Wounded warrior

The Truth To My Mother

Days flew by.

By Saturday evening the heat inside the house had become unbearable, the walls holding the warmth like they were afraid to let it go. I stepped outside for some fresh air, dragging my leg slightly as I moved toward the gate.

That’s when I heard whispering.

Two voices.

Low. Urgent.

I froze.

I would recognise that voice anywhere.

It was Onnie.

I shifted closer, my heart pounding louder than the cicadas in the trees, trying to see who he was talking to.

Then I heard the other voice.

And my stomach tightened.

It was her.

The same woman who had once said to me,

“The guy you think stabbed you is not the one you say it is.”

Before I could see them clearly, Joshua called my name from behind.

“Tebelo!”

I turned.

By the time I faced the gate again, Onnie was already walking inside, head down, eyes avoiding mine. He didn’t greet me. He didn’t slow down. He went straight to his room and shut the door.

I stood there, breathing hard, knowing I had just seen the answer I’d been chasing for months.

I didn’t hesitate.

I went straight to Onnie’s room and knocked once before opening.

“So she’s the one misleading you, huh?” I said quietly.

“Bhuti?” he replied, pretending not to understand.

“Stop whatever you two were whispering about last night,” I said firmly.

“And stop listening to neighbours.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I turned and walked out before my voice betrayed me.

Later that morning, I finally found time alone with my mother. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, folding clothes slowly like someone carrying invisible weight.

“It’s the neighbour,” I said.

“She’s the one influencing Onnie.”

She closed her eyes.

“I’m not surprised,” she whispered.

“I just needed proof. People have been saying it’s her.”

Her voice trembled, not with anger — but with exhaustion.

“Don’t worry, ma,” I said, standing by the window and looking outside.

“At least now we know who’s been driving him.”

I turned back to her.

“We’ve come too far to let one person tear this family apart.”

She nodded slowly, tears filling her eyes.

“Can I get you some water?” I asked gently.

She wiped her face and managed a weak smile.

“Yes, my child… thank you.”

And as I walked toward the kitchen, I realised something powerful:

The enemy had finally shown her face —

and for the first time,

I wasn’t afraid anymore.

She called me from her room.

“Tebelo,” my mother said, her voice unusually soft,

“I managed to get your father’s number again.”

I stood still in the passage.

“Oh…” was all I could say, not knowing what reaction was expected of me.

We had lived many years pretending Richard didn’t exist.

She sighed.

“We never really spoke about your father,” she continued.

“I know he was never there when you were growing up. But when you were unconscious… he came to see you.”

My heart skipped.

“He… came?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“He took you to a traditional healer.”

My thoughts scattered.

“How did he even find me?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know where we live. And how did he know about my condition?”

There was a pause.

“Joyce found your half-sister on f*******:,” my mother said quietly.

“That’s how the message reached him.”

It felt strange hearing Joyce’s name connected to my father — two parts of my life that had never belonged in the same sentence.

“The healer gave him remedies,” she added.

“Things to drink, and things to use when you bathe… so your wounds could heal.”

I leaned against the wall, trying to breathe through the weight of it all.

I knew my father.

Or rather, I knew the absence of him.

I wasn’t my stepmother’s favourite — never had been.

Being around him always meant learning how unwanted I truly was.

And yet…

I remembered something that had once meant everything to me.

Years ago, when Joyce was still pregnant, I had taken her to my father’s place just so I could say the words out loud:

“You’re going to be a grandfather.”

I had wanted him to be proud of me.

Now, standing in that quiet passage, I realised how long I had been carrying that hope — even after everything had fallen apart.

My mother and I spent most of the day talking about my father.

Despite everything—despite the lies planted by our neighbor, Onnie, and the years of silence—I listened as my mother spoke of a man I barely recognized. She told me how my father had been there for her during her darkest days, how he carried burdens without complaint, how he loved in ways that were quiet and unseen.

Her words unsettled me.

They didn’t match the version of my father I had grown up with—the absent one, the ghost.

That night, sleep came slowly.

The next morning, I stepped outside to breathe in the fresh air, dragging my stiff leg behind me. Mornings were always like this now—my body reminding me of everything I had survived.

“Ah, you slept well last night,” Mr Mabaso called out, his voice light, his laughter following his words.

I laughed softly and walked toward him.

“How are you, Taima lam?” I asked, my leg protesting with every step.

“I’m wonderful,” he replied warmly, his eyes scanning me with quiet pride. “Especially seeing you this strong today.”

He always found a way to make me laugh, even on days when my body felt heavy and my spirit tired.

“My mother told me something,” I said after a moment. “She says my father came to see me while I was unconscious.”

Mr Mabaso paused. A soft smile touched his face.

“Oh… she finally told you.”

“She told me yesterday,” I said. “But I need to know—was she telling me the truth, or was she just trying to protect my heart?”

He looked at me for a long second before speaking.

“I saw a light brown Toyota parked outside your place,” he said slowly. “Two, sometimes three times a week. Always after your accident.”

My heart skipped.

“That’s his car,” I said quickly. “That’s my father’s car.”

Mr Mabaso nodded and pulled out a chair for me.

“Sit. Let me make us some tea.”

As he disappeared inside, I lowered myself onto the chair, my leg burning. The morning air was cool, but my chest felt tight.

So he really came.

Mr Mabaso returned with two steaming mugs and handed me one carefully, as if I might break.

“Drink slowly,” he said. “Your body still needs kindness.”

I wrapped my hands around the cup.

“He never stayed long,” he continued, settling beside me. “Sometimes he sat in the car. Sometimes he stood at the gate. But he always asked about you. Always.”

I swallowed hard.

“He never came inside?” I asked.

“No,” he replied gently. “But his eyes said everything his mouth could not.”

I stared at the rising steam, watching it disappear into the air—just like all the moments we had lost.

“One day,” Mr Mabaso said, his voice quieter now, “he stood there longer than usual. I greeted him. He said nothing at first. Then he said, ‘Please tell my son I never stopped loving him.’”

Something broke inside me.

Tears burned, but I refused to let them fall. For years, I had carried anger like armor. Now it felt heavy, unnecessary.

“I could see his pain,” Mr Mabaso continued. “Some men don’t know how to walk toward the people they love. They just stand at a distance and suffer.”

Silence wrapped around us.

In that moment, I understood something painful and true:

my father had not been absent—he had been wounded.

I took a slow sip of tea, letting the warmth steady my shaking hands.

“Thank you, Taima lam,” I said quietly.

He smiled. “Healing begins when the truth finds you.”

And that morning, sitting outside with a damaged body and a heart full of questions, I realized my journey was not only about learning to walk again.

It was about learning to forgive.

It was about learning to see.

It was about understanding that some warriors fight their battles alone—and still lose.