I remembered a phrase from church…
"God helps those who help themselves."
And from that day forward, everything changed.
I stopped allowing negativity to rent space in my mind.
If gossip started, I walked away.
If someone tried to disturb my peace, I didn't argue —
I protected my spirit.
For once…
I put my health, my future, and my daughters first.
I woke up each morning with purpose —
stretching, breathing, thanking God for life.
I reminded myself:
> "Stress will not control me."
"Fear will not decide for me."
I focused on progress — not pain.
On healing — not heartbreak.
On faith — not frustration.
Every seizure I survived became proof:
> I was stronger than what tried to break me.
And the more I claimed my peace,
the more I felt like me again —
the version of myself before the trauma…
but wiser, more grateful.
I realized:
✦ Not everyone deserves access to my heart
✦ Healing is loud inside the soul but quiet on the outside
✦ Protecting my peace is protecting my life
This time…
I wasn't just surviving.
I was becoming the man my daughters could be proud of.
— A Beautiful Moment of Hope
One afternoon, the sun was warm and gentle — not like the burning heat of the other days. Rebecca had gone to the main house, leaving me and little Manessah in the yard.
She was just learning to walk then —
tiny feet, brave heart.
She let go of the wall…
took one step…
then another…
Straight toward me.
Her little arms stretched out like she was reaching for the whole world —
but I knew she was reaching for her father.
When she finally landed in my hands, she laughed —
that pure, innocent laugh that heals places medicine cannot reach.
In that moment, I felt something deep inside me shift:
It didn't matter how many seizures I had survived.
It didn't matter who had turned their back on me.
It didn't matter what rumors were thrown around.
What mattered was this tiny human
who trusted me more than anything on earth.
She didn't care about my scars
or the weakness in my right hand
or what anyone said about me.
To her —
I was simply Dad.
She sat beside me on the grass,
looking up with those bright eyes…
and I realized:
> If she believes I can stand…
then I must stand.
Not just for me —
but for her.
For Angela.
For the future waiting for us.
And as she clapped her little hands, proud of her own steps,
I felt God whisper to my heart:
"One step at a time."
— The Look That Said Everything
Some days, Rebecca didn't need words.
She would just stand there… watching me.
Maybe I would be folding the baby's blanket,
or trying my best to sweep the yard with one hand,
or laughing as Manessah chased a butterfly she had no chance of catching.
And out of nowhere —
I'd feel her eyes on me.
When I turned,
there she was…
A soft smile on her lips,
like she was seeing something she had prayed for.
"Why the look?" I'd ask, acting like I wasn't shy.
She would just shake her head slowly,
wipe her hands on her apron,
and whisper:
> "I like this."
Not "I like you."
Not "I like us."
But "I like this."
This life.
This home.
This small family God was allowing us to build.
She liked seeing me strong again.
She liked the way I tried — every day.
She liked the father I was becoming.
She liked the peace that finally lived in that backyard room.
Sometimes, late at night,
she would turn in her sleep and lay her hand on my chest —
as if checking that my heart was still beating.
And I would put my hand over hers,
thanking God silently:
For another day.
For a chance to love.
For a woman who stayed
when others walked away.
Rebecca was more than support —
she was the calm after my storm.
— Family Tension That Still Hurt
Months had passed since I last saw my little brothers.
Sibongiseni — the one who always followed me everywhere growing up.
Onnie — my mother's last born, still trying to find his place in this world.
And Joshua — more like family than just a friend.
They all knew where I was staying…
but they stayed away.
And I understood why.
My family believed I had "chosen Rebecca"
instead of coming home to recover under their roof.
They didn't see it how I saw it…
that Rebecca's home was where I found peace
when my own home had turned into a battlefield of blame and pain.
Still —
the silence from my brothers cut deep.
These were boys who once called me hero,
who used to cheer for me in every soccer game,
who used to laugh at every joke I cracked,
even the stupid ones.
Now the distance between us
felt like a punishment for surviving.
But love has a strange way of finding its path.
One Saturday afternoon,
I was standing outside with my cup of tea,
watching Manessah play in the dust…
When I heard familiar voices coming from the street.
I looked up —
and there they were.
All three of them.
Walking slowly,
as if unsure whether they were allowed to step inside.
The moment Sibongiseni saw me,
his whole face changed —
like he had been holding his breath for months.
"Bhuti…" he said quietly.
My heart stumbled.
I almost forgot how to breathe.
I walked toward them —
each step heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
And when we finally met halfway,
he hugged me so tight
I felt something in me heal.
Onnie followed, burying his face into my chest.
Joshua clapped my shoulder gently, saying,
"Still strong, grootman… I can see that."
For a moment,
the world forgot its problems.
It was just me and my brothers again —
no rumors,
no judgment,
no sides.
Just love.
Rebecca watched from the door,
soft smile on her face —
that same look she gave me when she liked "this".
And in that moment, I knew:
No distance is stronger than the bond of blood
when the heart truly wants to come home.
— Words That Cut Where the Wound Was Still Fresh
It was a normal afternoon.
I had just finished helping Rebecca hang the washing,
and was standing by the door catching my breath,
watching Manessah crawl around with all the energy I wished I still had.
The front gate rattled.
A man from my old street pushed it open halfway,
asking for passage through the yard —
since Rebecca's home sat between two roads.
He smelled of cheap alcohol and bad intentions.
He looked at me with that half-drunk confidence
people get when the truth they carry
is mixed with jealousy or gossip.
"Ohhh! Tebelo…" he slurred,
leaning his shoulder against the gate.
"So this is where you hiding…"
I didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
Then he said it —
sharper than a knife in the skull:
> "Your boys are struggling at your home."
Just six words.
But they hit the same place my nightmares live.
My chest tightened.
I felt my hand tremble —
the bad one, the weak one.
Struggling?
My little brothers?
While I was here, healing… smiling… living?
The man didn't wait for my reaction.
He just walked through,
laughing to himself like he had delivered good news.
Rebecca rushed to my side,
eyes full of worry.
"What did he say?"
I couldn't speak.
The words were stuck like stones in my throat.
How could someone throw that at me
not knowing the weight I already carried?
Not knowing the nights I stayed awake
thinking of home…
thinking of the boys…
thinking of whether I had chosen the wrong side
just to survive my trauma?
I sat down slowly,
heart pounding,
mind racing.
Rebecca put her hand on my shoulder and said softly:
> "You are not a bad brother.
You are not a bad father.
You are trying — and that matters."
I wanted to believe her.
I really did.
But in that moment…
the guilt was louder than her comfort.