The day of the celebration did not go as planned. He had dreamed of throwing a party - a moment of self-gratitude for his academic achievement. He had friends, but circumstances bound them, leaving them unable to do much. Still, he found solace in knowing the day he had long awaited had come to pass. It was a mission accomplished. Memories were captured, and another goal - the dream he had nurtured since meeting his mentors - was already in progress.
But did he enjoy receiving his academic certificate?
On stage, he had tears in his eyes. Tears of joy, perhaps, but were they only that? Or were they tears of something deeper? Back in 2005, his sister stood by him when their mother was gravely ill. In 2024, it was the same sister who held his hand and whispered, "I'm so proud of you." Could it be that this moment brought back memories of those darker days?
One thing was certain: he had endured much. Those around him suspected he carried wounds far deeper than anyone could see. Years ago, he sought counselling, but it had provided little relief.
Weeks passed, and his friends finally decided to celebrate their success. He dressed differently that night, catching them off guard. He looked sharp, unusual for him. Yet, before they left, he joked nervously, "Guys, I feel like something bad is going to happen." They laughed, brushing it off, but deep down, he meant it.
When they reached the venue, the night was vibrant. Music thumped, and the air buzzed with excitement. But he could not shake the unease. Whispers filled his mind, voices he tried to silence but could not ignore. Despite his efforts to enjoy the moment, something happened - something he refuses to talk about even now.
Some know the truth; others do not. He prefers it that way. All anyone remembers is how his cries echoed, raw and haunting, like the wails at a cemetery when a casket is lowered into the ground. Before the incident, he was seen walking alone through dangerous streets, from Russell Road to Govan Mbeki Avenue, lost in thought. Was he heartbroken? He did not cry then - not until the reality of what happened hit him. When it did, it crushed him.
The next day, disbelief clouded his mind. How would he tell his father? His sister? His "deputy mother"? Yet, with trembling hands, he called them. He told them enough to keep them from worrying too much.
The aftermath was brutal. He fled to Rustenburg to process it all, but healing seemed elusive. Then, just as life began to settle, a similar incident occurred. It felt inescapable, as though he was cursed to relive the same torment.
People noticed the change in him. He withdrew from most of his friends, keeping only a few close. He lost weight, his eyes were perpetually swollen, and he suffered daily headaches. Still, he pressed on.
He used to be suicidal, but this time, he chose acceptance. His calling, once vague, was now clear to him. Everything happens for a reason, he reminded himself, reflecting on Ecclesiastes 3: "To everything, there is a season." He began to heal - not fully, but enough to find his purpose again.
He practiced his calling in solitude, finding comfort in prayer and writing. Those became his coping mechanisms. He never shared his pain with anyone, not even his sister or father. Why didn't he write back then? one might ask. He had no strength then to process the chaos, no space to bleed onto paper.
Today, he stands stronger. Life has thrown him challenges far greater than before, yet he remains resilient. His academics are back on track, and though he keeps his distance from many, those who genuinely care for him remain by his side.
He still carries secrets, pieces of himself he is not ready to share. And that is okay. Healing, he has learned, is a journey, not a destination. One day, he might tell the rest of his story. But for now, he watches and waits - stronger, wiser, and ready for whatever comes next.
