By Abueng Mahape
24 April 2025. The date is etched into my bones—not because of what I did, but because of what was done to me while I stood still in truth.
That morning, I woke my boys up at 07:00. I packed lunch for them. I reminded them gently that we were going to see the social workers who had visited us at home. I didn’t tell them we were walking into a courtroom. I didn’t know either. Not really. All I knew was: I had to keep showing up.
We sat at the Pretoria Magistrate’s Court, outside Court D, for three hours. Cold benches. Crowded foyer. A place where hope often feels small. My ex-wife joined the boys and they played games together as we waited. I stayed present. Calm. Watching. Holding.
At noon, we were called in. The moment I walked into the courtroom, I could feel something was off. I wasn’t greeted. I wasn’t even given a moment to settle. The magistrate, seated slightly above the rest of us, started speaking: “What is this de-schooling and where does it come from?”
I said, “It comes from me.” I tried to explain. But I could feel—I wasn’t being heard. The conclusion had already been written. My voice was just a placeholder.
I wasn’t given access to the documents the court was considering. I wasn’t shown the original complaint made by my brother. I wasn’t allowed to speak fully to my parenting philosophy or home education plan—both of which I handed to the social worker just days before.
My truth was tabled, but never opened.
The result? I was stripped of my children without discussion. Ordered to submit to psychological assessment—as if a calm, present father who feeds, raises, and protects his children must be mentally evaluated for choosing a different way of being.
I was told I could only see my children under supervision. Children who woke up in my house. Children I’ve been raising.
I left that room with my heart in pieces. Not because I lost. But because no one even saw that I was there.
What does it mean to be a Black father in this system?
It means being treated as a potential threat instead of a partner in parenting. It means that if you speak too calmly, you’re hiding something. If you speak with emotion, you’re unstable. It means that if you deviate from the norm—even for good reasons, even with documents, even with logic—you must be controlled.
It means walking into a court with your children and walking out alone.
And yet, I do not regret trying. I do not regret showing up with truth. I do not regret the light I carry, even when it’s misunderstood.
I know now: this path of conscious fatherhood is not made for comfort. It’s made for those willing to walk barefoot over judgment, misunderstanding, and silence.
So I will continue to walk.
For my children. For the truth. For the many fathers who never made it to court.
The system may have issued its order—but I am issuing my own:
I will not abandon my light. I will not abandon my love. I will not abandon myself.
Let the records show: I was here. I stood. I saw. I spoke. Even if they didn’t hear me—I heard myself and my children heard me too.
And that is where real fatherhood begins.