— God Knows I'm Only Human
God knows I'm only human.
Even when I laugh, smile, and talk like nothing hurts,
deep down I feel my heart breaking — piece by piece.
My spirit was crashing day by day.
It's a strange kind of pain, the kind that doesn't scream anymore —
it just sits there, quiet but heavy.
I could see it in people's eyes…
the way they looked at me, as if I was some kind of joke.
Even the little ones started to notice.
My right hand began to stiffen whenever I leaned on my left leg,
as if both were tied together by pain.
Every movement reminded me that my body was still healing —
but my soul was trying even harder.
And then Rebecca…
she'd come to my place, drunk or angry,
and turn peace into chaos all over again.
Her words cut deep,
but what hurt most was how easily she did it —
how quick she was to forget the nights she once sat by my bed,
watching if I was still breathing.
It's funny how people change when they no longer need to love you.
They start treating your weakness as something they can use against you.
But still…
I never stopped praying.
I told myself, "If God brought me through everything else,
then this too shall pass."
Some nights I'd cry myself to sleep,
but I'd wake up and still thank God for another sunrise.
Because even through the pain, I was still standing.
Not strong — but standing.
And that, to me, was already a victory.
---
— A Ceremony Across the Street
I remembered one day.
Motlatse, my new neighbor — a humble man who lived just across the street —
had invited everyone to his ceremony.
He told me about it a week before,
since our yards faced each other, and I gave him my word I'd come.
It was on a Saturday morning.
The kind of day that starts with the smell of wood smoke and people's laughter drifting through the air.
When I got there, I found a seat at random,
placed my walker beside me,
and just watched people move — cooking, laughing, talking like family.
For a while, I forgot my pain.
As the ceremony was wrapping up,
I saw Nthabiseng — Nhlanhla's younger sister —
holding Manessah on her hip.
I called her softly, and when she brought my daughter to me,
it felt like time stopped.
Manessah sat on my lap, her tiny hands resting against my chest.
I couldn't help but smile —
a real smile this time.
For a moment, the world didn't feel so heavy anymore.
Next to me sat a man I didn't recognize.
He kept glancing at my walking stick, then finally asked,
"What happened, brother?"
I told him everything —
not all at once, but enough for him to understand the road I'd walked.
He nodded slowly and said,
"Sorry to hear that, my man… but you're still standing. That's what matters."
His words hit deep —
simple, but true.
Because sitting there, holding my daughter,
I realized he was right.
After everything — the pain, the loss, the anger —
I was still standing.
And in that moment,
I silently thanked God for giving me enough strength
to still be a father,
to still love,
to still be here.
---
— Familiar Faces
Manessah never wanted to let go of me that day.
Especially in crowded places — just like any child —
she only trusted familiar faces.
But something about that day stood out.
I noticed how she didn't mind the man sitting next to me,
the same one who had asked what happened to me.
She even laughed when he made funny sounds,
and for a second, it felt like we were all just people,
not broken pieces trying to fit back into life.
At that time, I had already left Rebecca's home
and was staying back at my place.
I didn't think much about the guy — never even asked his name.
A few weekends after the ceremony,
Rebecca showed up at my place.
I could tell she was angry,
but beneath the anger was something else — fear.
"There's a man who keeps coming to my house," she said,
"pretending to help, but I can see he's taking advantage of our kindness."
Since I once lived there, I knew her home well —
and I also knew she didn't have an older brother to defend her.
Despite everything she had done to me,
I found myself calming her down.
"Don't worry," I said softly. "We'll figure it out."
The next day after school,
Nhlanhla came by to see me,
still wearing his uniform and dusty shoes.
I asked him gently,
"Tell me, my boy… is there a man who comes to your house often? Someone who makes you or your mother uncomfortable?"
He looked down for a moment,
then nodded slowly.
"Yeah… sometimes he comes around when Mama's alone."
My heart tightened.
I didn't need to know more to understand the danger.
It wasn't about me and Rebecca anymore —
it was about keeping my daughter safe.
And in that moment,
I realized something:
no matter how much pain I had carried,
love was still stronger.
Because when it came to my children —
and the people connected to them —
I'd always show up,
even if it meant facing old wounds again.
---
— The Warning
I told Nhlanhla, "Next time that man shows up, tell him to stay away. Tell him to beg off and never come near again."
He nodded quietly, and I thought that would be the end of it.
Three days later, just before sunset, I heard a soft knock at my gate.
It was Nhlanhla again — his face said more than his words could.
"Grootman," he said, hesitating. "That guy… he told me to tell you something."
I stood up slowly, already feeling my heart tighten.
"What did he say?" I asked.
He looked down, afraid to even repeat it.
"He said… you must mind your own business.
And he asked… what are you going to do with one hand?"
For a moment, everything froze.
The words hit harder than any punch I'd ever taken.
My eyes widened —
not just from anger, but from recognition.
Right there, I knew.
The man wasn't a stranger.
He knew me.
Maybe he'd seen me before the accident,
before I became who I am now.
I looked at Nhlanhla and placed my hand on his shoulder.
"Don't ever talk to him again," I said calmly.
"If he comes around, you stay inside — lock the door."
As he walked back home,
I sat in silence, staring at the fading sunlight through the fence.
The pain in my chest wasn't from fear.
It was from disappointment —
that even after everything, people still saw my scars before they saw my strength.
But I told myself something right then:
You don't need two hands to protect what's yours.
You just need courage.
---
— When the Fire Returns
I'm a man with many sides —
and truth be told, I don't play well with grown men who act like they own the streets.
Those types who think fear is the same thing as respect.
I've met enough of them to know they feed on silence.
So when I heard that man was threatening Rebecca — and worse, my daughter —
something inside me woke up that I thought had died.
That protective fire.
That voice that says not this time.
I told my friend Kwanele what happened.
He's one of those people who doesn't flinch when danger shows its teeth.
Street smart, bold, and never backing down.
"There's a guy threatening Rebecca, my daughter," I said,
trying to keep my voice steady even though my blood was boiling.
Kwanele nodded slowly, already planning his next move.
"Macala," he said — that's what the crew called me back in the day.
"I'll look for him tomorrow after work. Don't stress yourself."
Just like that — calm but serious.
That's Kwanele for you.
I knew his words weren't just talk.
When he says he'll handle something, he means it.
But that night, as I lay on my bed,
I kept thinking about Mr. Mabaso's voice echoing in my head:
> "You've come far, Tebelo. Don't lose yourself trying to prove something to men who don't know peace."
And he was right.
Because part of me wanted to fight —
but the other part just wanted peace.