Morning came quietly,
the kind of morning that feels heavier than the night before.
I hadn't even washed my face when I heard a knock on the door —
soft, but familiar.
It was Mr. Mabaso.
He stepped inside, eyes calm but filled with concern.
"I heard what Rebecca did last night," he said,
pulling a chair closer to where I sat.
"How are you holding up, my son?"
I tried to smile,
but the words stuck somewhere deep in my throat.
He could see the pain written all over my face.
Silence filled the room for a while —
the kind of silence that says more than words ever could.
Finally, I said quietly,
"Mr. Mabaso… I don't even know how to feel anymore.
I've forgiven too much,
and maybe that's why people think I'm weak."
He shook his head slowly.
"No, Tebelo," he said firmly,
"forgiveness isn't weakness.
It's strength most people can't carry.
But don't let your heart bleed for those who enjoy watching you hurt."
Those words hit me deep —
like medicine I didn't know I needed.
He made me breakfast before he left,
just like a father would for his son,
and said,
"Pick yourself up again.
Don't let one person's storm drown your peace."
---
(Continued) — The Healing Arc
I sat alone for a long time after Mr. Mabaso left.
His words looped inside my mind like whispers of hope I hadn't heard in forever.
I realized that healing isn't about returning to who you were.
It's about becoming who you are meant to be.
So I started small.
• I walked past the gate every morning, even if the house still felt heavy.
• I looked at myself in the mirror and promised to work on more than my body — my heart too.
• I made one call to Angela's grandma — nothing big, just a hello — because being present still counts.
• I sent Manessah a small gift, again, through Joshua — consistent presence.
Days turned into weeks.
I celebrated the little wins:
• Walked a bit further without the walker.
• Ate without thinking of the pain.
• Laughed — real laugh — not because I forced it, but because I remembered I could.
• Prayed in my weakest moments and felt God respond with a strange kind of quiet peace.
Then I finally admitted something to myself:
I'm not broken. I'm recovering.
And that made all the difference.
When Rebecca shouted at the gate again, I didn't lose sleep.
When rumours spread, I didn't take them in.
When the pain tried to drag me back… I used it to push me forward.
Because healing isn't about forgetting the scars —
it's about letting them remind you of how far you've come.
And I quietly began to walk again —
towards purpose, towards my children, towards the man I was becoming.
---
— Blood Still Remembers
It was late in the afternoon when my phone buzzed.
A WhatsApp voice note.
I pressed play, and that familiar voice echoed through the speaker —
"Hee my boy, how are you doing? Long time. Listen… your great-grandmother from Lesotho wants to meet you."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
Those words hit deeper than I expected.
It had been years since anyone from that side reached out.
And the last time I was there… things didn't end well.
The arguments, the silence, the cold stares — I still remembered.
I called Ta Rich instantly.
"Ntate," I said, trying to keep my voice steady,
"I'd love to meet her too. But you know what happened the last time I was there."
He paused for a moment, then sighed softly.
"I know, my boy. But she's getting old now. She wants peace — to see all her blood before it's too late."
His words stayed in my heart.
I didn't respond right away, just stared at the floor,
feeling a storm of memories rise inside me —
of home, of being misunderstood, of being left out,
and of how long I'd been searching for belonging.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay there staring at the ceiling,
thinking of the woman who carried part of my bloodline —
a woman I barely knew, yet somehow missed.
And I asked myself quietly,
"Maybe this is part of healing too…
not just forgiving myself,
but making peace with where I come from."
---
— The Visit That Spoke in Silence
I didn't stay long.
Something in me just couldn't.
My great-grandmother came to visit at Sebokeng,
and everyone tried to act like things were okay —
like all those years of silence and misunderstanding had disappeared overnight.
She smiled warmly when she saw me,
her hands shaking slightly as she reached for mine.
And for that moment, I felt the softness of family again —
that old warmth that used to mean safety.
But behind the smiles, I could still feel it…
the quiet tension in the air,
the way my aunties avoided certain looks,
the small things they said between laughs that told a different story.
They were faking peace —
pretending we were fine.
And maybe they believed that if they smiled long enough,
the truth would just vanish into the tea cups and conversation.
I played along.
I greeted politely, answered their questions,
and helped move a few chairs outside like nothing ever happened.
But inside, my heart was tired.
I didn't have the strength to pretend anymore.
So I left early, before sunset.
I told myself, "It's okay… I came, I showed up, I did my part."
Because sometimes, showing up is all you can do —
even when the love feels one-sided,
even when the peace is just an act.
On my way home, the air felt lighter.
Not because things were fixed,
but because I finally accepted that I didn't need anyone's approval
to move forward with my life.
I had made peace — not with them,
but with myself.
---
— Forgiveness Doesn't Need Witnesses
That night, after leaving Sebokeng,
I sat outside my place under the quiet sky.
No noise, no music — just silence.
And in that silence, I felt everything I'd been holding back:
the anger, the betrayal, the pain of being misunderstood.
I thought about all the people who hurt me,
and all the times I blamed myself for things that weren't even my fault.
For years, I kept hoping they would apologize —
that one day they'd see the truth and make things right.
But that day never came.
And for the first time, I realized… maybe it doesn't have to.
Forgiveness isn't about who says sorry first.
It's about who chooses peace when there's no apology coming.
I whispered their names in my heart —
each one who turned their back on me,
each one who used my weakness against me,
each one who made me feel small.
And instead of cursing them,
I just said softly,
"I forgive you."
Not because they deserved it,
but because I deserved peace.
Tears rolled down, not from sadness —
but from release.
Like my body had been carrying a heavy stone for years
and finally decided to let it drop.
I forgave Rebecca,
for the shouting, the pain, the shame.
I forgave my brothers,
for the disrespect and pride.
I even forgave myself —
for the mistakes, for the weakness, for not knowing better.
That night, I learned something powerful:
Forgiveness doesn't need witnesses.
It just needs honesty.
And from that day,
I stopped trying to prove myself to people.
I stopped explaining my story to those who twisted it.
I stopped waiting for love from places that only gave me pain.
I had found peace —
and this time, it lived inside me.