Wounded warrior

When PanicTook The Air

“I… I don’t have enough air—”

The line went dead.

“What’s going on?” my uncle asked sharply.

I stood frozen, my mouth open, words stuck halfway out.

“I—I think I ran out of airtime,” I said, panic climbing fast. “Please… can I use your phone?”

“Yes, yes—here,” he said, already handing it to me.

My hands were shaking. I realized I had misplaced my own phone somewhere—my left hand was the only one cooperating. The room started spinning. My knees weakened, and I nearly tripped.

“Sit down,” Uncle Papi said firmly, guiding me back onto the chair.

“Sit. Tell me what’s happening.”

I swallowed hard.

“My mother… my mother has been arrested.”

“What?”

“How? When?” he asked, stunned.

“I don’t know!” I replied, my voice cracking.

“Call the number,” he said. “Tell me which one.”

The phone rang only once before Dineo answered.

“When was she arrested?” I asked quickly. “I left home just yesterday.”

“Right after you left in the morning,” she said.

My heart sank.

“But why?” I asked. “What happened?”

“The guy who stole your mother’s phone—”

“Yeah?” I interrupted. “What about him?”

“He went to open a case against you and your mother.”

My ears rang.

“So the police came just after you left.”

“But why arrest her?” I asked, my voice rising. “She’s the victim!”

Before I could say more, she added,

“It’s a k********g case. That’s what I heard the police say.”

I felt sick.

“What is she arrested for?” Uncle Papi asked, leaning closer.

“k********g,” I stuttered, unable to believe the word myself.

“I’m going to the police station now,” Dineo continued. “She’s still there.”

“Please,” I said quickly, “take her a warm blanket or a jersey. It gets cold in the holding cells.”

“I will,” she replied. “I’ll call you back when I get home.”

The call ended.

Uncle Papi immediately started phoning my aunties.

By the time they arrived, I had barely managed to catch my breath.

“What’s going on, Papi?” one of them asked. “You sounded serious on the phone.”

“My mother is about to be arrested,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Ngwaneso, o reng jwale?” Kgauhelo asked in disbelief.

“My brother… what do you mean?”

“What happened?” Aunt Palesa asked, her face tense.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to explain.

“A day before I came here,” I began, “a guy from my neighborhood took my mom’s phone while she wasn’t looking. It was at the place where they play cards.”

I paused, then continued.

“Everyone saw him—except my mother. It was her turn to play. When they tried to stop him, he denied taking the phone and walked away.”

“Then Joshua came running,” I said. “‘Bhuti, the guy is waiting for a taxi at the stop sign.’”

“That’s when I asked Joshua and some boys to bring him to me before he could leave.”

After a few minutes, they called my name.

“When I came out the gate,” I said, “there he was. The same guy I recognized from town.”

“There were many people around,” I continued. “Some were saying he had stolen from them before.”

“I calmed everyone down,” I said firmly. “I asked him politely to return the phone.”

“But he denied everything.”

My throat tightened.

“After that… the crowd took him. I don’t even know where.”

The room fell silent.

“I’m shocked,” I said finally. “I don’t understand how the police arrested my mother—when she is the victim in all of this.”

No one spoke for a moment.

And in that silence, I realized something terrifying:

Even when you survive violence,

even when you try to do the right thing,

the world can still turn you into the accused.