UnTold Cries

Embracing the Light Beyond Darkness

I was just a child...

October 3rd arrived with the promise of celebration as I woke up early, brimming with excitement for my 13th birthday. The first thing I did was check my phone, which buzzed with eight heartfelt birthday wishes. As I began to reply, my friend Sipho called, and our conversation filled the morning with laughter and plans for the day.

By the time I hung up, my mother was already awake, her face lit with the same joy that filled mine. She had planned a special day for us, just the two of us, starting with a birthday lunch at Spurs. "Cribs," I declared as we drove, my stomach growling in anticipation.

We were so happy, so lost in the moment, that we didn't see the truck until it was too late. It careened out of control, smashing into us with devastating force. Everything went black.

I woke up in a hospital bed, disoriented and in pain. Tubes and machines surrounded me, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air. I called for my mother, but she didn't come. Instead, doctors and nurses hovered around, their faces grave. They explained that I had been in a coma for two and a half weeks, miraculously surviving a horrific car accident. But my mother... they hesitated, exchanged glances, and finally uttered the words that shattered my world—she hadn't made it. She was gone.

I couldn't process it. My mother, my anchor, the only family I had left—gone in an instant. Tears streamed down my face as grief washed over me like a tidal wave. I wanted to scream, to lash out at the unfairness of it all. But I was alone, utterly alone.

In the days that followed, my world became a blur of hospital routines and sympathetic faces. My aunt Gabby, my mother's sister, took me in. She had four children of her own—Minie, Pam, Sandile, and Sammy—and a husband, Joe, whom I barely knew. They welcomed me into their home with open arms, but it was never the same. Nothing would ever be the same.

The first thing I did when I was discharged from the hospital was visit my mother's grave. It was a small, peaceful cemetery on the outskirts of town, nestled beneath a canopy of old oak trees. The sight of her headstone, adorned with fresh flowers, brought back a flood of memories—her laughter, her warmth, the way she used to tuck me into bed at night and sing softly until I fell asleep. I knelt beside her grave and whispered, "I miss you, Mom. I don't know how to do this without you."

Life at Gabby's house was a stark contrast to the warmth and love I had known with my mother. The first few months were filled with sympathy and understanding. Everyone tiptoed around me, treating me like fragile glass. But as time passed, things began to change.

Gabby started assigning me more chores—cleaning, cooking, looking after the younger children. At first, I didn't mind. It gave me something to focus on, a way to distract myself from the overwhelming grief that threatened to consume me. But as the chores piled up, I struggled to keep up with schoolwork. I tried to talk to Gabby about it, to explain that I needed more time to study, but she dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand.

"This is my house," she would say firmly. "Everyone pitches in. It's only fair."

Fair. The word echoed in my mind as I scrubbed dishes late into the night, my eyes stinging with exhaustion and unshed tears. My cousins, Gabby's children, began to treat me differently too—Pam, in particular. She was only a year younger than me but seemed to take pleasure in making my life difficult. She would mock me in front of her friends, criticize everything I did, and complain to Gabby about the smallest mistakes.

I felt like an outsider in my own home, a burden to be tolerated rather than a member of the family. I missed my mother desperately, her absence a constant ache in my heart.

At 16, I found an unexpected ally in Joe, Gabby's husband. He was a quiet man, often lost in his own thoughts, but he treated me with a kindness and respect that I hadn't experienced since my mother died. We began to bond over shared interests—books, gardening, even cooking. For the first time in years, I felt a glimmer of hope that things might improve.