Shadows at Forty seven

Chapter 6: Conversations with Ghosts

The café was nearly empty when Katlego walked in. The same spot in the corner was waiting for him—where the light poured in just enough to give the illusion of warmth on cold days like this. He ordered a black coffee, no sugar. Lately, sweetness didn't sit right with him. Bitterness felt more honest.

He pulled out his worn notebook, the one he'd started during the writing workshop. Its cover was creased, the spine bent from frequent flipping. This was his new ritual: write every morning before work. Not because someone told him to, but because he needed to.

Today, however, the words came slow. He tapped his pen against the page. His mind kept drifting—to the past, to people he had left behind, and to those who had left him behind. His thoughts circled around a name he hadn't said aloud in years.

Boitumelo.

He whispered it, like an old prayer.

Boitumelo was the woman he once planned to marry. She had believed in him back when he still believed in himself. They were in their twenties, full of fire and poetry. She would read his short stories out loud in bed, laughing between sentences, offering edits with a red pen. She was the first person who ever told him, "You are a writer, Katlego."

And he had believed her.

Until the dreams got smaller. Until bills came, and deadlines, and fear. He took the teaching job and told himself it was temporary. Boitumelo wanted more. A home filled with children, laughter, books and jazz playing from an old radio. But Katlego had already begun retreating, one excuse at a time.

"I'm not ready."

"I just need time."

"I'm doing this for us."

Eventually, she stopped waiting.

Katlego wondered where she was now. Married? A mother? Maybe still reading, still laughing in someone else's arms. The thought made his chest tighten—not with jealousy, but with grief for the man he failed to be for her.

He flipped to a blank page and wrote at the top:

"Letters I Never Sent"

The pen moved more freely now, as if memory guided it. He wrote to Boitumelo, to his late mother, even to himself at twenty-one. Words poured like confession:

Dear Boitumelo,

I told you I was building a life. But really, I was building a wall. You wanted forever, and I offered maybes. I'm sorry. You were never too much—I was just too afraid.

He stared at the words and smiled sadly. It was too late to send the letter, but writing it brought peace. Like releasing a ghost that had haunted him for decades.

Later that week, Zanele invited him to an open mic night. "It's small," she said, "just a few of us from the workshop. Nothing fancy. But I think you should read."

"Me? No," he shook his head. "I'm not… ready."

She gave him that look—the same one from when they were teenagers and she dared him to sing at the school talent show. "Kat, you're ready. You just don't know it yet."

He almost didn't go. He paced around his apartment like a restless animal. But something in him refused to stay still. He printed out "Letters I Never Sent" and tucked it in his notebook, just in case.

The venue was a small bookstore turned café. The shelves were lined with local authors, and fairy lights dangled across the walls like tiny stars. The room buzzed with anticipation. Some people sipped wine, others tea. There was laughter, clapping, and nervous smiles.

Katlego sat in the back, watching the performers—each one brave, trembling, beautiful. There was a young woman who spoke of losing her mother to cancer. A middle-aged man read a poem about falling in love with his wife again after thirty years. There was vulnerability in every voice, and it reminded Katlego that pain wasn't a burden—it was a bridge.

Then Zanele called his name.

His heart thudded. He froze for a moment. Then slowly, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he stood up.

He walked to the mic. His hands shook slightly. The lights felt hot. He looked out at the crowd—maybe twenty faces. All waiting. All open.

"I wasn't going to read tonight," he began, his voice low and even, "but… I've spent most of my life running from my truths. So maybe it's time I stop."

He opened the notebook and began.

The words came gently at first, then stronger. He read about regret, about love lost, about silence and longing. And when he finished the last line—"You were never too much—I was just too afraid"—the room was silent for a beat. Then came applause, slow and then full.

Katlego stepped down, heart pounding. But this time, it wasn't fear—it was freedom.

Zanele hugged him tightly. "See? You needed this."

He didn't deny it.

After that night, things began shifting. His students noticed something different about him—more present, more passionate. He started assigning creative writing exercises, challenging them to write about who they are, not just what they know.

One afternoon, after class, a student named Lefa approached him.

"Sir," he said, hesitating, "you always say writing tells the truth. How do you handle writing the stuff that hurts too much?"

Katlego paused. He thought of his letters, his ghosts, his silence.

"You write it anyway," he said. "Not for them—for you. Because truth sets you free, even when it hurts."

Lefa nodded, eyes shining.

As Katlego walked home that day, he realized something profound: his pain had purpose. His mistakes weren't dead ends. They were doorways—into understanding, into healing, into becoming.

For the first time in years, he no longer felt like time was running out. He felt like he was finally catching up to himself.

And that, he knew, was the beginning of everything.