Through all my hardest days. A father from two houses away from mine, came along..
Mr. Maboso — The Guiding Father
There was one voice that still reached me when I felt unheard at home.
Not through shouting, not through judgment —
but through respect.
Mr. Maboso saw the boy I was and the man I was becoming.
He treated me like his own son, and everyone knew who he was:
-A respected father in the community
- A man whose words carried weight
- Someone who corrected me because he cared, not because he wanted control
-A reminder that I was not alone, no matter how loud the silence felt at home
He didn't need to give speeches —
Just knowing he believed in me kept my heart steady.
He kept me standing.
His presence said something my soul needed to hear:
> "You are still worth respecting."
— A Father I Didn't Ask For, But God Sent
Life didn't give me a father who could be by my side every day.
But God made sure to send someone who stepped in when I needed one most.
He been there always by my side, ever since he saw me walking down the street from Rebecca's place.
He reminded me:
A. Stay strong and present — "Your daughters still need their father."
B. Lead your brothers — even when they push you away.
C. Keep your faith — because doubt is where the enemy attacks first.
D. Protect your recovery — your body is still healing.
And beyond words… he took action.
When the muscles in my right arm tightened in pain,
he mixed home remedies and massaged the stiffness out.
When my balance felt weak,
he pulled me outside and showed me exercises
so I could take one step closer to being myself again.
There were days I felt invisible inside my own home,
but every time he called my name,
I remembered:
> I am still seen.
I am still guided.
I am still becoming who I was meant to be.
— Strength in the Yard, Strength in the Home
Mr. Maboso arrived just after sunrise,
the way a leader shows up — before the day even begins.
He clapped his hands once and said,
> "Mbijana, today your body must remember who you are."
He placed a bucket half-full of water in front of me.
Not too heavy. Not too light.
Just enough to test my fight.
My right hand trembled as I grabbed the handle.
The first lift failed.
The second one too…
I looked away in frustration,
but his voice came firm — not angry, just certain:
> "Hey! Look at me.
You defeated death.
So what is a bucket of water to you?"
I breathed in…
lifted again…
and this time the bucket left the ground.
Not high.
But it moved.
He smiled like a proud father.
---
Later that same day,
my brothers were arguing in the house —
loud, careless, disrespectful loud.
They treated me like I was still broken…
like my words didn't matter
just because I was still healing.
Mr. Maboso stepped inside
and silence followed him like a shadow.
He looked straight at my brothers and said:
> "You are alive because he carried this family
when he could barely carry himself.
You will respect your brother —
because he is still standing."
They lowered their heads —
not out of fear, but out of truth hitting home.
And for the first time in a long time,
I felt something return inside me…
> "That day, it wasn't my muscles that grew stronger…
it was my place in the world."
— The Father I Didn't Know I Needed
Mr. Mabaso wasn't just respected —
he earned that respect,
because he made every child feel like they mattered.
To some, he was a mentor.
To others, he was protection.
To me…
he became the father life had taken away.
He saw what my own family refused to see:
• I was drowning under stress
• My recovery was on the edge
• Rumors were eating away my life
• My daughters needed their father strong
One afternoon, while my brothers mocked my advice
and slammed the door in my face,
he called out to me:
> "Mbijana… come here, my son."
We stood outside, by the gate where everything in my life once changed.
He looked me straight in the eyes and said:
> "Your problem isn't your head.
Your problem is the people who want to see you fail."
That's when he told me:
> "You need to know who your enemies are,
so you'll stop trusting them with your peace."
And for the first time,
someone was willing to help uncover the truth about:
-Who was poisoning Joyce against me
- Why my family turned against me
-Why every blessing in my life was followed by an attack
Mr. Mabaso wasn't guessing.
He knew something.
Something deep.
Something dangerous.
Something that would change everything.
He breathed in, tapped my shoulder, and said:
> "When you are ready…
I will tell you the truth."
---
(The Truth Behind the Attacks)
Mr. Mabaso didn't rush.
He studied me first — my eyes, my pain, my confusion.
Then he spoke calmly, but every word carried weight:
> "Some wounds don't come from knives or fists…
They come from hearts filled with jealousy."
He'd seen it before —
in homes, in families, even between brothers.
He told me:
> "Your healing… your strength…
it's threatening to those who expected you to stay broken."
I stood silent, because I knew he was right.
Every time my life moved forward:
• A rumor appeared
• A relationship collapsed
• A seizure struck me down
• Something good was twisted into a problem
He continued:
> "The devil works through people
who are closest to us —
because that's where trust lives."
It wasn't randomness.
It wasn't bad luck.
It was spiritual warfare wearing familiar faces.
Mr. Mabaso placed his hand on my shoulder:
> "But listen carefully, my son…
The one who wants you destroyed…
lives very close.
Jealous of your heart.
Jealous of your purpose.
Jealous of the love that follows you."
My breath froze.
Because deep inside…
I had always felt it.
Someone who smiled with me,
prayed with me,
even stayed in the same yard…
…was celebrating my pain.
But Mr. Mabaso didn't speak names — not yet.
He simply said:
> "A man who survives death has a calling.
And a calling always attracts enemies."
He guided me inside his house,
gave me water, and said:
> "You are not alone anymore.
We will fight this battle together."
And for the first time in a long time…
I believed him.
— The Weight on My Shoulders
While I was fighting battles at home,
trying to guide two boys who barely listened,
something slipped through my fingers…
Rebecca.
I didn't realize it at first.
She never complained.
She never shouted.
She just stayed strong —
while the distance between us widened, day by day.
I was busy putting my life back together:
helping at home, doing chores, trying to discipline my brothers,
protecting a house that felt like it could collapse any minute.
Stress came with every sunrise.
Seizures threatening to return at any wrong moment.
Rumors poisoning Joyce…
cutting me off from my daughter Angela.
I wanted to be a good father
to both my princesses —
but instead, I was losing myself again.
And without noticing…
I started calling Rebecca less.
Stopped telling her about my struggles.
Stopped laughing like we used to.
She could feel it…
even through the phone.
One night she said softly:
> "Don't forget where you found your peace."
Her voice cracked,
but she didn't want me to hear it.
She missed me.
She worried about me.
And still… she supported me.
I hung up that night staring at the ceiling,
heart split in half:
Do I save the place I was born into…
or the home God helped me build?
Mr. Mabaso's words echoed:
> "Not every battle is yours to fight."
But I was scared.
Scared if I left, my younger brothers would drown.
Scared if I stayed, I would drown.
And in the middle of all that pressure —
I lost sight of the woman
who stood with me
when I couldn't even stand by myself.
---
The nights became quieter. Rebecca's laughter, once the warm echo of our home, slowly faded into silence. I told myself it was only temporary—that once things got better, she would smile the way she used to. But deep down, I knew I was losing her piece by piece.
I was trying to be strong for us, yet somehow my strength was pushing her away.
One evening, she looked at me with eyes that carried both love and exhaustion.
"Where are you, really?" she asked.
I had no answer.
My mind was trapped between fear of losing everything and the promise of the life I wanted to build. I thought I was protecting her. Instead… I was building a wall she couldn't climb.