Redefining Home
920 Words
Later that afternoon, I went to see Mr. Mabaso.
I didn’t even think about it — my feet just carried me there, like they knew I needed an elder’s presence, a man whose spirit was steady.
He was coming out of his house when he saw me.
He stopped.
Looked at me… really looked at me.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly.
His eyes said he already knew the answer.
I wasn’t myself.
My mind was racing.
My chest felt locked.
I was numb — like someone had unplugged me from my own body.
I swallowed hard and told him everything.
Every detail of the scene.
How the man with the K-Way hat looked back.
How he froze.
How he ran.
How his friend looked guilty.
How something in that moment felt spiritual, like destiny aligning.
I talked until my voice shook.
I talked until I didn’t know if I was still explaining or praying.
Words were falling out of me, unfiltered, desperate.
And suddenly—
My tongue locked.
My throat tightened.
My body froze.
I tried to breathe… but I couldn’t.
The world tilted.
My vision blurred.
My hands curled inward.
“Please… hold me… now!”
Those were the last words I managed to force out.
Then my entire body gave in.
A seizure episode took its toll.
But this time… something was different.
I wasn’t gone.
I wasn’t lost in darkness.
I could hear everything.
I heard Mr Mabaso’s voice, urgent but calm:
“Breathe, mfana… try to breathe… I’m here.”
I felt his arms catching me before I hit the ground —
steady, warm, protective.
I felt his hand holding the back of my head.
I felt him dropping to his knees with me, refusing to let me fall alone.
The whole world was shaking inside my skull,
but his voice stayed right there:
“Breathe… you’re not leaving… breathe…”
It was like my ancestors were holding me through him.
Minutes felt like hours,
but eventually my breathing returned.
My fingers loosened.
My body came back piece by piece.
When I opened my eyes,
he was still holding me.
Still supporting my shoulder.
Still watching me like a father who almost lost his son.
“You’re not okay,” he whispered.
“Something is heavy on your spirit. And you need to face it before it destroys you.”
I wanted to reply —
but the truth is, I wasn’t sure if I even understood what was happening to me.
All I knew was:
That encounter wasn’t just fear.
It wasn’t coincidence.
It wasn’t imagination.
It was spiritual.
It was a sign.
A calling.
Something bigger than me was unfolding.
And my body…
my mind…
my spirit…
could feel it coming.
“Tebelo,” Mr. Mabaso said after I had calmed down, “you’ve been through a lot… too much… to go back now.”
He shook his head slowly, like a man who had seen many storms and recognized the one still sitting on my shoulders.
“And I know it’s not easy,” he continued, “to let go of something that once broke you.”
His wife came in quietly, placing a cup of tea in my hands the way a mother would give a blanket to a shivering child.
Her touch was kindness. Her presence was peace.
Mr. Mabaso leaned back slightly and looked at me with a softness I didn’t expect.
“Come to me whenever you need someone to talk to,” he said. “You’re not alone, mfana.”
Then his voice dropped lower, steady, certain:
“Your ancestors revealed the answers you’ve been searching for, right at your doorstep. Not for you to fight… but to let you know they are with you.”
Those words rooted themselves in my chest.
Not for war. Not for revenge. Not for fear.
For awareness. For closure. For healing.
I didn’t respond — not because I didn’t want to, but because my heart was too full to speak.
Later that day, I was lying on the bed, watching a movie on my phone with my mind drifting in and out of everything that had happened.
Then— a soft knock on the door.
“Are you there?” Rebecca’s voice.
She walked in, saw me holding the phone, and gently took it from my hand, placing it aside like she was removing a heavy weight from my chest.
“I heard what happened,” she said. Her eyes searched mine, not for answers — but for the truth of how I really felt.
She sat next to me, one hand on my shoulder, steady and warm.
“I won’t allow myself to break again,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.
Rebecca nodded slowly, as if she had been waiting to hear me say those words.
From that day, I normalized praying before going to bed. Not because I was scared, but because I wanted to anchor myself again.
Peace became something I had to choose daily.
All the hurt, the betrayal, the unanswered questions… I decided to release them.
I had to let go — not to forget, not to pretend it didn’t happen, but to win the battle I was facing inside.
Letting go wasn’t weakness. It was survival. It was reclaiming my soul after life tried to take it from me.
And for the first time in years, I felt something shift.
Not outside. Inside.
A quiet victory.
A new chapter waiting.
- Writer
