Mr Mabaso sat me down one afternoon.
The sun was low, the yard quiet — just birds and the sound of a gate closing somewhere far.
He could see the storm I was carrying inside.
He said calmly:
"Don't fight for Manessah.
Not with anger… not with arguments.
Fight with presence.
Support her with the little you have.
Even if it's just clothes for Christmas, a toy, or a packet of chips."
He leaned in, making sure I heard every word:
"One day she will grow up.
And she will remember who was there — even from a distance.
Love speaks for itself."
Those words hit me hard.
Because I wanted to do more than buy gifts —
I wanted to hold my daughter.
Play with her.
Watch her sleep.
Watch her grow.
But he reminded me that a father is not defined by how loud he fights…
but by how quietly he remains.
He taught me patience where I only knew pain.
So I listened.
I swallowed my pride.
And with whatever little came my way, I made sure Manessah felt it…
Even if she never saw my face when she smiled.
---
Understanding what he just said,
I remembered a saying I once heard:
"What you do with your right hand,
you must also do with your left."
So I told myself…
If I'm going to provide and show love for Manessah,
I must also do the same for Angela —
even if Joyce and her grandmother wanted nothing to do with me.
I wasn't in the picture.
I wasn't welcome.
No phone calls.
No "how are you doing?"
No visit allowed.
But still…
Whenever I had something for Manessah,
I made sure Angela had the same —
same shoes, same small treats, same love.
Because children shouldn't pay for the brokenness of adults.
I didn't want Angela to grow up saying
"I never had a father."
Even if I was loving her from a distance,
even if she didn't see my efforts…
I knew one day God would reveal the truth.
I was determined:
Both my daughters will know
their father never turned his back on them.
---
I had an appointment that day to see my doctor at the hospital.
I went alone.
11 December — a day that stays sharp in my memory.
The sun was unforgiving.
I kept shifting from one bench to another,
trying to catch even the smallest breeze.
It felt like the air conditioner had given up on all of us.
I kept telling myself:
"Let me just hold on…
I'll drink water later."
My eyelids felt heavy — too heavy.
I just needed a few seconds to rest them.
Darkness.
…
When my eyes opened again,
there was a drip pipe strapped to my hand.
Everything looked strange.
The ceiling light was too bright.
Voices echoed… almost distant.
The doctor leaned forward and asked:
"Do you know where you are?"
"What is your name?"
I blinked.
My mind was slow…
but the answers came back piece by piece.
Hospital.
My name is Tebelo.
He gave me a long look —
the kind a person gives when they see someone fighting a silent war.
He said I collapsed from dehydration, exhaustion,
and too much stress for my current condition.
He told me softly:
"Your body is still recovering…
you can't carry so much pain alone."
---
The doctor stood beside me, arms folded gently,
as if choosing the right words before speaking.
She explained that my body was still too fragile —
still healing from everything it had gone through.
"You are carrying too much stress," she said.
"Your nerves, your heart, your mind — they're overwhelmed.
I'm changing your medication.
And I'll keep you here for 24 hours,
just to make sure your body responds well."
I nodded…
but inside, I was tired of hospitals,
tired of needles,
tired of feeling like a patient in my own life.
Still, I knew I needed help.
For once — I had to surrender.
---
When she stepped away,
I reached for my phone with the drip still taped to my hand.
My contact list was nearly empty —
a reminder of how much I had lost
and how much distance life had created.
I didn't have many numbers memorized anymore…
only two:
Sibongiseni
and Rebecca.
Calling Rebecca didn't feel right at that moment —
not after everything.
So I took a deep breath
and dialed Sibongiseni.
He answered quickly.
His voice sounded surprised… then worried.
I told him I was in the hospital,
my words slow and shaky.
He didn't even ask too many questions…
he just said:
"I'm coming."
Those two words —
simple, but powerful.
In that moment,
I was reminded that family,
even with all the fights and misunderstandings,
sometimes shows up when it truly matters.
---
Hours passed slowly…
machines quietly beeping beside me,
the drip cold against my skin.
Then Sibongiseni appeared by the door,
a little out of breath —
like he ran part of the way.
He looked around, trying to hide the fear in his eyes,
but I saw it anyway.
He stood there for a second,
as if making sure I was still alive…
still his brother.
"You good?" he finally asked,
but his voice cracked a little.
I tried to smile.
"Tired… but I'm okay," I whispered.
He pulled a chair closer and sat quietly,
hands locked together,
fighting the guilt I knew too well.
Even with all that had happened between us —
right there, in that hospital room —
we weren't fighting,
we weren't shouting,
we weren't blaming.
We were just brothers.
He stayed for as long as he could
until the nurse politely asked visitors to leave.
Before walking out, he turned back and said:
"Rest, grootman. I'm here."
Those words covered me like a blanket
stronger than any the hospital could provide.
---
The Next Morning – Discharge Conversation
Sunlight crept through the curtains,
and the doctor returned with my file in her hand.
She looked relieved seeing me upright,
my voice stronger than yesterday.
"Good progress," she said softly.
"But this isn't just physical.
You need peace —
your body has survived…
now your mind needs to catch up."
I listened carefully.
She was right.
She handed me new medications
and explained each one slowly —
how it would help my nerves,
my muscles,
my recovery.
Then she looked me straight in the eyes
like a mother speaking to her child:
"Avoid stress.
Avoid conflict.
And don't try to fix everything at once.
Healing is not a race."
I nodded,
as if promising her
I'd try.
---
I left the hospital not fully healed…
but alive,
and with a plan to keep going —
one day at a time,
just like she said.
---
Quiet Moments After the Hospital
On the taxi ride home,
I sat by the window…
watching life move fast outside
while everything inside me moved slow.
For the first time in a long time,
I allowed myself to feel the truth:
I almost didn't make it.
I came close… too close.
Not just once —
but many times.
Everything I fought for
could have disappeared
while I was lying on that hospital bench
thirsty… tired… alone.
I closed my eyes,
and in that silence,
I whispered to myself:
"God kept me here for a reason."
Not many people get a second chance at life —
but I was still breathing.
And that meant something.
---
Mr Mabaso's Advice — A Father's Voice
By the time I reached home,
Mr Mabaso was already waiting outside,
hands behind his back
like he always stood when worried.
He didn't ask what happened.
He could see it in my face.
He just put his hand on my shoulder and said:
"You need to rest from people
before people cost you your life."
We sat on the stoep while he brewed his home remedy tea.
He stared straight ahead and spoke slowly:
"You love too hard, my boy.
You want to save everyone —
your brothers,
your daughters,
Rebecca,
your mother…
But you forget one thing:
you can't give life
while you're still learning to survive."
His words hit deeper than any hospital needle.
He continued:
"Your body is warning you.
Every episode is a message.
Listen before it screams again."
I swallowed hard —
because I knew he was right.
I kept trying to be strong for everyone else,
but I was breaking silently,
bit by bit.
Then he leaned closer:
"Heal first.
Protect your heart.
Choose peace —
even if it means choosing yourself."
And for the first time in a long time…
I believed I deserved that peace.
---
I didn't know where life would take me next —
but I knew this:
I wasn't done.
I was still here.
And that meant I still had purpose.