No one ever plans for pain but it has a way of moving you, making you reach for the nearest help, the nearest friend or anything to steady yourself. Phillip, seeing his father’s swollen face knew they couldn’t just sit in that house and do nothing. He picked up his phone and called his rich friend Manoti and asked for help.
“Hello, Manoti,” Phillip said, trying to steady his voice as he spoke.
“Evening, Phil. What’s up?” Manoti answered and in the background you could still hear music playing.
For a moment, Phillip hesitated before replying. “Are you around? I actually need your help. My father is not well. Something bad happened.”
Immediately, Manoti’s tone changed. “I’m around. So what’s going on? Is it serious?”
Meanwhile, Phillip glanced at his father. “It’s serious, my guy. He was beaten in a Kombi and now his face is swollen. We need to take him to the police and maybe the hospital.”
Outside, the night was growing colder, a quiet wind slipping through the cracked windowpanes and brushing the edges of the curtains. Inside, the house was noisy with pressure as Temba’s wife paced the kitchen with her voice echoing off the walls and echoing through every room.
“So this is how you come home? Look at you! Grown man, fighting in kombis at your age. You are embarrassing us! What will people say? What do you want your children to think, ah?” She did not wait for an answer. Sometimes it was not really a question. It was the something people said when the world got too heavy or when anger was mixed with worry and that worry was mixed with love.
Temba could barely answer. He sat on the edge of the couch, his hand pressed to his jaw because shame was thick around him. The room felt smaller with every word and even the pictures on the wall seemed to look down on him. The old TV in the corner was silent but its blank screen was like a mirror showing him the face he wished he could hide.
Phillip stood at the door, jacket already on, his face tight with worry. He kept looking out through the window, checking if Manoti was close. His father needed help and tonight, that meant getting out of the house.
Soon, headlights washed across the windows as Manoti finally arrived. Phillip stepped outside first, leaving the front door open behind him. The night air was sharp, smelling of cold earth and distant fires from people burning rubbish because the city council had not collected it. A few stray dogs barked at the car as it pulled up, the old sedan coughing and grumbling before settling into a patient idle. Manoti was in the driver’s seat, MaSibanda beside him in the front. Both wore expressions of concern but tried to hide it, each in their own way.
Phillip hurried back inside. “Baba, let’s go. The car is here.” He reached for his father’s arm, gently helping him up. Temba moved slowly, every step careful, hand never leaving his face. They shuffled outside, the gravel making a crunching sound beneath their feet.
They climbed into the back. As the car pulled away, city lights flashing by, it felt for a moment like all their problems had been left behind. But pressure always finds its way back in. The hum of the engine mixed with the sound of their hearts beating, each person lost in their own thoughts, trying not to think about what waited ahead.
The radio was already on, some late-night DJ reading news. The voice was calm but somber, each word heavy, like the cold air pressing through the cracks in the window.
“We have some sad news tonight. A young man, Kudakwashe Lays, has been found dead at his family home. Police say it is an apparent suicide. At the scene, a note was left behind. In the letter, Kudakwashe wrote that his parents did not love him. He said his father never showed up to his prize-giving day even though he had promised to be there. His mother had left the family a long time ago. He wrote that he felt alone in the world, unloved and unwanted. ‘No one in this world loves me and no one cares,’ he wrote. ‘My father is always working, chasing money but never had time for me. My mother left us so I have nothing to live for. Please forgive me. I can’t take it anymore.’”
The car went silent. For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the tires on the tar. Even the city seemed to pause, the streetlights shining through the windows like distant, lonely moons. The news anchor tried to move on, but the words hung heavy in the air.
No one spoke. Even MaSibanda, always ready with a joke or a story, stared out the window at the empty streets, her hand drumming nervously on her knee. Temba’s hand fell from his face for a moment. He stared at his own lap, thinking of his children, thinking of the words he had heard on the radio.
Manoti reached for the radio dial and turned the volume down. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “I knew that child,” he said. “He was the son of a good friend of mine.”
Phillip looked up, surprised. Even Temba managed to focus, pain forgotten for a moment.
“I met his father years ago. I’d just bought this car, but at that time I didn’t have a license yet. I kept failing the test, three times in a row. It was after I had done a gold deal. Money wasn’t the problem but the nerves were. So, one day, I paid a bribe, just like everyone does these days. I gave the official his share,and finally got my license at last.”
He smiled, but there was no pride in it.
“After that, I met the official again by chance. He was looking for a lift out of town, so I picked him up and soon we started talking. Over time, we became friends. We drank together and shared stories. He was always talking about his son, always saying how he was proud of him. He was always posting him on WhatsApp statuses. You’d think he was the best father in the world.”
Manoti shook his head, sadness creeping into his words. “Now look. All this time, his son was hurting with pressure. You never really know what’s happening inside people’s houses. You just never know.”
There was a quiet, uneasy laugh from the front seat, the kind people make when they don’t know what else to do. They all felt a mix of guilt and fear as they thought life could be so unfair such that you could do everything right and still lose the ones you love.
The sedan rolled on, headlights sweeping across potholes and sleeping vendors curled beside their empty carts. In the back seat, Temba closed his eyes as he felt the weight of his own mistakes. He wondered if his children thought of him the same way Kudakwashe had thought of his father. Was he ever truly present? Did they know he loved them, even on days when he did not know how to show it?
Phillip leaned against the door, watching the world blur past. The night was deep, but the city was restless with streetlights and shadows moved in alleys. Somewhere, far away, a police siren howled and the sound drifted through the night like a warning.
They passed a row of old shops. A stray dog trotted across the road, its fur patchy, head low, eyes shining in the headlights. The city never really slept as if it only paused to catch its breath. Inside the car, time moved slowly as everyone inside that car was thinking about someone they had lost or someone they feared to lose. The news on the radio was just a story to the world but tonight it had come close, too close.
The journey seemed to take forever, but finally, the police station came into view. The blue lights at the gate glowed like a warning and a welcome. The car slowed down then eventually stopped. Nobody said anything for a while. The pressure that had followed them from home had only changed shape. Now it filled the car, pressing against their chests, making it hard to breathe.
Phillip got out first and opened the door for his father. He moved around the car, holding Temba’s arm as they walked towards the station. MaSibanda and Manoti watched them go, their faces serious in the glow of the dashboard lights then followed in no hurry. Sometimes, walking slow is the only way to keep from falling apart.
Together they walked toward the charge office, their shadows long on the pavement, the night air heavy with all the things left unsaid. Each step echoed with the memory of that news report, and with the small, private fears every family carries.
The city behind them kept on moving kombis honked, people argued over fares, somewhere a radio played an old love song, and in some other house, another family listened to the same news, felt the same pressure, and wondered if tomorrow would be any different. the memory of that news report, and with the small, private fears every family carries.
