The LONGEST WAIT

Chapter 16

Tim’s Stories’ THE LONGEST WAIT

CHAPTER 16

The next day began like a quiet storm waiting to break loose. I woke up earlier than usual, the sound of the wind outside brushing against the thin curtains of my small apartment in Naples. The events of the past few weeks replayed in my mind like a movie — the initiation, the oaths, the promises of wealth, and the hidden cost of loyalty to a man like Mr. Giovani.

That morning, I was given my first assignment.

Since I came from Nigeria, it only made sense that my first trip was to be home — to Nigeria. But this wasn’t a homecoming in the normal sense. This was business. Dangerous business. I was to transport a huge quantity of cocaine to our buyers in Nigeria. Mr. Giovani himself had called it “a delicate operation.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

The shipment was worth almost five million dollars on the street if it reached Nigerian shores successfully. Just one slip — one careless move — and I would be another nameless African in a European prison. I had to make sure everything was perfect. No mistakes.

I went to Mr. Giovani’s office that morning, my mind running faster than my steps. He was seated as usual — tailored suit, gold ring, cigarette between his fingers. He smiled when he saw me. That smile had always carried something chilling behind it, a blend of confidence and threat.

“Boss,” I began, “I was talking to Mr. Giovani about the airports. They are very meticulous these days. How do you think I can pass through without being detected? Those guys have scanners that can see through even prayers.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, Buchi. Everything is taken care of.”

“How do you mean, boss? You’ve got men at the airport?”

“No,” he replied, puffing a ring of smoke into the air. “Those guys are almost incorruptible. We’ve tried infiltrating their ranks — no success. However…” he paused and looked at me with that calculating smile, “…we’ve devised other ways to circumvent their technology.”

My heartbeat quickened. “What do you mean?”

“You won’t be going to Nigeria by air,” he said flatly.

I blinked, unsure I’d heard correctly. “By sea?”

“Yes. There’s a ship already docked at the port. It’ll set sail tomorrow morning. Your merchandise is already onboard — smuggled in late last night. You’ll board the ship and head for Nigeria.”

I couldn’t help but whistle. “Wow! That’s genius, boss.”

He leaned forward, amusement in his eyes. “You may say so, Buchi. But even by sea, the risks are only diminished, not eliminated. My men know what to do in case of trouble. You’ll learn a lot on this trip.”

“Yes, boss. I’ll be careful.”

He nodded. “Be careful, and may you have a successful voyage.”

“Thank you, boss.”

As I turned to leave, he called again. “Buchi.”

I turned back. “Yes, sir?”

“This is your first job. Don’t mess it up.”

I nodded slowly. “I understand, sir.”

---

That evening, I went home to Chisom, my wife. The small apartment smelled of stew and fried plantain. She was in the kitchen, singing softly, unaware of the storm I was about to bring into her quiet heart.

When I told her everything, she stood still, her wooden spoon hanging midair. The only thing that broke the silence was the sizzling sound from the frying pan.

“You’re going back to Nigeria?” she finally asked, her voice trembling between excitement and worry.

“Yes,” I said. “My first destination.”

“Wow!” She smiled faintly. “I envy you, oh. I wish I could go with you.”

I forced a smile. “Someday. But not now. This one is strictly business. I need to stay focused.”

Her brow furrowed. “You mean I’ll distract you?”

I laughed. “No, not at all. But the trip is long — by sea. We’ll stop at several ports. It might take a month or more.”

Her smile faded. “A month? That’s too long. I’ll miss you, oh.”

“I’ll miss you too, my love.”

She moved closer and placed her hands on my chest. “Are you going to see Chioma and Chidinma?”

“Should you even ask that?” I chuckled. “Of course! How can I go home without seeing my children? I’ll see Mum too… and Chima.”

She paused, then narrowed her eyes. “And my pastor?”

I laughed again, though part of me wanted to tease her. “Maybe. I’ll just tell him he’s off the hook now that I’ve found you.”

She hit my arm playfully. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Her eyes softened, and tears welled up. “Please… hug the children for me. Tell them mummy loves them.”

“I will,” I whispered, hugging her tightly. “Don’t cry, Chisom. Everything will be fine.”

But deep inside, I wasn’t so sure.

That night, as I lay awake listening to the hum of the distant port and the echo of the waves, I remembered Psalm 121:8 — “The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.” I whispered it to myself until sleep finally came.

---

We set sail early the next morning.

The ship was massive — a steel beast cutting through the Mediterranean like a blade. Our direction: West Africa. The sea was calm, the air crisp. I wore a sailor’s uniform, blending in with the rest of the crew. On the outside, we looked like men ferrying goods; on the inside, we were trafficking death.

Everything went smoothly for the first few days until we noticed a ship approaching from a distance, flashing a signal for us to halt.

