Becoming The Pillar
1282 Words
A boy I knew from the street pushed the gate open halfway and peeped in,
his sandals scraping against the dusty ground.
“Your uncle Sibusiso is calling you,” he said, breathing fast as if he’d been sent on a mission.
My heart dropped.
Rebecca froze mid-step.
Our eyes met instantly —
a silent exchange of fear, confusion, and readiness.
“Where is he?” I asked.
The boy pointed with his chin.
“At the stoep… by the corner… at Lions hup.
Three houses away.”
My breath caught.
That spot — “Lions hup” —
was where men from the street gathered,
a place for opinions, gossip, loud debates,
and everything that could ignite tension.
Rebecca stepped closer to me without saying a word,
her hand brushing my arm gently,
as if to remind me:
You are not walking into this alone.
I nodded once.
Took a slow breath.
My leg trembled, but I started walking.
We made our way down the quiet street,
each step feeling heavier than the last.
The sunlight felt too bright;
the wind felt too cold;
the day felt too exposed.
And then I saw him.
THE UNCLE WHO ALWAYS STOOD TALL
Uncle Sibusiso was sitting on the stoep,
hands clasped,
his towering frame leaning forward
like a lion resting but ready to roar.
He wasn’t just big —
he carried authority in how he breathed.
When he lifted his head and saw me,
he didn’t smile.
He didn’t greet.
He just studied me.
His eyes scanned my injured leg,
my hand curled into a stubborn fist,
Rebecca standing near me with her belly showing slightly.
His stare was unreadable —
not angry, not happy…
but full of something I couldn’t define yet.
Finally, he spoke.
“Tebelo… come sit.”
I lowered myself slowly onto a brick beside him.
Rebecca remained standing just behind me,
her hands clasped in front of her stomach for protection.
Sibusiso took a deep breath.
“There are things I need to understand,” he said quietly.
My throat tightened.
“Understand… what?” I asked softly.
He turned his head sharply to look at me,
and in that look, I realized:
He already knew something was wrong with the story my family had been repeating.
He pointed at my scars, my stiff hand, my dragging leg.
“You were almost killed.
But the way stories were told at home…
they made it sound like Rebecca caused all this.”
My chest tightened painfully.
He continued:
“I came here today…
to hear the truth from YOUR mouth.
Not rumors.
Not anger.
Not pain talking.
YOUR truth.”
Rebecca stepped closer,
as if she was preparing to be blamed again.
I inhaled slowly.
My voice trembled when I finally spoke.
“She… she didn’t do anything to me,” I said.
“She wasn’t there.
She didn’t stab me.
She didn’t send anyone.
She didn’t put me in danger.”
Uncle Sibusiso’s jaw clenched.
I swallowed hard.
“I was with a friend.
Things went wrong there.
Rebecca had nothing…
NOTHING… to do with my injuries.”
Silence fell over the stoep,
over the street,
over the world around us.
A silence that felt like a trial ending.
Uncle Sibusiso finally looked at Rebecca —
really looked at her.
And for the first time,
his expression softened.
“So,” he said in a low voice,
“all this time…
she was being blamed for something she didn’t do?”
I nodded, shame burning through me.
He shook his head slowly,
exhaling deeply —
a disappointed, heavy sigh.
“Your mother must hear the truth,” he said firmly.
“And the rest of the family.
They must stop treating this girl like an enemy.”
Rebecca began crying quietly behind me,
covering her mouth with her hand.
Uncle Sibusiso stood up,
a giant casting a long shadow over both of us.
He placed his hand on my shoulder —
gentle, but solid.
“From today on,” he said, voice steady,
“I will make sure no one disrespects her again.
No one mistreats you.
No one spreads lies.”
He turned to leave,
but before he walked away,
he looked at Rebecca and said:
“You took care of him when he couldn’t even walk.
That counts.
I see it.
Thank you.”
She wiped her tears, whispering,
“Thank you, Malume.”
As he disappeared down the road,
it felt like a heavy curtain of tension had finally lifted.
For the first time in months…
the truth had found a voice.
And someone in my family finally believed it.
The sun dipped behind the shacks and houses, painting the sky orange and purple — one of those rare Finetown sunsets that made the whole place look softer than it really was.
Rebecca and I were walking back to her place, slowly, side by side. I could feel her breathing settle… her steps lighter than they’d been in weeks.
The weight that used to sit heavy on her shoulders seemed to melt off as the evening breeze brushed past us.
When we entered the room, she closed the door gently, as if she didn’t want the world outside to interfere with the quietness inside.
For the first time in a long time, we sat down without tension, without fear, without feeling watched or judged.
Just the two of us.
Her hand rested on her stomach, and she looked at me with soft eyes — not hurt, not stressed, just present.
“Today was… different,” she whispered.
I nodded. “It felt like… like something finally broke open.”
“Your uncle believing the truth,” she said, “it meant more than you think.”
My chest warmed — a feeling I hadn’t felt in a while.
Rebecca reached out and took my stiff hand, holding it with both of hers as if it wasn’t broken at all.
“You know,” she said gently, “for the first time since everything happened… I feel safe again.”
Those words hit me deeper than any diagnosis could.
“I’m sorry you went through all that,” I murmured. “My family… the rumors… the way people treated you…”
She shook her head.
“Don’t apologise for things you didn’t say,” she replied softly. “You stood for me today. You spoke the truth. That’s all I needed.”
We sat in silence for a moment — not awkward silence, but a calm one that felt like a blanket over our wounds.
Then she shifted closer, leaned her head gently on my left shoulder, the healthy side of me.
“I just want peace,” she whispered. “For you… for me… for the baby.”
I closed my eyes and breathed her in. For the first time in months, my heartbeat didn’t feel like a warning. It felt steady. Grounded. Alive.
“I’ll fight for that peace,” I told her quietly. “With everything I have left.”
Rebecca smiled — a small, tired, grateful smile that made her look like the girl I knew in high school again.
“You already started,” she said.
The baby kicked softly under her palm. She lifted my hand and placed it gently on her belly.
“Feel her,” she whispered.
And there it was — a tiny push against my palm, a reminder of the life growing between us, pulling us forward, anchoring us in hope.
I exhaled slowly, letting the moment wash over me.
For the first time since the incident —
I felt human again. Loved again. Home again.
- Writer
