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Showing posts from July, 2026

THE HOUSE THAT FORGOT HOW TO LAUGH

 There was no love missing in our house, because there was no love left to miss.That was our secret. We were not sad. Sad would have been easier.In House 24, 2nd Street, Germiston - the Molefes were perfect.6:00 AM - Alarm. 6:15 AM - Mom in the kitchen. The sound of the spoon against the pot. Same pot. Same porridge. Every day for 7 years. 6:30 AM - Dad at the table. Phone brightness on his face. He nods at Mom. Mom nods back. That's their good morning. 6:45 AM - Me and Junior. We eat with the TV on mute. Mom says TV at breakfast rots your brain, so we watch the pictures move with no sound.No one shouts. No one throws plates. Our neighbors who scream at each other at night - they have more life than us.We just... live. We pay. We eat. We sleep. We repeat.Then Mrs. Khumalo gave us the project."Grade 4s, for Life Skills this week: Record 10 moments your family laughed together."I took my pink notebook home like it was gold.DAY 1 - Monday I wrote the date and waited. Dinner....

Silent Goodbye a sad reality. (Mom passes on & leaves small Children)

The quiet community of Ngodini, just outside Nelspruit in Mpumalanga, South Africa, woke up to heartbreaking news that left neighbours and relatives in disbelief. Twelve-year-old Ayanda had always been the responsible one. As the eldest of three children, she helped her mother care for her younger siblings, eight-year-old Sipho and four-year-old Amahle. Their mother, Nomsa, worked hard to provide for them, often reminding her children that no matter how difficult life became, they should always love and protect one another. One cold winter morning, the children woke up as usual. Ayanda prepared breakfast while waiting for their mother to get up for work. Minutes turned into an hour, but Nomsa never came out of her bedroom. Ayanda gently knocked on the door. "Mama?" she called softly. There was no answer. She knocked again, louder this time. "Mama, it's morning. You have to wake up." Still, there was only silence. Growing worried, Ayanda tried opening the door. H...

The Stranger in My Mirror

The Stranger in My Mirror When I was a child, my grandmother used to say, "The border is something people draw on maps. Hunger, hope, and grief don't stop to check passports." I nodded whenever she said it, but I never truly understood. Years later, I found myself standing outside a small grocery shop in Johannesburg, watching a crowd shout at a man with a Zimbabwean accent. They called him names. They told him to go home. Some threw stones. I stood there and did nothing. In my mind, I justified it. They're taking jobs. They're making life harder. They don't belong here. I was Black. I was African. Yet somehow, I believed another Black African was less deserving than I was because he had crossed a border. A week later, load shedding hit our neighborhood. The only shop still open was the same Zimbabwean man's store. I went in because I needed bread. He greeted me with a smile. "How are you, brother?" Brother. Not stranger. Not South African. Not c...

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