“It’s the coast guard,” the captain muttered, his eyes narrowing.

Immediately, the crew moved like clockwork. Two small submarines, no bigger than cars, were rolled out and lowered into the sea. Our illegal cargo — the cocaine — was packed inside them and sealed tight.

“Won’t they sink?” I asked nervously.

“No,” one of the sailors replied. “They’re mini-subs. We’ll track them by satellite. Relax.”

Minutes later, the Italian coast guard boarded us. They demanded to see the captain.

“Any illegal cargo on board?” one officer asked.

“None whatsoever,” the captain answered calmly.

“Stowaways?”

“None.”

“Would you mind if my men searched the ship?”

“Go ahead.”

For nearly an hour, they turned the vessel upside down. Every box opened, every corner checked. I stood quietly, pretending to fix a pipe, my heart thumping like a drum. Finally, the officer nodded. “You’re clear.”

As they departed, I let out a deep sigh. I had just survived my first brush with imprisonment.

The moment their ship vanished on the horizon, our men sprang into action. Using a tracking device, they recalled the submarines from beneath the waves. When I saw the mini-subs rise from the water like obedient whales, I was speechless.

The operation repeated five more times as we sailed across waters and ports — Spain, Morocco, Senegal, and finally Ghana — each time flawless, each time nerve-wracking.

After twenty days at sea, the captain called us to the control room. “Nigeria soon,” he said, smiling. “Prepare yourselves.”

I felt my chest tighten with anticipation. Home.

But just when I thought the worst was over, fate reminded me that peace is never permanent in our kind of life.

A sharp cry came from above deck. “Pirates! Pirates approaching!”

I rushed out and saw them — two black speedboats slicing through the waves, guns glinting under the sun. The first bullet whizzed past my ear, so close I felt the air burn. I dropped to the floor instinctively, heart pounding.

“Get to the armory!” someone yelled.

We scrambled below deck, grabbed AK-47s and Kalashnikovs, then returned fire. The air filled with smoke, bullets, and chaos. I hadn’t held a gun since my militant days under MEND, but my body remembered. Every shot brought back flashes of the creeks — the muddy waters, the nights of rebellion, the faces of brothers lost.

After two brutal hours, we were outnumbered. The pirates boarded us, faces wrapped in scarves, rifles raised.

“Who’s the captain here?” one barked.

I looked around. Every white man on the ship froze. I realized I was the only black man onboard. It made sense that I step forward.

“I’m the captain,” I said.

Their leader looked at me — then suddenly broke into a grin. “Buchi? Nna! Is this you?”

I blinked. “Wait… Emeka?”

He laughed and slapped my shoulder. “My guy! Na you be this? Wetin you dey do for here?”

“Na hustle carry me reach here, oh,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Life na stages.”

He sighed. “Oboy, things hard. Na why we still dey run this hustle.”

“I understand,” I said. “Look, make we do this thing peacefully. We go give una something — you go let us go.”

He nodded. “No wahala. Just give us wetin dey and we go commot. No bloodshed today.”

I conferred with the white crew. They agreed to give them ten million naira in dollars. I went to fetch the money but, as a true Warri man — Warri no dey carry last — I quietly pocketed half before handing the rest to Emeka.

He grinned. “Boss, your sense still sharp, oh.”

We laughed. “Una safe journey,” I said.

They boarded their boats and left, firing joyfully into the air. As I watched them disappear, I felt a strange mix of sadness and pride. Just years ago, I had been one of them — reckless, hungry, desperate. I whispered a prayer: “Lord, if truly Your mercy endures forever, find them too.”

---

Two days later, we docked at Port Harcourt in the dead of night. Our cargo was swiftly offloaded by Nigerian contacts — silent men in dark clothes, no questions asked. Within a week, everything was distributed, and the payment secured.

I finally had two weeks before our return voyage — two weeks to see my mother, my daughters, and my old life.

While the other sailors went to chase prostitutes and cheap thrills, I boarded a night bus heading to Warri. The journey was long, the roads dusty, my mind restless. I thought of Chisom, of Chioma and Chidinma, of all the choices that had led me here.

As we entered Warri, my heart swelled with emotion. The smell of fried fish, the loud shouts of street vendors, the potholes — everything was familiar. Home, I thought.

But the moment I turned the corner toward our family house, my joy froze.

There was a crowd in front of the compound. People dressed in black, some weeping quietly, others murmuring prayers.

I felt my knees weaken. My steps quickened. “Jesus, no…” I whispered.

I pushed through the crowd, my chest burning, my breath short. Faces turned toward me, their expressions heavy with pity.

“Mama Buchi…” someone began, but I didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Fear gripped me like an iron fist. My world, already fragile, was about to shatter.

---

TO BE CONTINUED...