Chapter 13: Gqeberha Skies
The sea was louder than he remembered. Or maybe Katlego had just forgotten what quiet felt like—the kind of quiet that had no traffic, no echo of school bells, no concrete pressing against your every step. In Gqeberha, the wind had its own language, and the waves were storytellers.
Naledi's apartment overlooked the ocean. It wasn't luxurious, but it was warm, full of plants, books, and open windows. Her new project—the restoration of a forgotten lighthouse—was already consuming most of her daylight hours. But when she was home, they talked. Not like lovers trying to impress each other, but like best friends watching life unfold side by side.
Katlego had only planned to stay a week.
By day five, he was wondering why he hadn't come sooner.
They spent mornings on the balcony with coffee, watching the surfers and the dog walkers, exchanging quiet thoughts and poetry. Katlego would write as Naledi sketched blueprints. Their silences were comfortable. Their laughter easy.
"I don't feel like a visitor here," he said one evening, as they walked along the promenade.
"You're not," Naledi replied. "You're a witness."
"A witness to what?"
She smiled. "To me becoming. And I, to you."
His days in Gqeberha began to fill with more than just rest. A community center near Naledi's office invited him to give a talk on men's mental health and storytelling. One talk turned into three. Then someone suggested he start a small writing group.
"Most of the kids here don't even know how to name what they feel," said Mbali, the center's coordinator. "You give them a chance to start."
Katlego didn't hesitate. The group met every Thursday evening—eight teenagers, a mix of shy boys and bold girls, all eager to share something, even if they didn't know what yet.
He titled the first session: "Write Like the World is Listening."
It caught on.
They wrote about home, heartbreak, disappointment, music, dreams. One boy, Anele, wrote a letter to his absent brother. A girl named Kiara wrote a short story about her grandmother's hands.
By the third session, one of the younger boys asked, "Sir, do you live here now?"
Katlego chuckled. "Not yet. But I'm thinking about it."
Thabo called one night. His voice had grown more relaxed over the weeks.
"How's the ocean treating you, Pops?"
"It's reminding me how to breathe," Katlego said. "How's school?"
"Busy. But I'm good. Actually… I've been working on a short film. A visual piece about fathers and sons."
Katlego sat up. "Really?"
"Yeah. I even used some lines from your book. Hope that's okay."
"More than okay," Katlego said, smiling. "I'm honored."
Thabo hesitated before speaking again. "Maybe when it's done… we can watch it together."
Katlego felt his throat tighten. "I'd love that, son."
After they hung up, he sat quietly, staring out at the dark water. Healing wasn't linear, but it was real. And every conversation like that—every moment of closeness—was proof.
One morning, as Katlego made breakfast, Naledi walked in holding a letter.
"This came for you," she said, handing it over.
It was from the publisher. A pre-release proof of Shadows and Light. The cover was matte black with gold lettering. Under his name was a line Naledi had once said to him: "We tell our stories to remember who we are."
He opened it carefully, flipping through the pages like they were treasure maps. Every word was his. Every chapter a mile marker on the road he'd walked to get here.
"You're officially an author," Naledi said.
Katlego exhaled slowly. "I'm officially alive."
That evening, they celebrated with wine and laughter. Naledi pulled out a bottle she had saved for a special moment.
"To words," she toasted.
"To the ones we feared, and the ones we finally dared to write," Katlego added.
They clinked glasses, and everything between them felt full of truth.
But even in joy, life found ways to test his new foundation.
A week later, Katlego received a call from Zanele. Her voice was calm, but tight with worry.
"It's Lefa," she said. "He was caught in a fight outside the center. Police got involved. They didn't arrest him, but he's shaken."
Katlego's heart sank. "Is he okay?"
"He asked for you."
The next morning, Katlego boarded the first bus back to Johannesburg. The ride was long and winding, but his mind was focused. He wasn't going back to fix everything. He was going back to show up—the way someone once should have for him.
When he arrived, Lefa was waiting outside the center, his face bruised, his hands fidgety.
"I didn't even start it," the boy mumbled. "I was walking home. These guys tried to take my phone. I fought back. Got blamed."
Katlego nodded. "You don't owe me an explanation. I just wanted to see you."
They sat on the steps, side by side.
"I thought I'd finally changed," Lefa said. "But I guess I'm still the same angry kid."
"You're not the same," Katlego said firmly. "You reacted. That's human. But the fact that you reached out—that's growth. That's courage."
Lefa looked up at him. "Will I ever really get out of this?"
"You're already out," Katlego replied. "Now you just have to believe you deserve to stay free."
They talked until dusk.
And before Katlego left, Lefa handed him a new story.
"It's called 'The Fire Inside the Quiet.' I wrote it last night."
Katlego took the pages, heart full. "I can't wait to read it."
That night, back in his apartment, Katlego sat alone at his desk. His suitcase was still packed, the scent of the sea still clinging to his clothes.
He read Lefa's story, tears welling as he saw echoes of himself in every paragraph. Then he opened his notebook and began to write again—not a story, not a poem. Just a line that refused to leave him:
You don't heal by escaping where you come from. You heal by standing in it long enough to claim your voice.
Outside, the stars were sharp against the sky. Johannesburg wasn't the ocean—but it was still home.
For now.