Motlatse
1210 Words
(The night the word “permanent” haunted my mind)
That night, long after everyone had gone to bed,
long after the house grew quiet and the street outside fell asleep,
I lay on the mattress staring at the ceiling.
But I wasn’t really looking at anything.
I was trapped inside my own mind —
inside the word the doctor used…
Permanent.
It echoed in my skull like a whisper I couldn’t shut out.
Permanent.
Permanent.
Permanent.
The shadows in the room felt heavier than usual, stretching across the walls like they were creeping toward me. Every sound — the ticking clock, the wind outside, the creaking roof — felt louder than it should.
My right leg twitched.
My hand curled involuntarily.
And each time it happened, that word stabbed deeper.
What if this is it?
What if my hand never opens properly again?
What if my leg stays stiff?
What if running becomes a memory instead of a movement?
What if I can't work, can't provide, can't protect?
The questions piled up like stones on my chest.
I turned onto my side, but the ache in my shoulder reminded me of the stab wound.
The stiffness reminded me of the damage.
The silence reminded me that healing had no promises.
I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.
But the fear crept back in like smoke.
Slow.
Invisible.
Deadly.
What if my daughter Angela sees me like this and gets scared?
The thought punched the air out of my lungs.
What if Rebecca regrets staying with someone who might never be the same again?
My stomach tightened.
What if Joyce never unblocks me, and I can’t even explain myself?
My chest felt like it was closing up.
I tried to ignore it.
I tried to swallow the fear.
But then my hand jerked again, fingers tightening against my will.
I stared at it…
angry at it…
betrayed by it.
That hand had held women I loved.
Held babies I created.
Worked hard.
Protected me.
Protected others.
And now it trembled like it belonged to someone else.
I whispered into the darkness:
“Why… why me?”
My voice cracked.
No answer.
Only the sound of my breath shaking.
I sat up slowly, using the wall for balance.
The room spun a little.
My leg dragged when I tried stretching it.
I buried my face in my hands and let the fear spill out.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just tears sliding silently — the kind only a man cries when he’s scared the world will never see him the same again.
I wasn’t afraid of pain.
I wasn’t afraid of doctors.
I wasn’t afraid of dying —
I was afraid of not living properly.
Of being half.
Of being limited.
Of being dependent.
Of watching life move forward while I stayed stuck in one broken place.
And in that moment, I felt something deep inside me break —
not my body, but my hope.
It took courage just to lie back down and close my eyes.
I whispered to myself:
“You either fight… or you fall.”
But even as I said it…
I wasn’t sure which one I had the strength to do.
The next morning I woke up with heavy eyes — the kind of heaviness you can’t hide, even if you try to act normal.
Rebecca entered the room quietly with a cup of warm water and a small cloth she had soaked in a basin. She didn’t say anything at first. She just knelt beside me, pressed the warm cloth gently against my face, and wiped the dried tears I thought I’d hidden.
She looked at me long, deep, like she could see everything I carried inside — the fear, the shame, the hopelessness.
“Tebelo,” she whispered, “you didn’t sleep.”
I didn’t answer. The silence spoke for me.
She sat next to me, her hand resting softly on my stiffened one, and for a moment she didn’t talk — she just breathed with me, slow and calm, until my shaking stopped.
Then she said something I didn’t expect:
“Don’t let people’s changed hearts change who you are.”
I blinked, confused.
She continued, her voice steady but emotional:
“Your family may be distant now. Your street might gossip. People might judge because you stayed here with me… But they don’t know your fight. They don’t know what pain feels like at midnight. They don’t know what it’s like to wake up praying a limb moves.”
Her fingers squeezed mine — gently, but enough to make me feel anchored.
“Let them talk,” she said. “Let them change. Let them distance themselves…”
She leaned closer, her forehead almost touching mine.
“But YOU, Tebelo… don’t you dare give up on yourself because the world is uncomfortable with your recovery.”
My throat tightened.
She wiped another tear from my cheek.
“You think your value comes from walking strong? Talking well? Moving fast? No. It doesn’t.” Her voice cracked, but she kept going.
“It comes from the courage you show every single day… when you stand up even when your leg doesn’t want to… when you speak even when your voice is breaking… when you breathe through the pain that nobody sees.”
She placed her hand on my chest.
“You are still YOU. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Those words hit harder than the doctor’s diagnosis — not painful, but powerful.
I felt something shift inside me, something I hadn’t felt in weeks:
a small spark of strength.
But then she added the part that truly changed me:
“Tebelo… listen to me carefully.” Her eyes locked onto mine with fierce honesty.
“You survived death. You fought your way back from blood on the ground. From not walking. From not talking. From seizures. From losing everything.”
She paused, her voice breaking as she whispered:
“So don’t let people who don’t know your struggle convince you you’re already defeated.”
My breathing shuddered.
“And don’t let the idea of ‘permanent damage’ make you forget the permanent strength you already have.” Her hand pressed gently against my heart again. “This… has always been stronger than your injuries.”
I swallowed hard, feeling the truth sink inside me.
For the first time since the diagnosis, I felt like maybe — just maybe — I still had a life waiting on the other side of the pain.
Rebecca saw the change in my eyes. She smiled gently.
“There he is…” she whispered. “The Tebelo I know.”
But as the day continued, the shift inside me collided with reality.
My family kept their distance — quiet, cold, confused, as if they were waiting for someone else to take responsibility for me.
People from my street, people who once asked how I was, now passed by with short nods, whispers, side-eyes, as if staying with Rebecca was a crime.
Some looked at me with pity. Some with doubt. Some avoided me completely.
But Rebecca’s words stayed in my mind:
“Don’t let people’s changed hearts change who you are.”
And for once, I didn’t.
- Writer
