I returned home…
but nothing felt like home anymore.
Sibongiseni and Onnie had gotten too comfortable living without rules.
The house wasn't just messy — it was chaos.
Doors banging.
Music loud.
Friends coming in and out like it was a community hall.
When I walked inside,
no one paused…
no one said "We're glad you're back."
Not even a simple look that showed they cared.
It felt like I had died on the day of the incident,
and only now my ghost returned.
I tried to speak to them —
to bring order, to show guidance —
but every word I said bounced off the walls.
They looked at me like I was the problem.
The weight of being the oldest…
the protector…
the one who must stay strong even when he's breaking…
It pressed harder than ever before.
But still — I stayed.
Because that's what a big brother does:
he stays, even when it hurts.
---
Mr. Mabaso
Mr. Mabaso already knew I was back home. I avoided him at first, still hearing his warning in my head: "Don't get too comfortable with your father's family. People change." I didn't want to show him he was right.
But a true father doesn't wait to be called.
One morning, he arrived unexpectedly. He handed Sibongiseni some money and said, "Go buy these children breakfast." Then he looked me straight in the eyes and reminded me, "There's no place like home."
He understood my situation better than anyone. He knew the cracks in my household like he knew the back of his own hand. Yet he didn't make me feel judged—he lifted me. His presence restored my confidence and gave me back the respect I had lost in front of my brothers. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I belonged again.
---
But healing isn't a straight road. Even with Mr. Mabaso putting things back together, there were days I still felt like a visitor in my own home. Silence had become a language we all understood too well. Everyone walked around their own versions of pain, pretending the pieces still fit.
I tried to blend in—help where I could, laugh when expected—but I was different now. Trauma changes the shape of a person. I felt older than my age, like life had already pushed me into a corner and told me to survive.
Some nights, I would lie awake listening to the house sleep. That was the only time I felt safe enough to think. The memories would sneak in…the screams, the chaos, the panic. I'd hold my breath until the fear passed and remind myself, You're home. You're safe. Even when part of me didn't believe it.
But morning always came, and with it, hope.
Sibongiseni started including me again—small things like handing me the remote, asking if I wanted to join him outside, waiting for me before we ate. Those tiny actions felt like stitched threads, pulling me back into the family cloth.
And Mr. Mabaso? He didn't stop. He checked up on me, sometimes with words, sometimes just a firm hand on my shoulder that said everything I needed to hear: I see you. You matter.
Little by little, I started walking with a straight back again.
I wasn't healed.
But I was returning.
---
A New conflict rises
He shoved the door so hard it shook the whole room. I barely had time to put my feet on the floor before he stormed in behind Onnie, his face twisted with anger. The kind of anger that doesn't listen. The kind that burns first and thinks later.
"I didn't take anything," Joshua kept saying, voice trembling.
Onnie hid behind me, tears already rolling.
I raised my hands, trying to calm the storm.
"Sibongiseni, wait — let's talk first. Let's check properly—"
But he wasn't hearing me. I could see it in his eyes — whatever respect he had for me earlier had vanished under rage and suspicion.
Before I could finish a sentence, the slaps came fast. Loud. Hard. Horrifying.
The sound of skin against skin echoed in that small room like violence had found a microphone.
"Stop!" I pushed him back — but as I did, I realized something painful:
I no longer had the authority of an older brother.
Not in that moment.
His breathing was heavy. Mine was stuck in my throat.
I placed myself between them, locking eyes with him, begging silently — Please, listen.
But he brushed past me like I was a ghost in my own home.
I shouted for him to stop…but my voice felt useless.
Everything slowed down — their cries, his rage, my helplessness.
That day wasn't just about misplaced money.
It was a reminder:
Home is not always a safe place.
Family can hurt you deeper than strangers.
And love doesn't always protect you in time.
When it was finally over, Onnie and Joshua curled close to me, shaking. I wrapped my arms around them, whispering that it was okay… even though nothing felt okay inside me.
I stared at the wall, feeling that familiar darkness returning —
the same one I thought I left behind.
The punches weren't on my skin…
…but they landed right in my heart.
---
I spent more days at Mr. Mabaso's place — sometimes just sitting quietly in his yard, watching him clean tools or water the garden. There was peace there, a kind of silence that didn't judge me or expect me to pretend I was okay.
He noticed my frustration even when I tried to hide it.
"You're angry," he told me once, handing me a chair.
"But anger is a knife — hold it wrong, and you bleed first."
I took his lessons to heart.
He reminded me that being the eldest doesn't only mean protecting others — it means protecting your own future too.
"Let boys be boys," he said.
"If you fight fire with fire, you become the flame."
So I learned to walk away.
To breathe.
To choose quiet over chaos.
But that came with a price…
At home, the distance grew.
Onnie acted like Sibongiseni's shadow — kind only when he was kind. Cruel when he was cruel.
And every time they argued among themselves, suddenly they needed me again.
That kind of love confused me.
Still… I kept my head down.
Minded my business.
Focused on healing.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and turned the dust golden, Mr. Mabaso looked at me with a half-smile.
"You're not the same guy you used to be," he said.
"At first, you were surviving. Now? You're learning to live."
His words stuck to me like a warm blanket on a cold day.
For the first time in a long time…
…I believed him.
---
I finally gathered the courage to confront Rebecca.
It wasn't anger this time.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was a father fighting to not be erased.
I told her, "Please… allow me to be a father to Manessah. Even if we're no longer together."
Rebecca paused — eyes soft, but walls high.
She nodded slowly, almost respectfully, yet something in that moment felt distant…
Like I was being granted permission to love my own child.
That cut deep.
I wasn't asking for charity — I was asking for my place.
But I held my calm.
I remembered what Mr. Mabaso taught me…
Choose your battles. Choose your peace.
---
My emotional growth and future goals
Some nights, I lay awake thinking:
Where did I lose myself?
When did I start doubting my worth as a father?
As a brother?
As a son?
Healing is a quiet war — fought in silence, without applause.
I reminded myself:
I survived what was meant to crush me.
I'm still standing.
And every step forward — no matter how small — is progress.
I made a promise to myself:
• I will be present in my daughter's life
• I will not let anger define me
• I will rebuild — even if brick by brick
Because a father doesn't disappear.
A father fights — not with fists, but with love that never gives up.
---
Rebecca tried to hide her new love life — or whatever that situation was.
But I wasn't blind. I wasn't stupid.
I could hear the hesitation in her voice.
The rushed replies.
The sudden excuses.
The silence whenever I mentioned seeing my daughter.
And the crazy part?
I wasn't even bothered that she was seeing someone else.
Love ends — that happens.
What shouldn't end is a father's right to his child.
But Rebecca changed the rules without warning.
She refused that I see Manessah.
Just like that…
My daughter — a piece of my own soul — became a privilege instead of a bond.
I didn't scream.
I didn't beg.
I just stood there, with a dry throat and a heavy chest, thinking:
"What did I do so wrong to deserve this distance?"
She didn't answer my question — not with words.
Her actions said it all.
Every missed call…
Every excuse…
Every locked door…
Every "she's asleep" or "she's not here"…
It was like losing a child without a funeral.
And the worst pain?
Manessah didn't choose this.
A baby can't plead for her father.
So I carried that silence with me — like a weight only a parent can understand.