Wounded warrior

When The Ground Shifted Again

I preferred being on that side—even though, at times, it felt like I was slowly drifting away from my mother and my brother.

That thought haunted me quietly.

But another part of me breathed freely there. Away from old streets. Away from memories that still carried blood and sirens. Away from the place where my life almost ended.

Out there, my chest felt lighter.

Learning the language wasn’t easy.

I could write Sesotho well enough, but pronouncing it betrayed me every time. My tongue refused to cooperate, twisting words into something unfamiliar. Still, they were patient with me. They laughed with me, not at me.

One afternoon, my great-great grandmother arrived from Lesotho.

She had travelled all that way just to see me.

I watched her walk across the yard—slow but steady, her back bent by years, not weakness.

“Grandma,” I asked, amazed, “how do you still manage to walk like this… and clean… at your age?”

She laughed, a deep, knowing laugh.

“Life is not the same anymore,” she said.

“Technology has made things easier for your generation.”

I smiled as she went on, telling stories of how they lived growing up—how they worked, how they survived, how nothing was handed to them.

Everyone in the house gathered around her.

She spoke about culture. About tradition. About our surname—where it came from, who carried it first, and who led the clan before history scattered them.

She told it step by step, like she was rebuilding something that had once been broken.

Every morning, the aunties arrived early. They cleaned. They cooked. They checked on me while Uncle Papi was at work. When he returned, he escorted them home—every single day.

I felt protected. Seen.

The next morning, I tried calling my mother.

Straight to voicemail.

I tried again. Same thing.

I called Mr Mabaso. Also unreachable.

I told myself it was network problems. Nothing more.

But the silence stretched too long.

That afternoon, my phone rang.

“Tebelo,” the woman said, “you’re speaking to Dineo.”

I recognized her voice immediately.

“Thank God,” I said. “I’ve been trying to reach my mother, but I can’t get through. Can you please check on her for me?”

There was a pause.

Then a stutter.

“Eish… I just don’t know how to tell you this.”

My heart started racing.

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“Where’s my mother?”

“She’s been arrested.”

The world stopped.

“What?”

“What did you just say?” I asked, my voice breaking.

At that moment, Uncle Papi walked into the house.

He looked at my face—my hands shaking, my phone frozen against my ear.

“What is it, my boy?” he asked gently.

But I couldn’t answer him.

Because just when I thought life had finally given me space to heal—

the ground shifted again beneath my feet.