Wounded warrior

The Call That Changed Everything

The ride back home felt long and heavy.

All I wanted was to see my father—to surprise him. I imagined the look on his face when he saw me walking again, imagined the pride, the disbelief, the quiet joy. I wanted to thank him in person, to tell him I knew now… about the support he had given my mother during my darkest days.

But I never even got to hear his voice.

Somewhere along the way, exhaustion pulled me under. I don’t remember falling asleep in the car. Mr Mabaso must have noticed—he let me rest the whole way, never waking me.

I only stirred when the car hit the gravel road near my street.

A few days later, my mother called me to the dining room.

“I can see you’re feeling a lot better since your visit to your father’s place,” she said gently.

“Oh… yeah,” I replied. “I am. And I’m sorry I haven’t been myself since the trip—”

“Nah… nah, my son,” she interrupted softly, smiling. “I understand.”

Then her face changed slightly.

“Was it your stepmother?” she asked. “I know the two of you don’t get along.”

I hesitated.

“It’s just that… I was right there, Ma. Somewhere near his place,” I said slowly. “We were speaking on the phone with her, and she just didn’t want to hear me out.”

My voice faltered.

“Her last words were… they no longer live in Sebokeng.”

My mother exhaled slowly.

“Oh… I’m sorry, my son. There will be a way.”

She reached for my hand.

“Please don’t let her break you, Tebelo.”

I swallowed hard.

“What’s worse is I don’t even know who’s using his phone now. Someone keeps viewing my w******p status.”

“Have you tried calling again?” she asked.

“That’s the thing, Ma… I can’t,” I said, my voice breaking.

“What if she’s the one who answers again?”

Two days passed.

I was at Mr Mabaso’s house, sitting outside, the Ludo board between us, when my phone rang.

My father’s number.

My heart jumped.

“Baba—I was there last—”

My words were cut short.

“Your father is dead.”

The world stopped.

“What?” I asked. “Who is this?”

“The funeral is on Wednesday. You can come if you want to,” the voice said sharply.

“Wait—wait,” I said, panic rising. “You said you moved to Germiston the last time we spoke, right?”

It was her. I knew it.

“Yes,” she replied, “but we had to move again. We’re not far from Sebokeng now. If you’re coming, call me. I’ll tell your brothers to fetch you when you’re nearby.”

The call ended.

It had only been a week since I got lost trying to find my father’s place. And still—I didn’t believe a single word she said.

On Monday, Mr Mabaso drove me there.

From a distance, I saw it—the quiet movement of older women, their dresses tied tight around their waists, chopping cabbage and carrots, preparing food meant for mourning.

The house was silent.

I was taken to a bedroom where my stepmother lay. She looked the way a woman who had lost a husband should look—broken, drained, hollow.

A chair was placed for me.

I sat down and asked softly, “What happened?”

She looked at me with fire in her eyes.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” she snapped.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Weren’t you the one who called your father, swearing at him?” she shouted.

The words hit me like a slap.

Before I could speak, I was taken out of the room.

I stutter when I’m angry.

But this wasn’t anger.

This was shock.

This was silence swallowing every word I tried to form.

Mr Mabaso gently guided me out of the house. No one knew me there. I could tell this was a new settlement—new faces, unfamiliar eyes.

A woman nearby whispered, “She’s hurting. Sometimes people want someone to blame.”

I looked at her.

“Is that someone me?”

Mr Mabaso didn’t let it go further. He calmed me and led me to the car.

“You’ve come a long way,” he said quietly. “You’ve survived many battles to break here.”

He paused.

“Please… be strong for your father, Matibza.”

I wiped my face and looked away.

“Let’s just go,” I said.

He nodded.

And just like that, we were on our way back home—

leaving behind a goodbye I never got to say.