Ndalwenhle
I stayed in that orphanage for 6 years. While staying there, I heard all kinds of the kids background: the ones whose parents were drunkards and neglected them until social workers took them away; the ones who were left on doorsteps without a note, with no identity; the ones abandoned in parks, taxis, hospitals, and bushes; the broken ones who had suffered immense abuse from their family members; and the ones whose parents had no sustainable income to maintain them.
All those kinds were there. It was crowded and noisy, but that was our home. Some got adopted, some ran away, but me—I was there because I had to ran away from my troubles, from the emotional and physical abuse I had suffered.
But the mind and the body don't forget. It never does. Small things triggered me, and I hated that. I didn't want to become like that woman. I didn't want to cause others the pain I had known. In the meaning of healing, I didn't want that.
I pushed myself not to cave when someone was raising a hand at me—even in a form meant to hug me. It wasn't easy. It was hard. And I relapsed one day. A caretaker was shouting at another child in the orphanage. Her voice was high as she scolded, and my mind brought me back to those scenes when Nobahle would shout at me and swear. I already knew the beatings were coming next.
In that moment, I froze as tears flowed from my eyes. A friend of mine there kept calling my name again and again until I brought myself back. After that, I had to talk to a therapist at the orphanage. It wasn't easy at first, but as time went by, I started opening up, embracing the scars and fears that woman had left on me.
It worked. Even my anger issues were not like before. Slowly, I healed.
I started playing soccer at school as a form of relaxation. I didn't want to be that great until coach told me on the side that if I pushed myself more, I could land a scholarship. At that time, I was in high school, doing my Grade 12. So I pushed and pushed.
It was hard when I had to start balancing schoolwork and soccer. Some days, I would come back from practice tired, but I still had to shower, eat, and then study. With the support of my friends and the caretakers, I kept going. I wasn't doing this for myself only, but also for them—their encouraging words, their readiness to help me with anything meant so much.
The little ones would leave me sweet messages that made me smile a lot. They wanted to help too, so I let them. When I had duties at the orphanage, other kids did them for me. I repaid them as a thank you, even though they said I didn't have to. To me, it was important. We were a family there.
We went to play in a tournament against other teams. Sponsors were there, and many family members came to support their kids. I didn't expect the owner of the orphanage, Mrs. Nzama, to arrive. I smiled when I saw her in the crowd. I was happy—at least one familiar face was there.
I still remember how loudly she shouted every time the ball was at my feet. Even though I couldn't score in the first half, I knew I wanted to score for her.
The second half came, and it was hell. The score was 0-0. The other team scored once. We pushed, but they scored again. Disappointed faces were everywhere, but the noise of support continued to bring us hope. A teammate finally scored, and everyone rejoiced. Then I scored the second goal. The cheers exploded again.
Now both teams were fighting for survival. Each wanted to end on the winning side. The game was nearing its end, but the other team scored again. We lost.
But even in defeat, the parents cheered us up. That day, Mrs. Nzama's words stayed with me: "That my boy everyone!" she shouted when I scored. After the game, she hugged me even though I was sweaty. She told me, "You played well, and I'm so proud of you."
Those words made my heart happy.
She brought me fatcakes, shawarma, and a cold drink with fries and fried fish. Her excuse was that it was time I ate oily food after two whole months of vegetables. I couldn't say no. On the drive back to the orphanage, I ate on the way, smiling.
One week later, I had already lost all hope of being sponsored. But one day, when I came back from school, I was called to Mrs. Nzama's office. There, sitting in a chair, was a man in a fancy dark suit.
I was told to take a seat after greeting. Then came the good news after the formalities. His name was Mr. Khumalo, a businessman who owned several construction companies. He explained that he had seen me play at the tournament and was impressed—not only by my skill, but by how I carried myself, encouraging teammates even when we were losing.
He wanted to sponsor me fully: school fees, soccer boots, a proper kit, medical care, and transport to training whenever needed. He promised that if I worked hard and passed my matric, he would help me apply for a university scholarship overseas through his contacts.
I was shocked, overwhelmed, and happy. Finally, there was light at the end of the tunnel. Things were going right.
But the news of a stranger's life going amazing and carefree on the other side was hard to accept. She was right—I was the bad cloud in her life all along.
That's why I passed by the place we once stayed—the place that was supposed to be happy for me, but wasn't. I wanted to see her. I guess I wanted to ask her why.
But when I was about to cross the road, I saw her throwing away dishwater. She was different. She seemed happy. And she was...