Shadows at Forty seven

Shadows at Forty-Seven

Chapter 4: The Color Between Us

The wall outside the Johannesburg Public Library stood tall and white—empty, yet waiting to come alive.

Palesa stared at the blank section assigned to her, a paintbrush in her hand and anxiety quietly crawling across her chest. She had sketched her idea a dozen times, rehearsed her technique, and prepped her colors. But still, standing in front of this public space with eyes watching her work—it was terrifying.

Katlego stood behind her, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Not as a critic, but as a father trying his best to be both anchor and sail.

"Think it's too much?" she asked, dabbing blue onto her thumb by accident.

"No," he said. "It's bold. Just like your mother."

That made her smile.

She took a breath and touched the brush to the wall.

The first stroke was sky blue. A gentle, sweeping curve. Then crimson. Then black. Soon, her lines became form—flowing hair, broken hands, a pair of mourning eyes looking up toward the sky.

Palesa painted grief. And hope. And change.

And Katlego, who once couldn't even look at color without thinking of Ayanda's absence, now stood still as his daughter painted the very life he had almost lost.

The mural took three days to finish.

Every evening, Katlego waited on the bench outside the library with a flask of tea and two peanut butter sandwiches—Palesa's childhood favorite.

They talked in pieces, like people learning a new language. Sometimes about the past. Sometimes about the future.

On the third evening, when the final line of paint dried, a small group of community members stopped to admire it.

A woman in her sixties said, "It makes me feel like I'm floating. But it also makes me cry."

Palesa turned to Katlego. "That's the goal. Right?"

He smiled. "Exactly."

A photographer from a local art blog asked to interview her. She nervously agreed. The next morning, her mural was posted online with the headline: "Young Artist Captures Johannesburg's Heart Through Grief and Rebirth."

Katlego printed a copy and pinned it on their fridge.

That Saturday, they visited Ayanda's grave for the first time in over a year.

Palesa brought a sunflower—her mother's favorite.

Katlego brought nothing but words.

"I've been thinking a lot about the last things I said to you," he murmured. "I don't even remember if I said goodbye properly."

Palesa knelt beside him, gently placing the sunflower against the marble headstone.

"You never said goodbye, Dad," she said. "You went quiet."

"I know," he admitted. "But I'm done being quiet."

They sat on the grass for a long time, speaking aloud the memories they had kept buried—Ayanda's laugh when she danced in the kitchen, her habit of talking to plants, her terrible singing voice that somehow made every song better.

It wasn't goodbye. It was something softer. A continuation.

The following week, Katlego got a reply to his proposal.

Subject: Approved – Community Arts Mentorship Grant.

He read it three times before it sunk in. The Department of Community Development had approved his initiative. They even offered a small budget to launch a pilot program pairing parents and children for weekend art sessions.

He printed the email and brought it home like a trophy.

Palesa's eyes widened. "You're starting a program?"

"With your help," he said. "You'll be my creative advisor."

She raised an eyebrow. "You're giving me a title now?"

"Gotta look official," he grinned.

She laughed. "Deal."

They celebrated that night with Coke floats and old home videos. The living room echoed with the sound of Ayanda pretending to be a TV chef, and a four-year-old Palesa wearing her mother's heels, slipping and giggling.

It felt like a home again.

But progress was not without cracks.

One evening, Katlego walked into the lounge to find Palesa sitting on the couch, her face buried in her arms.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting beside her.

She didn't look up. "I got an email. From the Cape College."

He tensed. "Bad news?"

"No," she said softly. "I got accepted."

He blinked. "That's great."

"I know. It's everything I've worked for. But..."

"But?" he pressed.

"I don't know if I can leave you."

The words stunned him.

He took a breath. "Palesa, you don't owe me your dreams."

"But what if you fall back again?" she whispered. "What if... I lose you all over?"

He wrapped his arm around her. "You won't. You've helped me stand again. But now it's your turn to fly."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm scared."

"So was I. Every day after your mother died. But we kept going. You can go too. And I'll be here. Waiting. Supporting."

They sat together, quiet and close, bound not by fear, but by understanding.

As the weeks passed, things began to bloom.

The mentorship sessions started small—a group of five parents and their teens painting on recycled boards in a church hall. Palesa taught the younger ones how to use digital brushes on donated tablets. Katlego handled the logistics, tea breaks, and motivational pep talks.

Every session ended with a circle where each parent told their child something they had never said before.

"I'm proud of you."

"I'm sorry."

"I see you."

Katlego always ended last, looking at Palesa with new eyes.

"You saved me," he said one Saturday, "by simply being who you are."

She smiled and said, "You saved yourself by finally showing up."

End of Chapter 4