Chapter 16: Roots in the Water
The rain arrived just after dawn—steady, soft, and rhythmic. Gqeberha had a way of making even a storm feel gentle. Katlego woke to the sound, curled in the warmth of Naledi's bed, her head nestled against his chest. Neither moved for a long while. The rain had bought them permission to be still.
Eventually, he slipped out of bed and brewed coffee. The scent drifted through the apartment, blending with the sound of the sea. Outside, water streamed down the balcony glass, making the city blur into dreamlike motion. Everything felt slowed down, like a held breath.
Naledi joined him in the kitchen, wrapped in her long maroon robe, her eyes still soft with sleep.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, leaning into the counter beside him.
He sipped his coffee. "That I've lived most of my life building things in my head. Dreams. Futures. But this... being here with you, working, writing—it's the first time I feel like I've planted something real."
She smiled. "That's the thing about roots. They take time to notice. But once they're in, the whole tree stands taller."
At the college, Katlego's students had grown more confident. Their stories were no longer whispers—they were declarations. Dineo had finished a full memoir draft, and Musa had performed his first spoken word poem at a local youth festival.
After class, Dineo approached Katlego with a thoughtful look on her face.
"Do you ever miss the noise?" she asked.
"What noise?"
"Johannesburg. The pace. The urgency. The pressure to be seen."
Katlego chuckled. "Sometimes. But only in small doses. The older I get, the more I realize I don't need the city's validation. I just need room to grow."
Dineo nodded slowly. "I want to get there too."
"You will," he said. "Don't rush your roots."
She smiled, and for the first time, he saw her not just as a student—but as a writer in bloom.
That weekend, Katlego visited a local bookstore that had agreed to stock Shadows and Light. The owner, a gruff old man named Bram, had placed the copies on a small display table near the entrance, next to a pot of dying succulents and a framed quote by Ben Okri: "Stories can conquer fear, you know. They can make the heart bigger."
Katlego ran his fingers over the cover.
"You're the one who wrote this?" Bram asked, peering over his glasses.
Katlego nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good. People need this. Especially the men."
Katlego smiled. "I wrote it for them. But also for the boy I used to be."
Bram clapped him on the back. "Then you've done your job."
As Katlego left the store, the wind kicked up and blew the scent of rain back into his face. He paused on the pavement, letting the drizzle soak into his clothes.
There was something sacred about being seen in a quiet place. About finding relevance not in the roar, but in the ripple.
That night, Naledi surprised him with candles, music, and dinner on the balcony.
"No reason," she said. "Just wanted to celebrate... us."
They sat together eating roasted vegetables, sipping red wine, and watching the lightning flicker in the far-off horizon.
"Do you ever think about legacy?" Katlego asked suddenly.
She tilted her head. "All the time."
"What do you think yours will be?"
She smiled. "Spaces. Places that tell stories without words. A home that doesn't collapse when people leave it."
He nodded slowly. "Mine, I hope, will be words that make people return to themselves."
She took his hand. "You've already started."
The candle flickered between them. The silence felt like an embrace.
A few days later, he received a letter from Johannesburg—a handwritten one from Sipho.
Dear Mr. Kat,
Things are better now. I'm staying with my aunt. School is tough, but I'm hanging in there. I'm writing more. I wrote a story about the time you told me I didn't need to run anymore. My teacher said it's the best thing I've ever written. I think that moment was the first time I believed I was worth something. Thank you for giving me back my voice.
Also, I bought your book. It made me cry. But in the good way.
I hope you're doing okay by the ocean. I hope the waves are teaching you things.
You changed my life.
Your student, always—Sipho.
Katlego read the letter three times. Each word sank deep. Not because it praised him, but because it proved that presence mattered more than perfection.
He sat down and wrote back.
Dear Sipho,
I'm proud of you. Not for writing a great story, but for being brave enough to write it in the first place. The waves are still teaching me, yes. Mostly, they're teaching me how to return—again and again—to the truth.
Keep going. You're more than a story someone told you. You're the author now.
Yours in courage,
Mr. Kat.
In the mirror that night, Katlego looked at himself and didn't flinch. The lines on his face were deeper, yes. But so was the peace in his eyes.
He had not erased his past. He had woven it into something that could breathe.
As he undressed and prepared for bed, he thought about the small version of himself—the boy who sat alone in his room writing dreams into the margins of his schoolbooks. What would that boy say if he could see him now?
Probably something like:
We made it. Not perfectly. Not without breaking.
But we made it.
And that was more than enough.