A Visit That Felt Like Destiny
Just when I was settling into the silence,
there was a knock at the door —
firm, familiar, and full of authority.
Sibongiseni went to check,
and all I heard was:
"Tebelo! Where is he? I want to see him."
My heart skipped.
Only one person spoke like that.
Manana.
The social worker.
My friend's mother.
A woman who raised half the street with her voice alone.
She stepped into my room
before I could even stand up straight.
Her eyes scanned me
like she could see everything I'd been through
in a single glance.
"You think you're grown now?"
she started — without greeting.
"Fainting in hospitals, stressing like an old man?
Haibo, Tebelo! Your age must shame you!"
I tried to smile,
but her presence brought a lump to my throat.
She still had the power
to make me feel like that teenage boy
trying to skip school
and getting caught every. single. time.
She sat down beside me
and softened her voice:
"You've survived what many would not.
God is not done with you.
But you must stop walking alone.
You hear me?"
Her words cracked something open in me —
a pain I'd been hiding deep inside.
I didn't even need to speak.
She knew everything
without asking a single question.
She sighed, shaking her head:
"Your mother may be strong,
your daughters may need you,
but you…
you need to rebuild yourself first.
Brick by brick."
Then she placed an envelope on my lap.
"Inside is a referral —
counseling and support.
Free.
You will go.
I didn't raise you halfway
for you to give up now."
I nodded,
not because I wanted to…
but because I knew fighting her was impossible.
She'd find me anywhere —
even in my dreams.
Before she left,
she squeezed my shoulder and said:
"The road back to yourself
starts today."
Watching her walk away
felt like watching a guardian angel
happy to take the long walk
just to make sure I was still breathing.
---
— With Manana's Guidance
> Manana didn't only speak to my heart — she challenged my body too.
She looked at the walking sticks beside my bed and said,
"These are helpers, not your legs. When you feel strong, leave them behind — but never push yourself to the point of falling."
Her voice was firm, but full of love. She reminded me that healing takes time — and courage.
The first steps I took without those sticks felt like a war against my own weakness. My legs shook, my balance was unsure, but Manana stood right there, telling me,
"One step at a time, my boy. Admit when you're tired — strength also means knowing when to rest."
Every step became a reminder:
I was still standing.
And as long as I could stand, I could still fight for the life I wanted.
---
— Clinic Encounters
> Manana worked at the small clinic — just two stop signs away from home.
Coincidentally, it's the same clinic where I was now going for my check-ups.
One afternoon, I bumped into her and her colleague outside.
And trust me — I wouldn't trade those two women for anything in this world.
The way their faces lit up the moment they saw me walking without the sticks…
Yo, that kind of joy could bring life back to a dying dinosaur.
They didn't see a weak patient.
They saw a man rising again.
And for the first time in a long time,
I saw him too.
---
Rebuilding & Responsibility
From that day, something shifted in me.
I wasn't just walking without the sticks anymore —
I was walking towards something.
I started planning my mornings:
wake up early, clean the yard, help around the house, stretch, practice walking longer distances.
Every step felt like I was taking back my life inch by inch.
But even as my legs grew stronger…
my heart still ached for my daughters.
So I chose not to wait for permission anymore.
I sent clothes for Angela.
Bought a small gift for Manessah — nothing big, but from a present father.
I told myself that fatherhood isn't about being perfect…
It's about showing up, even when the world says you can't.
Some days I'd stand at the gate with my phone in my hand,
hoping for a message…
for a chance…
for a yes.
I wasn't fully healed yet — not in my body, not in my spirit —
but I was fighting.
Not for people to like me.
Not for the past to change.
But for my future with my daughters.
Every day, I reminded myself:
> "I am not walking away again."
---
New Beginnings at the Clinic
When Manana said those words, I felt something inside me unlock.
She wasn't just reminding me that I had a matric…
She was reminding me that I still had a future.
I nodded, even though a small part of me feared the world outside our yard.
The next morning, I woke up early.
Washed.
Dressed neatly.
Looked at myself in the mirror…
And for the first time in a long time,
I saw a man who could rise again.
At the clinic, Manana welcomed me proudly —
like a teacher seeing a student take the first step toward greatness.
She introduced me to the rehabilitation programs:
computer skills, counseling, job readiness, disability support.
I sat in one of those plastic chairs with other people who were also rebuilding their lives —
different stories, same fight.
The instructor asked us to introduce ourselves.
My voice shook a bit, but I said my name clearly:
> "My name is Tebelo… and I am here to start over."
Everyone clapped gently
— that moment felt like a new page opening.
Manana stood at the door smiling,
her arms folded,
her eyes saying:
"I told you, you can."
---
A Familiar Face
The session left me feeling lighter — like the world wasn't as heavy on my shoulders anymore.
