LEAP - The journal of a street kid

The Turning Point

It was spring, and the air was thick with the sweet scent of ripening blackberries. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long, warm shadows over the land as the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day. Sisonke and his friends ran out of the gates of Miracle House, their laughter echoing in the quiet streets. There was a place they all loved, an old building not far from the home. It had been abandoned for years, its windows long broken, but the large trees around it bore fruit every season, ripe blackberries that stained your hands as you picked them.

They'd made it their secret spot, a haven away from the watchful eyes of the adults. The children gathered under the shade, squatting on the ground, their fingers covered in juice, enjoying the fleeting moments of freedom before the evening bell rang, signaling the end of play and the beginning of dinner. For those brief hours, they were just children—nothing more, nothing less.

But this time, as they were picking berries, something felt different.

Two boys, older than them by a few years, appeared at the edge of the field. The air around them seemed to shift, heavy with the weight of their presence. Their eyes were wild, darting around the group like hunters searching for prey. It didn't take long for the other children to sense danger. One by one, they stood up, leaving their ripe berries behind and slipping away into the trees.

All except Sisonke.

He sat there for a moment, his hand still in the bush, his heart pounding in his chest. Something about the older boys drew him in—maybe it was their confidence, or maybe it was the thrill of being around kids who weren't from Miracle House, kids who seemed to live in a world that was both exciting and dangerous. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't feel fear. He felt something else. Something unfamiliar.

The boys approached him slowly, their movements calculated. The taller of the two, a boy named Mzo, held up a small bottle, the liquid inside glistening strangely in the sunlight.

"Hey, you ever tried this?" Mzo asked, his voice low, coaxing. "It'll make you feel good, trust me."

Sisonke looked at the bottle, the contents swirling inside. He didn't know what it was, but the way Mzo spoke—like it was something everyone should try—made him hesitate. Part of him wanted to refuse, to stand up and walk away. But another part of him was curious.

They handed him the bottle, urging him to try it. The scent was strange, strong, chemical. Sisonke had never tasted anything like it before. And though a tiny voice inside him told him to say no, he found himself following their lead, tilting the bottle to his lips and breathing in deeply.

At first, nothing happened. He felt fine. But then, the world around him began to shift. His vision blurred, the air felt thick and heavy, and his body felt like it wasn't his own. A strange sensation coursed through his veins, something between numbness and floating.

Before he could process what was happening, Mzo and the other boy were moving closer. Their words became muffled, as though they were coming from far away. The whole scene felt surreal—like he wasn't even there, but somehow, he still was.

One of the boys pushed him back onto the grass, and Sisonke felt his body go limp, disconnected from his mind. Something deep inside him screamed, but he couldn't find the strength to fight. His body seemed to betray him, responding in ways he couldn't control. He lay there, unable to move, unable to understand what was happening to him.

In the haze of confusion and distorted reality, he felt the boys press in around him. They whispered things—mean things, things that made his stomach turn. His body felt like a prison, and yet, there was nothing he could do to escape it. The pain wasn't just physical; it was something deeper, a loss of control, a loss of trust.

He tried to scream, to push them away, but his body was numb. His thoughts scrambled together in a cloud, and the feeling of helplessness grew heavier with every passing second. He could still hear their taunts, their laughter, but it felt like it came from a distant place, a place where he no longer belonged.

In the aftermath, when it was over and his mind began to clear, Sisonke's body felt like it had been torn apart. He looked at his clothes—his white pants, now stained with dirt and grass. The blood on his hands didn't seem real. It wasn't just the blood, but the humiliation, the shame, the violation that he couldn't process, couldn't speak about.

When the boys left, laughing as though nothing had happened, Sisonke lay there, not knowing what to do. His mind raced, his thoughts jumbled. He was numb—numb to the pain, numb to the shame, numb to the world around him.

But deep down, he felt something new, something heavier than all the confusion. It was a weight he hadn't felt before—something darker, something that he couldn't explain.

As he stumbled to his feet, he looked at the blackberry bush. The fruit was still there, waiting to be picked, but it didn't feel the same anymore. Everything had changed. The world he had known, the safety he had once found in simple moments, was now tainted.

He returned to Miracle House later that evening, his body stiff with tension. His heart was heavy, but his face remained neutral, the mask he had learned to wear so well.

Dinner came, the children all gathered in the dining hall as they did every night. But tonight, Sisonke didn't feel like singing. He didn't feel like anything. He sat quietly, his gaze fixed on the empty space before him.

Thandi noticed, of course. She always did. She sat beside him, gently placing a hand on his arm. But Sisonke couldn't look her in the eye. He couldn't bring himself to speak. Not yet.

After dinner, as the children filed out of the hall, Thandi lingered. "Sisonke," she said softly. "Are you okay?"

Sisonke's throat tightened. The words didn't come. He couldn't say it. Not yet. He wasn't ready to face it.

But Thandi's eyes, full of concern and love, stayed with him. She didn't press him to speak, but she didn't let him go, either. She stayed close, like the anchor he didn't know he needed