Mother-in-law
1134 Words
Rebecca helped me back into our room, her arm around my waist, guiding me slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter me again. She settled me on the bed and placed a blanket across my legs, her eyes never leaving my face.
A few minutes later, her mother, Lungelwa, stepped inside with her gentle footsteps and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still clinging to her clothes.
She paused at the doorway, studying me with that mix of concern and motherly hope.
“He’s back now,” Rebecca said softly, as if announcing a miracle.
Her mother’s face lit up with a relieved smile.
“Yho… thank God. You scared us, mntanami.”
She walked closer and touched my forehead lightly, almost the way a mother checks for fever.
“Tell me, my boy… when is your next doctor’s appointment?”
Rebecca went to the shelf, opened a wooden drawer where she kept all my documents neat and safe. She pulled out a small appointment card and handed it to her mother.
“On the 23rd. Next week,” she said.
Her mother nodded, her face turning serious and focused like she was solving a problem.
She stepped into the passage and called out:
“Nhlanhla! Woza la, mfana.”
A second later, the door slid open and Nhlanhla, Tessa’s younger brother, poked his head in —
School uniform half-untucked, backpack hanging from one shoulder, earphones still in.
A smile spread on his face the moment he saw me.
“Kunjani, grootman?” he asked with that playful confidence only teenagers carry.
He was always smiling, as if life had never once tried to break him.
He loved hip-hop, and even now, faint beats leaked from his earphones.
His mother held up the appointment card.
“Next week on the 23rd,” she said.
“Please escort your brother-in-law to the hospital.”
Nhlanhla didn’t even hesitate.
“I’m in, grootman,” he said, thumping his chest lightly.
“Sizohamba. Don’t stress.”
Rebecca let out a small laugh through the sadness she still carried.
Her mother smiled proudly at the willingness in him.
For a moment, the room felt lighter…
warmer…
Like a strange kind of family was forming around my broken body —
A family that didn’t care about bloodlines,
but about presence,
About kindness,
About whom stayed when things got dark.
Rebecca sat beside me, quietly slipping her hand into mine.
Her mother looked at me one more time and said,
“Rest now, my son. You need your strength.”
And as they stepped out,
Their voices fading down the passage,
I realized something…
I wasn’t just healing.
I was being held.
The days leading up to my next appointment moved slowly, like time itself was limping beside me. Every morning I woke up feeling the stiffness before I felt the sunlight. Some days my right leg dragged more, some days my arm refused to respond completely. But every day, I tried.
And every day, Rebecca was there.
She woke me gently, helped me stretch my fingers one by one, massaged the stiffness of my leg, fed me patiently when my hand refused to hold the spoon. Sometimes I caught her staring at me when she thought I wasn’t looking — eyes full of a pain she tried to hide.
Outside, the neighbourhood had begun to notice.
When I tried walking in the yard, leaning against the walls or the fence, people slowed their steps to watch… some out of concern, some out of curiosity, some whispering among themselves.
“He’s still fighting.” “Shame, the boy nearly died.” “I heard Rebecca is taking care of him.” “No, man… I heard it was her fault.” “Hayi, people talk too much.”
Their voices followed me, but I kept moving. One step… then another… then another.
Rebecca watched proudly from the doorway every time I attempted a longer walk.
“You’re stronger today,” she would say.
Even when I didn’t feel strong.
Finally, the 23rd arrived.
I woke up extra early, the tension sitting on my chest like a weight. Rebecca helped me wash and dressed me gently, as if every movement could bruise.
“Are you okay?” she whispered while buttoning my shirt.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t.
My mind kept racing: What if the doctor says I’m getting worse? What if the stiffness means something serious? What if this is my life now? What if I never fully speak again? What if I never hold my daughter properly?
I closed my eyes and breathed slowly.
Rebecca tied my shoelaces and squeezed my knee softly.
“Today will be better than you expect,” she said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were praying.
Around 9AM, Nhlanhla arrived — still wearing yesterday’s smile, earphones around his neck, energy bouncing off him like he lived in a world without fear.
“Ready, grootman?” he said, adjusting his backpack.
I nodded.
Rebecca kissed my forehead gently. “Tell me everything when you come back.”
Her mother stood behind her, watching me with worry and hope mixed together.
“You’ll be alright, my son,” she said. “Uzobuyela ekhaya.”
I stepped out slowly, leaning on Nhlanhla’s shoulder. He adjusted immediately, steady and careful.
As we walked down the street, kids playing soccer paused to stare. Old ladies watched from their gates. Some whispered my name. Others shook their heads in pity.
But I kept moving. One stiff step at a time.
Nhlanhla’s voice suddenly broke the silence.
“Don’t worry, grootman… doctors know what they’re doing. You’ll get better.”
His confidence was almost contagious.
Almost.
The clinic was packed — coughs echoing, babies crying, queues stretching like they would never end. We found seats in a corner where I leaned heavily against the wall.
Sitting there, I felt exposed.
Vulnerable.
People kept glancing at my twisted hand, my stiff leg, the way I struggled to shift in the chair. Some looked away out of discomfort, others with sympathy.
I wanted to disappear.
I wanted answers.
I wanted to hear the doctor say, “You’re healing. You’re getting better.”
But fear kept whispering the opposite.
Nhlanhla nudged me gently.
“You’re not alone, grootman.”
I nodded.
Not because I believed it — but because I needed to.
After what felt like hours, a nurse stepped out and called my name.
“Tebelo Msibi!”
My stomach tightened.
Nhlanhla stood up quickly, helping me to my feet.
“Let’s go,” he said. His voice was steady, reassuring — like a younger brother taking charge.
I took a slow breath.
Then another.
And stepped forward.
Into the doctor’s room.
Into whatever truth was waiting for me.
- Writer
