own in this now.
I kept doing the mirror trick at home because it felt like the only hope I had left. At first, it worked — tiny movements in my right hand that gave me courage. But as days passed, something changed. Every time I stared into that mirror, focusing hard on the reflection of my left hand, I felt something strange crawling up my spine. A rush. A spark. Then suddenly — my whole body would lock.
It wasn't pain.
It was fear.
My brain would glitch — like electricity misfiring — and I'd feel the room spinning. The world would dim around the edges as if I was slipping out of reality for a few seconds. I didn't want to believe it was seizures, but deep down… I knew.
And while I was trying to hide this terrifying new weakness from everyone, the situation with Angela's family only got heavier.
Joyce refused to take my calls.
Angela's grandmother believed I failed the one promise a father should never break:
To keep his child safe.
The silence from them was louder than all the shouting we ever did.
Some nights I would sit alone, hand trembling, phone in my other hand, hoping for a message… a chance… forgiveness. But instead — nothing. Just a cold reminder of how far I still was from my daughter.
I felt trapped between two fears:
My body failing me.
My family leaving me behind.
Yet even then, something in me refused to surrender. Because pain was not new to me — but being kept away from my child… that was unbearable.
---
It was a hot afternoon, the kind where even the walls seem tired of the heat.
Sello and I were watching TV — a simple day, nothing special.
For once, my mind wasn't heavy.
For once, life felt normal.
Then… it started.
A warning shot inside my body — like a spark suddenly jumping in my brain.
I tried to speak, tried to tell Sello that something was wrong,
but my tongue wouldn't listen.
My throat tightened.
My right hand curled on its own.
The TV sound became distant…
like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
I could hear my heartbeat pounding inside my skull.
I knew what was coming.
The seizures.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.
My vision jerked sideways — and suddenly I wasn't sitting anymore.
I hit the floor.
My body twisted without my permission.
Muscles locked.
Teeth grinding.
A trapped scream caught inside my lungs.
Sello jumped up shouting my name:
> "Tebelo! Tebelo, look at me! Stay with me, boy!"
But I couldn't.
My eyes rolled back.
Every second felt like drowning inside my own skin.
And then… darkness.
Only my mind survived — trapped in a silent room inside my head.
---
When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat.
The fan was off — or maybe everything was just too hot.
Sello looked terrified, kneeling beside me with his phone in his hand,
halfway to calling an ambulance.
> "You scared the hell out of me.
Why didn't you say this was happening?"
I couldn't answer.
What could I say?
That I was scared?
That I didn't want to look weak again?
That after surviving death once…
I was afraid it had come back for another try?
---
Sello was already on the phone when I came back fully.
His voice shaking as he spoke to Lungelwa — Rebecca's mother.
Rebecca rushed in from the back room, breathing fast, eyes wide with fear.
She knelt beside me and slid a pillow gently under my head.
> "Please… just relax, baby. Don't move yet."
Her voice trembled, but her hands were steady.
She kept brushing my forehead like she was trying to calm the storm inside me.
My chest still felt tight.
My right hand still buzzing — like the electricity wasn't done with me.
I tried to sit up.
Sello placed his strong hand behind my shoulder, lifting me slowly.
> "Easy, Tebelo.
You gave us a big fright."
His tone — half relief, half warning.
I looked at Rebecca…
and the shock in her face told me everything.
She'd been just a few steps away —
laughing, folding clothes, living a normal moment —
while my body fought a battle in the living room.
And that scared me more than the seizure itself.
If this could happen so suddenly…
when else might it strike?
Who would be there next time?
A lump formed in my throat, but I forced a weak smile:
> "I'm okay… I'm okay."
Even though I wasn't sure if I believed it myself.
Rebecca grabbed my hand.
> "This can't continue. We have to do something… we have to."
Her voice cracked.
For the first time since I survived —
I saw fear not just in my family's eyes…
but in my own reflection inside her tears.
---
I kept insisting I was fine — more out of pride than truth.
> "It was just a small one… nothing like before,"
I said, forcing a laugh.
Sello watched me carefully.
Rebecca didn't believe a word.
Inside, I was shaken.
Deeply.
But I refused to show it.
I didn't want everyone treating me like I was fragile…
like one wrong move would break me.
I convinced them to let me step outside for fresh air.
As the door closed behind me, the world felt bigger —
and strangely quieter.
I stared at the sky.
> "God… am I healing or am I fooling myself?"
The breeze blew against my face as if to answer —
not with words,
but with calm.
Maybe it was pride…
maybe denial…
but in that moment, I chose hope.
I remembered something Mama Connie once told me:
> "When the body fights, the spirit must lead."
And right there — barefoot on the ground,
heart still recovering from the storm —
I breathed in deeply and whispered:
> "Lord, carry me where I can't walk yet."
Not because I was weak…
but because I finally understood:
healing isn't only physical.
I walked back inside, smiling like nothing had happened.
Rebecca stared into my soul.
> "You sure you're okay?"
I nodded.
Not a lie…
not the whole truth either.
Just the courage I needed to keep going.
---
Stress…
That was the real enemy.
Every time I worried, every time my heart raced with fear…
my body reacted like it was under attack.
No warnings…
no mercy.
I kept asking God the same question:
> "Will these seizures ever stop?"
But the more I asked,
the more anxious I became.
And Joyce…
she knew exactly where to press.
She made sure I felt powerless.
> "You will NEVER see Angela unless you come to Mpumalanga,"
she snapped over the phone one night.
"You chose a new woman over your own daughter!"
Every word hit like a punch.
She knew I wasn't allowed to travel far alone.
She knew I was still recovering.
She knew the hospital warned me:
➤ Avoid stress
➤ Avoid emotional triggers
➤ Avoid long-distance travel
Yet she weaponized all three.
I tried to explain —
tried to tell her that the seizures came when I panicked,
when I felt trapped…
But she never listened.
And the worst part?
I had no control over my own body anymore.
One minute I'd be fine — laughing, playing with Manessah…
The next minute, I'd feel that dark wave rising inside me,
taking me under…
I felt punished for loving both my daughters.
Punished for trying to be a father.
Some nights, I clutched my pillow tight,
as if holding it would keep the episodes away.
> "God… why does her anger control my health?"
"Why must I suffer just to love my child?"
Deep inside…
a fear grew:
If I kept fighting with Joyce…
Would I one day seize
and never wake up?
Something needed to change.
For Angela.
For Manessah.
For me.
So I made a silent promise:
> I refuse to let stress take me away from my children.
I will rise — even if it's slow, even if it hurts.
Because a present father,
even from a distance…
is better than a dead one.