The drive to Chris Hani Baragwanath Academic Hospital was a journey into a different Johannesburg. The vibrant, sun-drenched streets of Soweto, still echoing with the ghost of their celebration, gave way to the wide, impersonal highways, and finally, to the sprawling, daunting complex of 'Bara'. The car, usually a space for Bongane's jokes or Dineo's playlists, was tomb-silent. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the rhythmic, too-calm click of the indicator as Dineo navigated the turns.
Refiloe sat in the back, her mother a stiff, silent statue beside her. She stared out the window, but saw nothing. The beautiful indigo of her umembeso outfit felt like a costume from another life, a cruel joke. She focused on the feeling of the beaded apron beneath her fingers, tracing the intricate patterns, trying to anchor herself in a reality that was rapidly dissolving.
Grace Mokoena had not shed a tear. She sat with her purse held tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Her silence was not peaceful; it was a fortress, walls built high and thick against the chaos threatening to breach them.
"The doctor said it was a possibility," Dineo said, her voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. She was speaking to the windshield, her hands at a perfect ten-and-two on the steering wheel. "The infection… it puts a strain on the entire system. We knew this."
"We knew it was a possibility, not a certainty," Bongane replied from the passenger seat, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. He had been scrolling through his phone incessantly since they got in the car, his thumb a frantic, angry blur. "He was better this morning. He was laughing."
"The body can only fight for so long," Grace said, her tone final, leaving no room for further discussion.
They parked in the vast, shadowy lot and walked towards the towering hospital entrance. The air changed the moment the automatic doors slid open. It was a specific smell—a cold, aggressive blend of disinfectant, boiled food, and underlying human sickness that clung to the back of the throat. The noise was a low, constant hum of distress—muffled cries, the squeak of trolley wheels, the staticky pages over the intercom.
The Intensive Care Unit on the fifth floor was a world of its own. The lights were brighter, harsher. The silence here was more profound, broken only by the rhythmic beeping and whirring of machines that seemed to be doing the breathing for the people in the beds.
Their father was in a bay at the far end of the ward. He seemed even smaller here, swallowed by the mechanical bed and a tangle of wires that snaked from his arms and chest to a bank of monitors. An oxygen tube was tucked under his nose, his breathing a shallow, raspy draft. His eyes were closed.
A young doctor with a tired but kind face met them. "His heart is very weak," she explained in a low voice, her words measured and careful. "We're doing all we can to support it, but the pneumonia has caused significant damage. It's a matter of time now. He's sedated for comfort, but he may have moments of lucidity."
Grace nodded, absorbing the information with a stoic dip of her chin. "Thank you, Doctor."
They arranged themselves around the bed, a silent, grieving constellation. Dineo immediately took charge, adjusting his blanket, speaking to a nurse about his IV drip. Bongane leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on their father's face, his jaw working. Refiloe pulled a chair close to the bedside and simply took his hand. It was cool and limp, the skin papery. This was the hand that had held hers crossing the street, that had proudly clapped at her graduation. Now, it felt like it was already letting go.
Hours bled into one another. The light outside the window faded from afternoon gold to deep evening indigo, then to the flat, orange glow of the city's night lights. Aunts and uncles came and went, their faces etched with sympathy, their whispers adding to the funereal atmosphere. They brought plastic containers of food that sat untouched on a small table.
Through it all, Refiloe watched her family. She saw the way her mother's eyes would sometimes glaze over, not with tears, but with a deep, private calculation. She saw how Dineo's efficiency was a shield, her focus on practicalities a way to avoid the gaping emotional chasm. She saw Bongane's restlessness, the anger simmering just beneath his skin, directed at the illness, at the situation, at the world.
She attributed it all to the unique language of grief. Everyone had their own dialect.
It was deep into the night, the ward quiet except for the chorus of machines, when his fingers twitched in hers.
Refiloe started, leaning forward. "Daddy?"
His eyelids fluttered open. It took a long moment for his gaze to swim into focus, to find her face in the dim light. The sedation had softened him, but his eyes held a startling clarity, a desperate urgency.
"Refiloe…" His voice was a dry leaf rustling, barely audible over the hiss of oxygen.
"I'm here, Daddy. I'm right here." She squeezed his hand, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He tried to wet his lips, his tongue looking painfully dry. "My… angel…"
Grace, who had been dozing in a chair nearby, was instantly awake and at his side. "Abram, save your strength. Don't try to talk." Her voice was gentle but firm, a hand placed on his arm, a subtle pressure to lie back, to be quiet.
But he shook his head, a weak, stubborn motion. His eyes, pleading, were locked on Refiloe. He was trying to tell her something. This was more than a goodbye.
"I have to… tell you…" he gasped, each word a monumental effort that cost him breath.
"It can wait, my love," Grace insisted, her own voice tightening with a panic she couldn't fully conceal. She looked towards Dineo, a silent plea for help.
Dineo moved closer, her face a mask of concern. "Daddy, just rest."
He ignored them. His world had shrunk to this bubble containing only him and his youngest daughter. He pulled weakly on Refiloe's hand, urging her closer. She bent down, her ear nearly touching his lips. He smelled of medicine and a faint, metallic scent she couldn't place.
His breath was a ghost against her skin as he whispered, the words fractured, desperate.
"Refiloe… I'm… I'm not…"
The monitor beeped, a steady, oblivious rhythm.
He swallowed, a painful, convulsive motion. His grip tightened with a sudden, final burst of strength.
"…your father."
The words did not compute. They were sounds in a foreign language, nonsense syllables. Refiloe pulled back slightly, staring at him, sure the morphine was talking, that this was the fever dream of a dying man.
But his eyes held no delirium. They held a terrifying, lucid agony. A lifetime of love, and beneath it, a bedrock of lies.
He wasn't finished. The confession was tearing him apart on its way out.
"You have to… ask your mother…" he whispered, his gaze flicking towards Grace for a split second, a look of profound, unbearable sorrow. "…Joseph…"
Joseph.
The name landed in the sterile air. It was not a name she knew. It was not a cousin, an uncle, a friend. It was a word from a forgotten language, a key for a lock she never knew existed.
His body sagged. The fierce light in his eyes guttered out, replaced by exhaustion. The monitor's beeping became a single, high, relentless tone, a screaming line of green light on the screen.
A flatline.
The room erupted into motion. A crash team materialized, pushing them aside. Dineo was pulling her back, her mother was being led away by a nurse, Bongane was shouting at a doctor. But for Refiloe, it all happened on the other side of a thick, soundproof wall.
The only thing real, the only thing screaming in the silent core of her being, was that single, cursed name.
Joseph.
It hung in the air, a spectre at the deathbed, the first thread pulled from the perfect tapestry of her life.