Bad news travels faster than hope.
I heard whispers before I heard her voice. Rebecca was breaking — and the world around her was cheering it on. Bit by bit, she slipped into the arms of people who didn't care whether she healed or shattered… as long as she kept the bottle lifted.
I tried to reach out, to pull her back…
But I was too late.
One night, she showed up — stumbling, the strong scent of alcohol hitting me before she even spoke. Her eyes were red, not from the drink alone, but from the kind of pain that drowns you long before the liquid does.
Her voice cracked as she pointed at the very pieces of my heart:
"Where were you when I needed you?"
I froze.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, racing each other to the ground.
"Do you ever think of me? Of Manessah? Of what we had to go through?"
Those words hit harder than any injury I'd survived. Because I did think of them — every single day — but thinking meant nothing when she had suffered without me by her side.
I wanted to hold her steady… but she pushed my hands away.
And in that moment, I realized something cruel:
While I was fighting to protect home…
she was fighting to feel like she still had one.
---
Rebecca's situation didn't slow down — it worsened.
The girl I once knew… the woman who stood with me through my darkest days… was disappearing behind empty bottles and broken nights. The sparkle in her eyes — gone. Her laughter — replaced by a trembling smile that failed to hide the storm inside her.
She became a visitor in her own life.
Manessah saw it all.
A little girl shouldn't have to understand heartbreak, but she did. She'd sit quietly in a corner while Rebecca fell apart in the room next door. Sometimes she'd hide under a blanket, covering her ears to escape the shouting and the crying.
I wanted to step in.
To save them both.
But every time I tried, Rebecca pushed me out — blaming me for the cold, the hunger, the loneliness she endured when I wasn't there.
Each night, I walked home heavier than the last.
That's when Mr. Mabaso noticed.
He didn't ask many questions. He didn't need to. A single look into my eyes and he knew there was a war going on inside me.
One evening he placed a firm hand on my shoulder and said:
> "My boy, a wounded heart still tries to protect others.
But you cannot pour from an empty cup.
Heal yourself to heal them."
He sat me down, made me drink something warm, and told me stories about the fight of life — how we lose people not because we don't love them, but because pain can blind us to the hands reaching out.
Every lesson he taught, every bit of wisdom he gave…
kept me from collapsing when everything felt too heavy.
He reminded me that I wasn't alone — even when it felt like I'd been forgotten.
---
One afternoon, the sun was still out — but her night had already begun.
I saw Rebecca's upper body first as she staggered through the gate, gripping the wall like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her face was flushed, hair tangled, eyes red like she hadn't slept in days. The sight of her cut me deeper than any insult ever could.
Before I could open my mouth, she started:
> "Ohhh, so now you think you're better than me?
Look at you — pretending to be a father, pretending to be a man!"
Her voice cracked, but the anger didn't.
Neighbors pretended not to watch, but I could feel their eyes burning into my back. She pointed at me like I was a stranger who ruined her life.
> "You left us! You left me!
Where were you when everything fell apart?!"
I stood frozen.
Not because I didn't want to answer — but because I knew nothing I said would reach her through the alcohol and the pain.
Every insult hit like a punch to the chest.
I kept telling myself:
Let her talk.
Let her pour it out.
She's hurting because she loved you.
But as her words grew heavier, something inside me began to crumble. The guilt… the shame… the helplessness…
it all pressed on my chest until breathing felt like a job I could barely manage.
I blamed myself for everything — my seizures, the distance, her heartbreak, Manessah's confusion. I blamed myself so much that I forgot I was fighting just to stay alive.
Still… I stood there.
Silently taking blow after blow…
Because a part of me believed I deserved it.
---
Her words were already sharp… but then she delivered the one that tore straight into my soul:
> "Why didn't you just die that day?"
Everything stopped.
The wind.
The noise of kids playing outside.
Even my heartbeat felt like it skipped — then came back punching my chest from the inside.
I stared at her, praying I heard wrong.
Praying she didn't mean it.
Praying she would take it back.
But she just stood there… angry, broken, hurting — and too drunk to hide it.
Inside me, something collapsed.
I didn't cry out loud — no tears running down my cheeks. But something deep inside me shattered into pieces too heavy to ever lift again. My chest tightened like the world no longer had space for my next breath. It felt like she saw my worst fear and threw it back at me...
Maybe I should've died that day… maybe life would've been easier for everyone.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to tell her how many nights I prayed just to stay alive… how hard I fought every seizure… how every step felt like a war.
But nothing came out.
I swallowed the pain, even though it was choking me.
Rebecca's friend, Hlengiwe, tried to hold her back but she slipped from her grip — still shouting, still bleeding from a wound nobody could see.
I finally managed to speak, voice trembling but controlled:
> "Hlengiwe… please take her home."
Not because I was angry… but because if I stayed one more second, I was going to fall apart in front of the entire street.
As they walked away, Rebecca turned one last time — eyes full of pain masked by rage. But I could tell…
She didn't want to say those words.
Grief said them for her.
The gate closed behind them.
I stood there alone, trembling…
holding back a storm no one else could see.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Because silence is loud… especially when it echoes the words:
"Why didn't you just die?"
---
That night, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, her words replayed like a nightmare I couldn't escape:
"Why didn't you just die?"
But then—Mr Mabaso's voice echoed through the darkness:
> "Some battles are not for you to fight."
> "Don't use your anger for revenge…
Use it to get back up."
Those words became a shield around my heart.
I realized the real battle wasn't against Rebecca…
or Joyce…
or even my own body.
The battle was inside me.
I had survived what was meant to destroy me.
That wasn't a mistake.
That was purpose.
I sat up, wiped my face with both hands, and told myself:
"I wasn't kept alive to collapse over someone's pain."
I decided from that moment:
- I would not let my disability define me
- I would not let heartbreak bury me
- I would not lose myself trying to fix others
- I would fight for peace — and protect it at all costs
For the first time in a long time…
I felt God wasn't far away.
He had been carrying me through every step, even when I couldn't walk.
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring…
but I knew this:
I'm still here — and that means God is not done with me yet.