As I walked home, thinking about everything I had learned, I heard someone call my name.
I turned…
and there she was.
Ntswaki.
My ex — though truth is, we never officially ended things.
Life just pushed us in different directions.
She was standing outside the takeaway, waiting for her bunnychow, smiling that shy smile she always had when she saw me.
She lived in Mid-Ennerdale, just past the station — a bit far, but close enough to still worry about me.
Ntswaki had been there during some of my darkest days.
She held my hand when I was learning to walk again.
She prayed for me when others gave up.
But the day she found me with Rebecca…
the hurt in her eyes said everything.
She walked away without a word —
and I never chased after her.
Now here she was again.
No anger.
No tears.
Just gentle concern.
She stepped closer and asked softly:
> "How have you been, Tebelo? You look so much better."
It hit me hard —
someone noticing my progress.
Someone who once loved me deeply.
For a moment, time stood still…
just me and her, two hearts with unfinished business.
---
Ntswaki's order was ready, and she reached for the plastic packet.
There was a moment of silence between us — not awkward, just… respectful.
She looked at the walking stick hanging lightly from my hand.
> "You've really come far," she said.
"I'm proud of you."
I smiled — a real one this time.
> "Thank you for always checking up on me," I answered.
"Even when you didn't have to."
She shifted the packet to her other hand and nodded.
> "We grow… and we heal," she said.
"Take care of yourself, Tebelo."
And just like that —
she walked away into the afternoon sun.
No tension.
No drama.
Just peace.
I watched her go, silently wishing her the happiness she always deserved.
Then I turned and continued home —
reminding myself that life was slowly, finally moving forward.
---
Later that evening, I lay in bed with my eyes wide open.
I tried to sleep — really tried —
but Ntswaki's face kept replaying in my mind like an old memory refusing to fade.
Everything changed the moment I saw her again.
My mind drifted back to the first day we met…
I had just knocked off from work.
We'd been chatting on Facebook for weeks — laughing, flirting, sharing stories like we had known each other for years.
It was finally time to meet face-to-face.
She was beautiful in her photos — too beautiful, I thought.
I just hoped reality would match.
I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the next stop sign.
From there, I walked toward Mid-Ennerdale station, my heart racing, phone buzzing in my hand as we kept texting each other:
> "I'm here."
"I see the station."
"Tell me when you're close."
Every step felt like a countdown.
I turned the corner —
and there she was.
A smile that could calm any storm.
Eyes that made me forget the entire world for a second.
Right there, at that train station, a simple moment turned into something unforgettable.
---
I was waiting at the top of the bridge when I saw her coming up from the Mid-Ennerdale platform.
Each step she took was filled with confidence, like she knew exactly who she was.
Her smile… her complexion… her height… even the sound of her voice —
everything gave me butterflies I couldn't hide.
We stood there talking as if we were the only two people left in the world.
Every time she laughed, the whole world seemed to pause
just so I could hear that laugh again.
Then the weather shifted — dark clouds rolling in, the wind growing cold —
but I didn't care,
not when I was getting to know someone who felt like sunshine.
Eventually, we had to part ways.
I walked home with a heart full of joy and a smile I couldn't wipe off.
We chatted the whole night afterward —
like sleep didn't exist or wasn't important anymore.
Weeks passed.
Feelings grew deeper.
She promised she would visit — and she kept that promise.
Seeing her again made me realize something powerful:
even after everything I'd been through…
the injuries, the heartbreak, the disappointments —
a part of me still knew how to feel alive.
She reminded me I was still human.
Still capable of love.
Still deserving of happiness.
And maybe, just maybe —
life was giving me another chance.
---
We got to know each other better—slowly, carefully.
And through the way she looked at me, I could tell:
she was starting to trust me again… even if it was just little pieces at a time.
Recently, she came to visit.
We sat down and finally spoke about everything we once avoided.
I told her the truth — my mistakes, my regrets, my pain.
And she let her guard down too,
telling me how angry and broken she felt when she found out I was cheating.
It wasn't an easy conversation.
There were moments she went quiet,
moments her eyes looked like they wanted to cry —
and moments she was strong enough to laugh through the hurt.
But something powerful happened.
The more we talked,
the more we realized that what we once had
never fully died.
When it was time for her to leave,
I looked her in the eyes and said the words I'd been afraid to say:
"I never stopped loving you."
She held that silence for a second
—a silence that felt like years—
then breathed out slowly and said:
"I still care about you."
I felt heat rush through my body,
like my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest.
I didn't know whether to smile or cry.
I just stared into her eyes,
because she already knew what lived inside mine:
Love.
Real love.
The kind that survives even the darkest storms.
Before she walked away, she turned back and whispered:
"Baby steps."
And that was enough to give me hope again.