What the rain Remembered

Chapter 10: What the Rain Remembered

It rained the entire morning—soft, persistent, cleansing. The kind of rain that didn't storm or thunder, but simply insisted on being noticed. Katlego stood by the window of his apartment, mug in hand, watching the water slide down the glass like slow tears. Johannesburg rain always carried memory. And today, it seemed to remember everything.

He had woken before dawn, restless. The night had been filled with dreams—some strange, some familiar. One in particular lingered: he was a boy again, barefoot, chasing the sound of his mother's voice through endless corridors. No matter how fast he ran, she was always just out of reach. He woke with her name on his lips: Mma.

He hadn't visited her grave in years. It wasn't neglect, not truly—it was fear. Guilt. Shame. She had sacrificed everything to raise him, and in the end, he had become a man who disappeared into himself.

But now… now things were shifting.

He sent a message to Zanele:

"Do you remember where my mother was buried? I think I'm ready."

Within minutes, she replied:

"Yes. Westpark Cemetery. Block G. I'll go with you, if you want."

He smiled, touched. But he shook his head, even though she couldn't see him.

"Thank you. But this one, I need to do alone."

Katlego drove through the wet streets with slow care. The city looked softer in the rain—washed, quiet, honest. It was late morning when he arrived at the cemetery. The ground was damp, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and old flowers.

He carried a small bouquet of lilies and a folded page from his notebook.

Finding her grave didn't take long. He had avoided the journey for years, but his feet remembered the path. The stone was simple:

Miriam Thandiwe Moloi

Beloved Mother. Resting, but not forgotten.

He knelt slowly, laying the flowers at her name. The silence pressed against him. For a while, he said nothing. Just breathed. Listened to the rain tapping gently on the umbrella above him.

Then he unfolded the paper and read aloud.

Mma,

I've carried so many words for you in my heart, but never knew how to speak them. You raised me with love, with strength, with quiet fire. And I repaid you with distance. I was too proud to admit I was lost. Too broken to come back when I should have.

But I want you to know I've found my way again. Slowly. Clumsily. But I'm finding it. I'm writing again. I'm trying to be a better father. A better man.

I still hear your voice sometimes. I remember the way you'd hum while doing the dishes, how you'd call me "my lion" even when I acted like a coward.

Thank you for loving me even when I didn't deserve it. I hope you've found peace. I'm working on finding mine.

His voice cracked on the last line. He didn't fight it. He let the tears come, quiet and necessary.

It was the first time in years he cried without shame.

He sat there a while longer, talking to her in his mind. Telling her about Thabo, about the workshops, about Naledi. About all the versions of himself he was trying to become.

When he finally stood, he felt lighter. Not healed, but hollowed out in a good way—like a space had been cleared inside him for something new to grow.

Later that afternoon, he met Naledi for lunch at her place. She had made butternut soup and baked fresh rolls. The apartment smelled like rosemary and warmth.

"You okay?" she asked as he hung up his coat.

"I saw my mother today," he said.

Naledi paused, ladle in hand. "How was it?"

"Hard. But good. I think I needed to tell her who I've become."

Naledi handed him a bowl and kissed his cheek gently. "She would be proud."

They ate in quiet understanding. Afterward, they curled on the couch, her head on his shoulder, the sound of rain still whispering against the window.

"I've been thinking," he said suddenly. "About turning some of my writing into a book. Not fiction. Just… pieces of me. Letters, reflections, poems."

Naledi lifted her head. "I think that's exactly what you're meant to do."

"I don't know if it's good enough."

"You don't have to be perfect, Katlego. Just honest."

He nodded. "Maybe that's the real work of growing older. Learning to tell the truth."

In the weeks that followed, Katlego wrote like a man catching up with himself. Every morning before work, every evening before bed, he added to a growing document titled: "Shadows and Light."

He wrote about his father—the stranger he never knew. About the women he loved and failed. About the classroom. About the stage at open mic night. About mentorship, about fear, about standing at a grave in the rain.

One evening, while reviewing a draft, he came across a line he hadn't remembered writing:

Healing doesn't erase what hurt you. It just teaches you how to live around the scars.

He stared at it for a long time. It felt like truth.

One night, Thabo invited him over for dinner. It was a simple meal—pasta, garlic bread, music playing low in the background. Thabo had grown more comfortable around him, and Katlego was learning to be present without overcompensating.

"Can I ask you something?" Thabo said as they cleared the dishes.

"Of course."

"Did you always know you'd find your way back to me?"

Katlego swallowed. "No," he said. "I hoped. But I didn't know. There were times I thought I'd lost the right."

Thabo was quiet, then said, "I think I needed time to learn how to receive you again. But I'm glad we're here."

Katlego smiled, his chest aching in the best way. "So am I."

They stood there for a long moment, two men trying to rebuild something fragile but real.

When Katlego finally submitted his manuscript to a local publisher Zanele recommended, he didn't think of fame or reviews. He thought of his mother. He thought of Boitumelo. Of Lefa. Of Naledi. Of Thabo.

He thought of the man who once stood in a mirror wondering if life had already passed him by.

And he smiled.

Because now he knew—

Some stories don't begin at the start.

Some begin when you finally choose to tell them.