Fathers and Other Strangers

Chapter 7: Fathers and Other Strangers

Saturday arrived with the kind of nervous energy Katlego hadn't felt in years. He stood in front of his wardrobe for nearly ten minutes, flipping between shirts, unable to decide. It wasn't a date. It wasn't an interview. But it felt just as important—maybe more.

He was meeting Thabo.

It had been years since they'd seen each other in person. Their relationship had become an exchange of birthday messages, missed calls, and money transfers. Nothing too deep, nothing too vulnerable. But that was the old Katlego. The new version—still raw, still uncertain—was trying to change that.

They agreed to meet at a quiet park halfway between their neighborhoods. Katlego chose a dark blue button-up shirt and clean jeans. He checked himself in the mirror. He looked older, yes. But he also looked lighter. Less burdened.

As he drove through the city streets, memories pressed against the glass of his mind. He remembered holding Thabo as a baby, the smell of milk and talcum powder, the way he would wrap his tiny fingers around Katlego's thumb. He also remembered the night he walked out—tired, frustrated, scared. He had convinced himself it was better that way. That Thabo would be better off without his uncertainty, his mess.

But all those excuses rang hollow now.

When he arrived, Thabo was already there, sitting on a bench beneath a jacaranda tree. The petals had started to fall, covering the ground in purple softness. Thabo stood up when he saw him—taller than Katlego remembered, broader too. He wore a hoodie and jeans, hands in his pockets, eyes wary but open.

"Hey, Dad," he said.

Katlego smiled. "Hey, son."

They shook hands awkwardly before Katlego pulled him into a quick hug. Thabo didn't pull away, and that was something.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching children play nearby. The sound of laughter floated in the air, mixing with the rustle of leaves.

"How've you been?" Katlego asked.

Thabo shrugged. "Good. Busy with school and work. I'm doing part-time graphic design stuff now. Freelancing."

"That's great," Katlego said, genuinely impressed. "I always knew you'd be creative."

Thabo looked at him with raised eyebrows. "You did?"

Katlego hesitated. "Yes. Even as a kid, you'd draw on everything. Walls, shoes, furniture…"

Thabo chuckled. "Mom hated that."

They both laughed, and for a moment, the tension cracked.

"I should've been there more," Katlego said quietly. "I should've tried harder."

Thabo didn't respond immediately. He looked down at his shoes. "I used to think I did something wrong," he said. "Like maybe if I'd been better, you wouldn't have left."

Katlego's chest tightened. "No. God, no. You were just a kid. My leaving had nothing to do with you. That was all me. I was scared and… selfish. And I regret it every day."

Thabo nodded slowly. "It took me a long time to believe that."

Katlego wanted to reach out, to say something more, but the silence between them wasn't hostile—it was healing.

"I'm trying now," he said. "It might be too late, but I want to show up. However you'll let me."

Thabo was quiet again. Then he said, "It's not too late. But it's gonna take time."

Katlego nodded. "Time's all I've got."

They talked for over an hour. Nothing too deep, but meaningful. Music, books, his classes, Thabo's work. By the time they parted, there was a softness between them that hadn't existed before. Not quite forgiveness—but something close.

The next week, Katlego received an unexpected phone call.

"Katlego Moloi?" the voice asked.

"Yes."

"This is Sarah Ndlovu. I work with the Department of Social Services. We've received your number from a mutual contact—Zanele Mokoena. She mentioned you might be interested in mentoring young men in our after-school program."

Katlego blinked. "Me?"

"Yes. We're looking for adults with life experience, preferably men of color, who can relate to the challenges these teens face."

He didn't answer right away. Part of him wanted to laugh. Mentor? Him? He had barely gotten his own life together.

But then he thought about Thabo. About Lefa, his student. About the other young men who had no one to speak to—no one who would listen without judgment.

"I'm interested," he finally said. "Tell me more."

On Thursday afternoon, he walked into a small community center filled with rowdy teenage boys. Loud music played from someone's speaker. A group huddled around a PlayStation, while another debated soccer stats.

When he introduced himself, most barely looked up.

But over the next hour, Katlego listened. That was his strategy. Not to impress or lecture—but to listen. He heard stories of absent fathers, pressure at school, hunger, anger, dreams buried beneath survival.

One boy named Sipho challenged him. "What