Wounded warrior

Onnie

The next morning, the air was cool and quiet.

I stood in the yard holding a small plastic jug,

watering the plants Rebecca had planted months ago —

flowers that somehow survived through all the chaos we’d been living in.

My leg dragged slightly as I moved,

but my body felt lighter than in previous days.

The peace from the evening before still hovered around me.

Then I heard it:

“Mbijana!”

The nickname shot through me like a spark.

Only one person called me that.

I turned immediately.

There she was —

Connie.

My friend’s mother.

A woman who had known me since I was a child,

one of those mothers from the community

who didn’t just watch you grow up —

she grew with you.

A woman of prayer.

A woman of presence.

She walked toward me with a warm smile,

her church scarf tied neatly around her head,

her hands clasped behind her back.

“Ah, my boy,” she said, opening her arms,

“come here.”

I stepped forward,

and she hugged me gently but firmly,

as if trying to hold together all the pieces of me

that life had tried to shatter.

When she pulled back, she studied my face

the way only mothers can.

“You look better than the last time I heard about you,” she said.

“God is working.”

I nodded quietly.

“Amen, Mama.”

She turned her eyes toward the house,

toward Rebecca inside.

“You’re in good hands here,” she said softly.

“I see it.

I feel it.”

Before I could respond,

the gate opened again —

and Rebecca’s mother, Lungelwa, stepped out

with a small dish towel over her shoulder.

“Oh, Mama Connie!” she said with surprise.

The two women embraced warmly,

laughing like old friends,

their voices carrying into the street.

And then the conversation shifted…

into something deeper…

something I didn’t expect.

“Mama Lungelwa,” Connie said,

“this boy… he’s been through fire.

And you took him in.

You protected him.

God will bless your house.”

Rebecca’s mother shook her head humbly.

“He needed love,” she replied.

“And Rebecca… she never left his side.”

I felt something tighten in my throat.

They weren’t speaking to me,

but every word landed in my chest.

Then Connie turned to Rebecca’s mother and said:

“You did what many wouldn’t do.

When the world pointed fingers at your daughter,

you still opened your door for him.

Not everyone can do that.”

Lungelwa exhaled slowly,

her voice soft but strong.

“I know my daughter’s heart,” she said.

“And I saw how she cried for him.

How she prayed for him.

How she fought for him when his own family pushed her away.”

My eyes stung.

Rebecca stepped out quietly,

her hand on her belly,

listening.

Connie turned to her and smiled warmly.

“My child,” she said,

“don’t let people’s words break you.

You did what was right.

God sees you.”

Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears.

Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder

and said to Connie:

“He loves her…

and she loves him.

That’s all that matters now.”

Connie nodded firmly.

“That love is why he’s healing.

I can see it.”

She looked at me then —

straight into my eyes.

“You must continue to fight, Mbijana.

Not just for yourself…

but for this home.

This woman.

This baby.

They are your blessing.”

I swallowed hard,

barely able to speak.

“Thank you, Mama,” I finally whispered.

She touched my cheek gently the way she did when I was a young boy.

“God didn’t save you for nothing,” she said.

“You’re here for a purpose.”

As Connie walked back toward her yard,

Rebecca stepped close and held onto my arm.

Her mother stood beside us, silent but proud.

In that moment,

I felt something shift between us —

something powerful and unspoken:

I wasn’t just recovering in their home.

I was becoming part of it.

The judgment from the community didn’t matter.

The rumors didn’t matter.

My weakened body didn’t matter.

Here — in this yard, in this family —

I was finally seen.

Finally accepted.

Finally safe.

For the first time,

I realized I wasn’t just Rebecca’s partner.

I was part of their family now.

And they were part of my healing.

Months passed, and Rebecca was due any time. The air at home felt thick with anticipation — excitement mixed with fear, hope mixed with the cold reality that life didn’t stop throwing punches just because we were expecting a child.

That afternoon, the gate banged so hard it rattled the frame. Before I could move, someone stumbled inside, a half-beer dangling from his hand like an extension of his chaos. You could smell the days of drinking from just looking at him. His eyes were red, unfocused, but he recognised me instantly.

He paused, swayed a little, and pointed at me with the bottle.

“Things are falling apart at your place…” he mumbled, his voice rough and careless — the kind of tone people use when they bring bad news but don’t care how it lands. Then, without waiting for my reaction, he pushed through the back gate and disappeared.

For a moment, I just stood there, frozen. His words echoed louder than the gate slam. Falling apart at my place? What did he mean? Was it another family fight? Another rumour? Another storm waiting for me?

I felt my stomach tighten. My recovery was still fragile, and emotionally I was walking on a thin wire. One wrong word could send me spiraling again. And now this stranger — this drunk — managed to shake me more than he should have.

I closed the door slowly, trying to steady my breath. The house was quiet, Rebecca resting in the bedroom, her belly heavy with our daughter. I didn’t want to bring fear into that space. Not now. Not when she needed peace more than anything.

But inside me, something cracked… the fear that once again, life outside these walls was ready to pull me back into chaos.

Another test. Another emotional blow.

And yet, deep down, a small voice reminded me:

You’ve survived worse. You’ll get through this too.

I walked toward the bedroom, determined not to let the storm reach Rebecca — but already knowing that before the night ended, I’d have to face whatever was “falling apart” on the other side of that drunk man's words.