Wounded warrior

Between Life And Death

It was midnight.

I didn’t need a clock to tell me — I could feel it.

That strange, heavy silence only hospitals carry at that hour…

A silence too clean, too empty, too cold to belong anywhere else.

I woke slowly, dragged upward through layers of darkness until my eyes finally opened. But instead of staring at a ceiling or a wall, I found myself gazing at the floor.

Not because I wanted to.

Not because I was curious.

But because I was sitting in a wheelchair, my head tilted forward, my neck too weak to lift itself.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

My mind was still lost between the night that tried to kill me and the room trying to save me.

The light above me flickered — a pale, artificial glow that made the tiles on the floor look like frozen water. Every sound echoed too loudly: a distant cough, a machine beeping somewhere down the hall, the soft rolling of trolley wheels passing by.

Then I felt it.

A touch.

Gentle. Slow. Careful.

A doctor stood behind me, nursing the wounds on my head. His hands were steady, cotton soaked with antiseptic gliding across the open cuts. The sting was immediate, sharp enough to force a breath out of me.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t hesitate.

He had done this before — too many times.

I felt him move to the back of my left shoulder where another wound pulsed with a dull, throbbing ache. His fingers pressed softly around it, searching, assessing.

The pain made the edges of my vision blur again, but I held myself together.

Barely.

A cold droplet slid down my spine — disinfectant or sweat, I couldn’t tell. My body shuddered.

The doctor noticed.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly, his voice low, almost relieved. “Try not to move. Your injuries are deep.”

His words took a moment to register.

Awake?

Injuries?

Deep?

The night came flooding back — the blood, the voices, the darkness creeping in, Twice’s trembling hands, my father’s echoing words.

And now… this room.

This cold, lonely room at midnight.

I tried to lift my head, and the doctor immediately placed a firm hand on my shoulder.

“No,” he murmured gently. “Not yet. You’ll faint.”

I swallowed hard.

My throat felt dry, raw, hollow.

“Where… where am I?” I whispered.

The doctor paused for a moment — too long — before answering.

“You’re safe,” he said, but his tone carried the weight of everything he didn’t say. “You’re at Chris Hani Baragwanath Hospital. You were brought in… badly injured.”

His gloves brushed against the back of my neck as he dressed the wound.

I winced, sharp pain firing through me.

“Easy,” he said softly. “You survived something serious.”

Something serious.

As if death had been a casual visitor.

My hands gripped the armrests of the wheelchair. I stared at the floor — at the reflection of the bright light trembling on the tiles — and a cold realization crept through me:

This wasn’t a nightmare.

It was real.

And I had almost left this world before I even understood why.

The doctor stepped around to face me. His expression was serious, eyes tired, but not unkind.

“Innocent,” he said, reading my hospital tag. “You’re lucky to be alive. Very lucky.”

Lucky.

The word felt both heavy and empty.

I lifted my head — slowly, painfully — and looked at him for the first time.

“What… happened to me?” I asked.

He hesitated again.

And when he finally spoke, his answer shook the surrounding room.

They sent me home.

The same night the doctor warned me I was “lucky to be alive,” they placed me back into the world as if I were healed… when in truth, I was falling apart.

From the outside, people saw a survivor. But inside, I was breaking in slow motion.

My condition worsened the moment I returned home. The familiar walls felt like strangers watching me die. I tried to speak — nothing came out. I tried to stand — my legs refused. I tried to lift my arm — it hung lifeless beside me like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

It was terrifying.

Imagine waking up inside your own body and realizing the controls were gone. No voice. No strength. No balance. No freedom.

Only pain… and silence.

Days turned into nights without warning. My world shrunk into a bed, a blanket, and a body that betrayed me more every hour. My right hand curled inward, stiffening until I couldn’t uncurl my fingers. My right leg followed, tightening as if invisible ropes were pulling it. They felt connected — as if one nerve dying dragged the other with it.

Each morning, I woke hoping for movement. Each morning, I lost more of myself.

Soon, eating became impossible. Breathing became a task. My body was refusing everything — food, water, energy. The doctors decided I needed a feeding tube. They pushed a spoon-sized hole into my stomach, threading a life-saving pipe inside so I could see another day.

It wasn’t living. It was surviving by force.

My mother cried quietly every time she cleaned the tube. She thought I didn’t notice — but I did. Every tear she wiped away in secret, stabbed deeper than any wound in my body.

But in the middle of all that darkness, one man refused to let me fall completely.

My uncle, Sibusiso.

Gigantic was an understatement. He was a mountain of a man — broad shoulders, arms like steel, strength that didn’t match his gentle heart. He moved with purpose, always sure, always ready.

While others whispered, feared, or felt pity, he did what no one else could.

He carried me.

Every day. Every hour. Anywhere I needed to be.

In the wheelchair, in his arms, on his back — it didn’t matter. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing. As if my broken body wasn’t a burden. As if helping me was the easiest thing in the world.

He would take me outside into the yard so I could feel the sun, the breeze, the reminder that life still existed beyond the pain. He talked to me even when I couldn’t respond. He told me stories, made jokes, called me “warrior” when I felt like a shadow.

And every time he lifted me, I felt something I thought I had lost:

A reason to keep holding on.

But the truth was undeniable — no matter how strong Sibusiso was, no matter how much love my family gave, my body was getting worse.

The nights grew colder. The pain grew sharper. My silence grew heavier.

Something inside me was dying. Something I couldn't see, only feel — slipping away one day at a time.

And deep down, I knew:

The night that nearly took my life… wasn’t finished with me yet.