Shadows at Forty seven

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Chapter 5: The Mirror Doesn't Lie

Katlego stood in the center of his apartment, surrounded by silence. The ticking of the wall clock felt louder than usual, each second a reminder that time was slipping past him—and with it, the opportunity to reclaim the life he had once envisioned. His forty-seventh birthday had come and gone, celebrated with lukewarm takeout and half a bottle of red wine. The echo of laughter from his youth was long gone, replaced by the quiet rustle of his past haunting him in fragments.

He stared into the mirror across the room. There he was—Katlego Moloi. Tall, slightly stooped, hair greying at the temples. His once-bright eyes now looked dimmer, clouded by memories and regrets. The mirror didn't lie. It never did. It showed him exactly who he was, stripped of charm and charisma: a man who once dreamed of greatness and had instead found comfort in mediocrity.

But that morning, something had changed.

Zanele's words still echoed in his mind. "It's not too late, Kat. You can still turn the page." She had looked at him not with pity, but hope—something he hadn't seen in someone else's eyes for a long time.

He remembered her clearly, standing in the warmth of the café sunlight with her braids tied up and her smile half-faded. They hadn't spoken since she moved to Cape Town years ago. Now she was back, bold as ever, disrupting the routine Katlego had built like a fortress around himself.

That afternoon, he stood outside the old community hall in Soweto, hesitant but drawn in by curiosity. A flyer Zanele had pressed into his hand the day before had promised something simple: "Writing Our Truths – Free Community Workshop for Adults."

"Come on, Kat," Zanele had teased. "You used to write stories that made people cry and laugh in the same breath."

The hall smelled of old wood and possibility. Inside, mismatched chairs formed a circle. A group of ten sat waiting. Some looked nervous, others bored. One woman in a headwrap scribbled in a worn-out notebook. A young man with dreadlocks tapped his foot impatiently.

Zanele stood in front, a confident energy radiating from her. "Welcome, everyone," she beamed. "This is not about grammar or punctuation. This is about truth-telling. About healing through words."

Katlego's throat tightened. Healing. He had spent decades avoiding the wounds inside him—his father's absence, the dreams deferred, the loneliness he covered up with work and routine.

When it was his turn to speak, he almost didn't. But something cracked open.

"My name is Katlego," he began, "and I used to write stories... until I stopped believing I had anything worth saying."

There was a pause. Then Zanele nodded. "That's a story right there."

For the first time in years, Katlego picked up a pen that night. The page didn't judge. It welcomed his rage, his sorrow, his forgotten hopes. He wrote about the boy who waited for a father who never came home. He wrote about the woman who left him because he was too scared to dream with her. He wrote about his son—Thabo—who barely knew him beyond birthday calls and Christmas money.

The next morning, Katlego woke up different. He hadn't slept much, but his mind felt clear. For years, his days had felt like a dull ache. But now, there was a flicker of something else: intention.

He began going to the workshops regularly, finding connection in shared silence and spoken truths. He shared a piece called "A Room Full of Regret" and watched as others nodded, some crying, some clapping. His story resonated.

Outside the workshops, life didn't change dramatically—he still taught literature at the local college, still returned to an empty apartment. But he was starting to rebuild from within.

He reached out to his son. Not just a call this time, but a long, honest voice note. "Thabo, I know I haven't been the kind of father you deserved. But I want to try. If you'll let me."

There was no reply that night, or the next. But on Sunday morning, his phone buzzed.

"Hey Dad. I'd like that. Maybe we can meet this weekend?"

Katlego stared at the message for a long time, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He was beginning to understand: life at forty-seven wasn't about chasing the youth he'd lost. It was about reclaiming the man he still had time to become.

That evening, he stood before the mirror again. The same lines, the same tired eyes. But this time, he saw something else—grit, purpose, and the glimmer of a future worth fighting for.

Because the mirror doesn't lie. And this version of Katlego, bruised but breathing, was finally learning to live.