Wounded warrior

Learning Where I Come From

After the funeral, things felt… lighter.

Not healed. Not perfect.

But better.

For the first time in a long while, I felt alive—and I noticed it. The heaviness that had lived in my chest for years loosened its grip, even if only slightly.

Every day, my phone buzzed with messages from the family group. Laughter, voice notes, prayers, old pictures, inside jokes I didn’t yet understand but was eager to learn. Even those who couldn’t make it to the funeral reached out privately, sending condolences, welcoming me home in their own way.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

Then one day, an unknown number called.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hi,” the voice said warmly. “You’re speaking to your uncle from your father’s side.”

He paused.

“You are Tebelo, right?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Good,” he said. “I’m your uncle—Papi.”

I smiled without realizing it.

“I hear great things about you,” he continued. “In fact, everyone is talking about you in the family group.”

“Is that so?” I laughed. “I try to respond, but my Sesotho isn’t great yet.”

“Ohhh,” he chuckled. “So you’re speaking your mother’s tongue.”

“Yes,” I said proudly.

“So,” he went on, “when are we meeting?”

“Soon,” I replied. “I can’t say exactly when, but soon.”

“Take your time, ngwaneso—my brother,” he said kindly.

“I’m actually on my way home from work. I passed by your aunties’ house earlier. We all live in the same neighborhood.”

“Oh, I was chatting with them just now,” I replied.

“Good,” he said. “Please greet your family for me.”

“I will.”

“Don’t take too long, hey.”

“I won’t. Sharp.”

The call ended, but the warmth lingered.

Days later, while sitting with Mr Mabaso, I told him everything—about my father’s family, about how eager they were to meet me, about how real it all felt.

He looked at me for a long moment, then said,

“Funerals do that.”

I nodded.

“You might have lost your father,” he continued, “but something great happened that day.”

I listened closely.

“You found your family.”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I always thought that when my father passed, I lost my chance to know where I come from… his roots.”

“You’re right, Matibza… Tibza,” he said softly.

Then he asked, “Are you ready, though?”

I hesitated.

“To be honest, Taima lam… I don’t know.”

He smiled knowingly, searching his pockets for a cigarette.

“That’s normal,” he said. “They’re Sesotho-speaking people, yes—but that fear I see in your eyes? That’s just fear of the unknown.”

He laughed gently.

“You’ll learn the language.”

Then he added,

“And besides… it’s your father’s tongue.”

A week later, I was on my way to meet Uncle Papi.

We met halfway, near the stop sign. When I arrived, everyone was already there—waiting.

Faces lit up. Hands reached out. Voices called my name.

We talked. We laughed. We ate.

Later, we went to my uncle’s place. That’s where I stayed—but I didn’t belong to just one house. I rotated between three homes, each a short distance from the other. One night here, the next day there.

No one questioned it.

I went whenever I felt like it, slowly getting used to the place, learning the rhythm of a life that had always existed without me—and yet had made room the moment I arrived.

What I loved most was this:

It was far from the place where I almost died.

And close to the place where I was learning how to live again.