Shadows at Forty-Seven
Chapter 3: Threads of the Past
Monday mornings in Johannesburg always came too fast. The air was crisp, the taxis were already hooting, and Soweto's streets were coming alive with their usual rhythm. Katlego sat behind the wheel of his car, parked just outside the house. But he wasn't rushing to work today.
Instead, he held a small, worn envelope in his hand.
It had been tucked inside Ayanda's journal. The envelope had his name on it, written in her soft, round handwriting. He hadn't noticed it the night before, too overwhelmed by emotion.
He hesitated for a long moment before opening it.
Katlego,
If you're reading this, it means I'm gone, and maybe—just maybe—you're ready to start living again. I know how you are. Quiet. Heavy-hearted. You carry pain like a secret. But love—real love—needs space to breathe.
Don't shut Palesa out. You don't have to have all the answers. Just show up. Every day. Even when it's hard.
You still have time to be the father you want to be.
With all my love,
Ayanda
He folded the letter gently and placed it in his breast pocket. He exhaled deeply and started the engine. He didn't drive to the office. Instead, he took a left turn toward somewhere he hadn't been in years.
The park hadn't changed much. The swings still creaked, the jungle gym still had peeling red paint, and the same ice cream vendor with a weathered face and yellow cart stood near the gate.
Katlego walked toward the stone bench under the jacaranda tree. It was the spot where he and Ayanda used to sit every Saturday, watching Palesa climb and fall and climb again.
He closed his eyes and let the wind speak.
This was where Ayanda had told him she was pregnant. Where they'd celebrated Palesa's first lost tooth. Where they'd shared their last picnic, just three weeks before the diagnosis.
"I miss you," he whispered to the breeze.
Later that day, Katlego stood in the hallway of Palesa's school, waiting for her to finish her art club meeting. The other parents eyed him curiously—he didn't fit in with the usual crowd. But he didn't care.
When she stepped out, headphones around her neck, she blinked in surprise.
"Dad? What are you doing here?"
"I was in the area," he said with a small smile. "Thought I'd offer you a lift."
She raised an eyebrow. "I usually walk."
"I know. But I thought we could stop somewhere first."
She considered him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay."
They drove in silence again, but it was a comfortable one this time. He parked outside the public library in town.
"I thought maybe we could check out the community art wall," he said. "I heard they're looking for young artists."
She lit up. "Really? Sipho mentioned it once, but I thought they only accepted professionals."
"They're holding an open call. You've got professional-level work, kid."
She didn't say anything for a moment. Then: "Thanks, Dad."
Inside, they explored the tall white walls covered in bold murals, abstract graffiti, portraits of famous South Africans. Palesa walked slowly, taking it all in, analyzing the brush strokes and composition.
"I want my art to make people feel something," she said softly.
"It already does," he replied.
Back at home that night, Katlego made dinner again. Nothing fancy—pap, gravy, and fried chicken. Palesa helped without being asked, setting the table, stirring the pot, and even playing music while they cooked.
The house was starting to feel like a home again.
As they sat down to eat, she looked at him carefully.
"Do you miss her? Mom, I mean?"
He paused mid-bite. "Every day."
"I used to think… you forgot her. You never talked about her. Never even said her name."
He set his fork down gently. "I didn't forget her. I was afraid of remembering."
She nodded slowly. "Me too. I used to smell her perfume sometimes. In the cupboard. It made me cry."
Katlego swallowed hard. "I found a letter she wrote. For me. She told me to stop hiding. To be present. For you."
Palesa's eyes filled with tears. "Can I read it?"
He reached into his shirt pocket and handed it over.
She read it silently, eyes scanning every word. When she was done, she looked up and said, "Mom always knew how to get through to people."
He smiled sadly. "Even after she's gone."
The next morning, something shifted.
Palesa walked into the kitchen holding a wrapped canvas.
"What's that?" Katlego asked.
"My first piece for the community wall," she said, nervous excitement in her voice.
"Can I see?"
She unwrapped it.
It was a portrait of Ayanda—not a literal one, but symbolic. Her silhouette formed from swirling flowers, feathers, and soft clouds. Her eyes were galaxies. Her mouth held a blooming rose.
"She looks like peace," Katlego whispered.
"She was," Palesa said. "And she still is."
He touched the canvas gently. "I think she would've loved it."
"I hope so."
Katlego reached into the drawer, pulled out an old hammer and two nails. "Let's hang it in the hallway. Right where she used to keep her umbrella."
Palesa smiled. "Perfect."
Later that week, Katlego sat at work staring at the city skyline through his office window.
He opened his laptop and began typing something unusual—an email to the Department of Community Development.
Subject:Proposal: Father–Daughter Art Mentorship Initiative.
He wrote about grief. About reconnection. About using creativity to rebuild bonds. He didn't know if they'd even respond—but it felt right. Like Ayanda was whispering, keep going.
As he hit send, he felt lighter. Like for the first time in years, he wasn't just surviving.
He was becoming.
End of Chapter 3