Chapter 5 - If I could be there
1102 Words
The night had fallen softly, its calm whispering against the windows of Mukoma Gwanz’s small flat. He had just returned from Paradise, a restaurant whose name promised heaven but offered only a taste of it before the gates shut. The scent of Chiedza’s perfume still lingered faintly on his shirt. Her laughter, gentle and light, echoed in his mind like wind chimes swaying after a storm. What a day it was, sweet and sour, calm and stormy, like sunshine caught in the rain.
He sat on the edge of his bed, his hands clasped loosely together, staring into the empty room that now felt too vast for one heart. The silence was thick, alive. His thoughts spoke louder than his voice ever could. He had a light heart, yet a heavy mind: the sweetest misery on earth. To have touched love but not held it, to have spoken peace but not kept it.
“If I could be there,” he whispered, “at the blissful moment of peace.”
He remembered how Chiedza’s eyes had glowed across the candlelit table, how her voice folded around his name with warmth that felt divine. Yet beneath the laughter and the meal, beneath the jokes and the easy rhythm, was an unspoken ache: an understanding that love was both a gift and a test. Trials and tribulations he always preached about; now he had to live them. The preacher had to walk the sermon. Perseverance, patience and pain: they were no longer scriptures but skin.
He looked out the window; the stars blinked, silent witnesses to his solitude. “The stars in the night sky,” he thought, “tell me that everyone is up there, and I am down here.” The lights above reminded him of prayers unanswered, dreams postponed, peace deferred. He felt small beneath their cosmic judgment.
The air was still, except for the occasional hum of a distant car and the murmur of his own breathing. He could hear his heartbeat, a rhythm of longing. The restaurant’s name haunted him now. Paradise. How ironic. Heaven, tasted but never reached.
He stood and walked to the mirror. His reflection stared back, weary yet alive. “Before God, humble I do,” he muttered. “Before mankind, I please for my sake. Before myself…” His voice trailed off. A blank stare met him. The same stare that questioned existence, purpose, and the cost of feeling too deeply.
Outside, thunder rolled in the distance, proclaiming its presence. Flashes of lightning briefly illuminated the sky: harsh, divine reminders that beauty and fear can share the same moment. The roar made him think of judgment, of truth, of the thin line between courage and collapse.
He sat down again, closed his eyes, and let the quiet swallow him. Thoughts, regrets, and prayers intertwined in his mind. He had felt her hand brush his. He had seen the kindness in her eyes. But between them lay the silence of two people searching for meaning in a world too loud to listen.
Regret whispered, but remorse remained cold. Bondage of the mind: so folly with fractured thoughts. Gossip would say it was just another love story gone awry, yet they would never know the truth of it, the blurry line between faith and fear. The wind grew stronger, the curtains fluttered like restless wings. And in that soft dance of fabric and air, Mukoma Gwanz felt her presence once more. He smiled faintly.
“When I close my eyes,” he breathed, “I see you.”
The clock ticked on. The stars blinked, indifferent yet eternal. And in that silence deep, holy and unbroken: Mukoma Gwanz sat between heaven and earth, yearning still.
The phone buzzed softly at 8:00 p.m. It was Chiedza. Her voice came through calm and tender, the kind that warmed his weary soul. She said she had arrived home safely and thanked him for the wonderful evening. Her words carried the rhythm of sincerity, yet they ended too soon.
“I’m tired, Mukoma,” she murmured. “I’ll rest now.”
He smiled into the silence before the line went dead. For a moment, he felt a lightness, a quiet peace in knowing she was safe. The night seemed to pause with him. The stars outside blinked like soft affirmations. But as the minutes ticked into hours, the mind began its usual wandering.
At 10:00 p.m., he glanced at his phone.
Online.
The same person who said she was tired, now awake and glowing green on the screen. He blinked once, twice, then set the phone down slowly. “She doesn’t like w******p,” he reminded himself. She had said so before. She had even joked about how draining social media was. So what was she doing there? Was it a message, a chat, a scroll or something unspoken?
His chest tightened with a quiet ache. What should he believe? That she was merely checking something small? Or that the universe was teasing him again with its cruel sense of irony? Love, that sweet chaos, was now questioning its own reflection.
“How can I regain my position?” he whispered to the dark.
“Is there something behind the scenes?”
No answers came. Only questions, solid as stone. They built a wall around his thoughts, trapping him in the maze of maybe. Am I being abused silently?
The thought was sharp, sudden, and cruel. Emotional exhaustion had a voice of its own. To love someone deeply was to offer them the power to wound you without even meaning to.
His mind spun like a loose wheel on a dark road. Overthinking is an unseen storm. It doesn’t roar, yet, it whispers until sleep feels like surrender. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, searching for peace that refused to show its face. “Spinning mind,” he murmured, “how can I switch you off?”
The night offered no answer. Only the hum of stillness.
Mukoma sighed, turned to his side, and closed his eyes. The world faded to grey. The weight of love, confusion, and longing pressed gently on his chest. And in that quiet defeat, he drifted into sleep: half hoping, half hurting, still whispering in his dreams, If I could be there.
- Writer
