Wounded warrior

Far From Over

I honestly thought we were okay.

The apology, the talk, the softness in his eyes—it felt like we were finally turning a corner.

But peace in that house never lasted long.

Later that afternoon, I saw Onnie through the window, pulling the neighbor’s garbage bin down the street. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Kids help neighbors all the time. Maybe he was trying to be useful.

But then—minutes later—he sprinted back inside the yard, clutching a loaf of bread like he had stolen it.

Head down. Shoulders tight. Moving fast.

He didn’t greet.

Didn’t look my way.

Didn’t even pretend to explain.

He just rushed straight to his room and shut the door.

Something in my stomach dropped.

After everything we spoke about… why was he still hiding? Why was he suddenly getting bread from outside when we had food in the house?

I stood by the kitchen doorway, watching his shadow disappear behind his curtains.

“Not again,” I whispered to myself.

It was small things like this that told me we weren’t healed yet.

Something was still pulling him away from us.

Something he didn’t want to say.

And every time he shut that door, it felt like he was building another wall I had to break through.

I had been home for about a week, barely stepping outside the yard.

Not because I was weak.

Not because I was afraid.

But because I needed to keep a close eye on Onnie —

the one child who could turn peace into chaos without warning.

Early one morning, just as I opened my eyes,

I heard soft sobbing from my mother’s bedroom.

A sound so low… yet so heavy.

I walked to her door and knocked gently.

“Should I come in?” I asked, my voice low.

The door was slightly open already.

“Are you okay?” I asked, stepping inside.

She turned her back to me, facing the wall beside her bed.

“I’m fine… go back to sleep,” she whispered.

But everything in her tone said I’m not fine.

“You can always talk to—”

And before I could finish that sentence…

I smelled something.

Burning.

A sharp, smoky smell that didn’t belong in a calm morning.

“Can you smell that?” I asked, widening her curtains.

Her eyes met mine — fear, confusion, something unspoken.

I didn’t wait.

From her window I saw it:

a black pot sitting on the small fireplace we only use when the electricity is off.

Right outside Onnie’s room.

I rushed out.

As I approached, I heard it —

a violent banging sound from inside his room,

as if someone was pulling hard on the padlock from the inside.

I froze for half a second.

Then instinct took over.

“ONNIE!”

I shouted his name once.

No answer.

“ONNIE!”

Second time.

Silence.

I stepped closer, my hand on his door.

“ONNIE! OPEN THIS DOOR!”

Still nothing.

Only that banging sound…

and the smell of something burning stronger than before.

A mix of fear, anger, and helplessness shot through my body.

Whatever was happening in that room —

it wasn’t normal.

It wasn’t safe.

And it wasn’t something I could ignore anymore.

He still didn’t answer.

Silence.

Long, heavy silence.

Almost 15 minutes of nothing but the crackling fire beside his door.

I walked back to the pot on the fireplace.

The pap inside was burnt black, untouched… forgotten.

That’s when the truth hit me hard:

This wasn’t a child’s mistake.

Someone older was leading him astray.

Someone teaching him things he had no business knowing.

I grabbed the bucket of water and splashed it over the fire.

The flames hissed and died.

Smoke curled up into the morning air.

Before I could call Onnie’s name again,

I heard my mother’s voice behind me.

“Tebelo! Come inside.”

Her voice wasn’t angry.

It was broken.

I followed her into the house.

She wiped her tears quickly,

as if she didn’t want me to see them.

But I did.

“You never asked,” she said softly,

“why I left your brothers alone.”

I sat down.

For the first time,

I felt the weight of everything she carried.

“I never thought I should ask,” I said.

“And I’m not angry anymore.”

Her lips trembled as she spoke.

“It was because of your little brother… Onnie.”

She looked away, shame covering her face.

“He humiliated me in front of the neighbours.

Shouted at me.

Swore at me.

Sometimes… he pushed me.”

I felt my chest tighten.

“Only Mr Mabaso could control him,” she continued.

“And when he went to work,

the struggle started all over again.”

Her tears fell again,

sliding down her cheeks like something she had held in for too long.

Seeing her like that —

frail, honest, hurting —

broke something deep inside me.

I walked closer.

“Don’t cry,” I whispered.

“I’m here now.”

For the first time, my mother leaned on me

not just as her son —

but as her protector.

When her breathing steadied,

I went outside to call Onnie again.

Still no answer.

His silence now felt deliberate.

Dangerous.

Like running from consequences someone else was whispering into his ear.

I turned and walked to the one place I knew I'd find clarity —

Mr Mabaso’s home.

I found his wife, Lindiwe, by the washing line,

her hands deep in soapy water.

Her daughter, Junior, helped fold blankets.

“Good morning,” I greeted politely.

They both looked up —

kind faces, but concerned ones.

Because they could already see

something was wrong.

She called him from inside the house,

and in a moment he walked out wiping his hands on a towel.

“Ahh, Tebelo!” he said with a big smile.

“Why do you look like you lost a fight you never started?”

He always cracked a joke when he sensed I wasn’t okay —

his way of pulling me back to myself.

I opened my mouth to tell him what Onnie had done,

but before a single word left my lips,

he held up his hand.

“Tebelo,” he said quietly,

“don’t tell me something that will break you down again.”

He looked me straight in the eyes.

“I’m building you to stand up again,” he continued.

“That’s your job now.

Your healing.

Not the chaos around you.”

I stood still.

Listening.

Trying not to argue.

He stepped closer.

“Onnie…” he shook his head.

“I reprimand that boy all the time.

But someone — someone older — is filling him with nonsense.”

The words hit me like cold water.

“That’s what people do,” he added.

“When they see a loophole.

They target the weakest one in the house.

Because they see you trying to rebuild your family…

and they want you all fighting each other.”

And just like that,

everything made sense.

Edward managed to get Onnie to come in later that night.

He walked like someone being accompanied by guilt —

slow, shoulders dropped, eyes down.

I sat forward on the couch.

“What’s wrong?” I asked softly.

“Don’t worry about the outcome.

Just speak your mind.

Tell me what’s bothering you, ntwana yam.”

He stared at the floor.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

The same word he always uses

when he knows the truth needs to come out

but fear keeps his lips shut.

Joshua was sitting on the armrest of the couch,

watching both of us.

“Just say anything, ntwana,” Joshua encouraged.

Then Onnie broke.

Literally.

His voice cracked,

his chest tightened,

and tears came out before he could hold them back.

“Angeke ngiphinde… bhuti,” he cried.

(“I won’t do it again, brother.”)

My heart sank.

“Stop crying!” I said, louder than I intended.

Not out of anger —

but because I was tired

of watching him destroy himself this way.

“Who’s playing with your mind like this, huh?”

My voice shook.

“I’m asking you! Who is it?”

“No one…”

he whispered, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

He was lying.

Not to disrespect me —

but because he was afraid of the person influencing him.

I exhaled deeply.

“You’re wasting my time,” I said at last.

“Go to your room.”

He stood up immediately,

but he didn’t walk.

He paused.

“Bhuti…

please give me passage,”

he said quietly,

since I was standing between the couches blocking his way.

For a second,

neither of us moved.

And in that moment,

I realized:

This was bigger than a stubborn child.

This was spiritual warfare.

This was manipulation.

This was fear.

But the truth —

whoever was influencing him —

had not yet surfaced.

And the storm was far from over.