The Weight I No Longer Carry
1058 Words
I was standing by the door,
hands behind my back,
leaning slightly on the wall for balance
when Edward walked past me, ready to step out.
“Are your brothers in their rooms?” I asked.
He paused.
“Let me check,” he said,
avoiding eye contact the way someone does
when they already know what the conversation is about.
I waited.
A moment later, one came in.
Then the other.
Then Joshua, quietly closing the door behind him.
Edward shut the door,
and the room felt smaller —
not because of the space,
but because of the weight we all carried inside.
I took a breath.
“I won’t waste your time, bafwethu,” I said,
my voice calm but firm.
All three of them looked at me —
not scared,
not guilty,
just unsure…
like boys trying to understand the man standing in front of them.
“I want us to start afresh,” I continued.
Silence.
“We are brothers.
We’re all we’ve got.
Let’s work together and build this home again —
with love, respect, and dignity.”
Their eyes softened.
“I don’t want finger-pointing,” I added.
“No blaming.
No secrets.
If we fix this house,
we fix ourselves.”
Nobody spoke,
but the room felt different —
lighter, somehow.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
Not yet.
But it was a beginning.
A reset.
Later that day, when I called Rebecca to update her,
her voice was firm but gentle.
“Come to my place after a day or two,” she said.
“It will help you exercise.
And Olerato needs you stronger… remember that.”
Her words hit deeper than she knew.
Olerato needs you stronger.
Not angrier.
Not broken.
Not stuck in the past.
Stronger.
For her.
For the boys.
For myself.
The next time I visited Mr. Mabaso,
he leaned on his walking stick and said:
“Your opposite neighbor… the new one—
his name is Motlatse.”
I knew the house he was talking about.
“He’s a traditional healer,” he continued.
“A real one.
Respected.
Rooted.”
My heartbeat slowed a little.
“He’ll tell you everything you need to know about that dream.
Not just what it means —
but what you must do.”
I nodded,
feeling something rise in my chest —
fear or hope,
I couldn’t tell.
But for the first time,
the path in front of me didn’t feel dark.
It felt guided.
Protected.
Like everything —
the dream,
the stabbing,
the man in the K-Way hat,
the near-death moment —
was leading me somewhere.
And I was finally ready to walk that road.
The next morning, as I stepped outside to get some fresh air, I saw Motlatse standing at his gate.
He wasn’t doing anything in particular — just standing there, hands behind his back, his eyes following the quiet movement of the street.
When he noticed me, I lifted my hand to greet him.
He nodded once, slowly, as if he had been waiting for that exact moment.
“Morning, ntate,” I said as I approached.
He didn’t return the greeting immediately. Instead, he looked deep into my eyes — not the surface, not the face I was presenting, but past all of that, into the heaviness I’d been carrying for years.
Then he spoke.
“Dreams are true,” he said. “Even the ones that shake you.”
His voice was steady, like someone reading a message handed directly to him.
“But you must understand— what you dreamt is not your fight.”
I felt something loosen inside my chest.
“The minute you dream,” he continued, “it is them showing you that they see your pain.”
“Who is them?” I asked softly.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Your guides. Your ancestors. The ones who stood between you and death that night.”
My heart beat slower, almost heavy. He went on.
“Fighting spiritually,” he said, “is not the same as fighting with your hands.”
“You cannot chase the man with the K-Way hat. You cannot hunt the truth with anger.”
He lifted his chin, his voice growing firmer.
“Your ancestors are telling you to heal. To let go. To move forward.”
I swallowed hard. It felt strange hearing someone say the exact thing my heart had been running from.
“And as for those men…” He paused. “Everyone faces their consequences. No one escapes their path.”
He didn’t say it with anger. Not even judgment. Just truth — cold, clear, unavoidable.
Then he stepped aside and opened the gate.
“Come inside,” he said. “You need cleansing. Your spirit has carried too much.”
Inside his yard, he lit impepho and asked me to sit on a woven mat facing east.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
The smoke rose quickly, wrapping around me like invisible hands pulling away everything I had kept buried.
He mixed herbs in a clay bowl, crushed them with slow, deliberate movements, then sprinkled the mixture around me in four directions.
“For protection,” he explained. “For release.”
He poured cold water over my hands, then my head, whispering prayers that I couldn’t fully understand but could feel settling deep inside my bones.
And then, with a calm voice, he said:
“You survived because you were never alone. You were carried.”
“You don’t owe the past your fear anymore.”
When the ritual ended, I felt lighter — not healed completely, but opened… like a door unstuck after years of being jammed.
Walking back home, I didn’t look over my shoulder. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel watched, hunted, or haunted.
Later that evening, I prayed before bed — not from fear of the dream, but from gratitude.
Gratitude for surviving. For being guided. For the strength that returned quietly, like someone who had always known the way back home.
That night, I slept deeply — no visions, no shadows, no K-Way man lurking at the edge of my memory.
Just silence. Just peace.
I healed knowing that God and my ancestors had been fighting for me in silence long before I even knew the battle existed.
- Writer
