The LONGEST WAIT

Chapter 2

Tim’s Stories’ THE LONGEST WAIT

CHAPTER 2

She was gone now.

The house had never felt this empty. The walls echoed with silence, a kind that settled deep into my chest and refused to leave. The sound of the children’s laughter, once the melody of our evenings, now felt forced — like they were trying to fill the void that their mother, Chisom, had left behind. I was home, truly home, for the first time in years, but it didn’t feel like home anymore.

Taking care of two girls wasn’t something I ever imagined I’d have to do alone. Chidinma, my youngest, was only seven — full of questions and mischief, the kind that reminded me of her mother’s bold spirit. Chioma, the elder one, had always been softer, quiet, more like me. But she had been the one hit hardest by her mother’s absence. It took her weeks to start talking properly again. Nights were worse — sometimes, I’d hear her whispering her mother’s name in her sleep, calling her from wherever she had gone.

I tried to be strong for them. I tried to cook, to clean, to do everything a father should. But the truth was — I had no idea what I was doing. I had never been trained for domestic life. Back in the creeks of the Niger Delta, where I spent my youth as a militant, survival had been my only skill. Guns and rivers, ambush and strategy — those I understood. But standing in front of a gas stove, holding a pot of rice that refused to soften, made me feel more powerless than facing a full battalion.

The girls were suffering because of my ignorance. Most times, we ate bread, snacks, or the same tasteless noodles. I cursed under my breath for allowing Chisom to go.

If only I had stopped her.

Obiageli, my friend Chima’s wife, saw how much we were struggling. Some evenings, she would bring us food — rich soups, hot rice, and jollof that smelled like comfort. On those nights, we would eat until our bellies were full, and I’d catch Chioma smiling again. Those were the days the house came alive. The aroma reminded us of Chisom’s cooking. Her laughter. Her humming of gospel songs as she stirred soup. For a few hours, it felt like she was still here.

But Obiageli couldn’t come every day. She had her own home, her own children, her own husband. So on the days she didn’t come, we returned to our small world of snacks and silence.

A few weeks later, my mother came to stay. Her arrival was like a breath of fresh air. She filled the house with warmth, with stories, with the rhythm of old prayers. The children clung to her instantly — her laughter, her discipline, her love. I, too, found myself sleeping better. For a while, life seemed almost normal again.

But good things, in my life, never stayed too long.

“Buchi,” my mother said one morning, while sweeping the veranda, “I have to go back. My farm is suffering, and your father’s grave — I can’t stay too far away from it.”

I sighed. “Mama, the farm will survive. The children need you.”

“They are fine,” she said, smiling at Chioma, who was chasing Chidinma around the compound. “They are happy children. But you are their father. God will give you strength.”

Strength. That word again. Everyone believed I had it. That because I used to hold a gun and lead men in the creeks, I was unbreakable. But they didn’t know that I broke the day Chisom left.

When Mama finally left, the silence came back heavier than before. I watched her walk away with her old wrapper tied around her waist and tears in her eyes. I wanted to beg her to stay, but pride stopped me. The house felt colder the moment she disappeared beyond the bend of the road.

Days turned into weeks. The routine resumed — noodles, snacks, tired smiles. One evening, I went to town to buy food. I had promised the girls I’d bring noodles and fish. But when I got there, I ran into a group of my old friends at a local bar — Chima among them.

“Ah, Buchi!” he called, waving. “Come join us small!”

At first, I refused. I told myself I’d just greet them and go. But the smell of roasted meat, the sound of laughter, and the weight of loneliness pulled me in.

I sat. I drank. I laughed.

Three hours vanished like smoke.

By the time I remembered the girls, it was dark. I rushed home, my heart pounding with guilt. I bought two roasted fish on the way, hoping they’d forgive me.

When I walked in, Chidinma’s face was hard to read. Chioma was quiet, her eyes red. I set the fish on the table.

“Daddy, you stayed too long,” Chidinma said, her voice small but sharp.

“Are you enjoying your fish, my dear?” I tried to sound playful.

She folded her arms. “You stayed.”

“Okay, okay. I stayed. I’m sorry, my dear.”

“But you knew we were hungry.”

“Yes, I knew. And I am sorry, my baby. I won’t do it again, I promise. Are we good now?”

Her lips softened into a small smile. “Yes, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too, my sunshine.”

That was Chidinma — bold like her mother, tender like her heart. Sometimes I wished she were a boy, only because I feared what would happen to her if I wasn’t around. Life had taught me that tomorrow wasn’t promised.

Two months had passed since Chisom left for what was supposed to be America. I hadn’t heard from her once. Not a single call, not even a message. My heart had become a battlefield of fear and hope. Some nights, I’d stare at my phone for hours, praying it would ring.

Maybe she was still on the way. Maybe her phone got stolen. Maybe she had reached there but was still trying to settle.

But then, the dark thoughts crept in.

What if something bad had happened? What if she never made it out of Benin?

I tried not to speak those thoughts aloud. I remembered Mama’s words: “There is power in the tongue.” So I kept silent. But silence didn’t save me from fear.

One evening, Chima came to visit. He looked uneasy.

“Buchi, I don’t even know how to say this thing,” he began.

“Say it. What happened?”

“I heard something about that Benin line your wife followed.”

“What about it?”

“I heard... it’s Europe by road.”

I frowned. “Europe by road? What does that mean?”

“It means they don’t fly, my brother. They move from one African country to another — through the desert, sometimes on foot, until they reach Libya or Morocco. From there, they take small boats — dinghies, rubber boats — and cross the Mediterranean to Europe. Some make it. Many don’t.”

“Jesus Christ!” I gasped, standing abruptly. “Oh my God. You mean... Chisom went through that?”

“It’s possible. Why do you think she hasn’t called? If it was a normal trip, she would have arrived by now.”

My head spun. The room felt smaller. My legs trembled. I could feel sweat forming on my forehead.

“No... no, Chisom can’t be dead,” I muttered. “She can’t. God, please... not her.”

“Buchi, calm down,” Chima said, holding my shoulder. “We need to think clearly.”

“What is there to think? That pastor — he’s the one who brought the agent. I’ll deal with him.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the house sounded like Chisom’s voice. Every time the wind blew, I thought I heard her call my name. Around midnight, I sat on the floor and wept like a child.

I opened my Bible. My eyes fell on Psalm 121:

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.”

I clutched those words like a drowning man clutches a rope.

“Lord,” I prayed, “if she’s alive, bring her home. Please.”

The next morning, I went straight to Chisom’s church. The same church where the pastor had introduced her to that so-called agent. I demanded to see him.

“Pastor is counselling people, Sir,” the assistant said. “You’ll have to wait.”

“Counselling people?” I barked. “Am I not people? Go and tell him it’s urgent — in fact, tell him it’s an emergency!”

The young man hesitated. I could feel the anger bubbling in my veins. My fists clenched. Just then, a woman walked out of the pastor’s office. I didn’t wait. I stormed in.

The pastor almost jumped out of his chair.

“Mr. Buchi! What is the meaning of this?”

“Where is my wife?” I roared. “Where is Chisom?”

“Please, calm down, my brother.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! That agent you introduced — where is he?”

He stammered. “I... I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“You haven’t been able to reach him?” I repeated slowly, stepping closer. “Pastor, I am giving you two days. Two days to tell me where my wife is, or I swear I’ll show you who I was before I became born again.”

His eyes widened. “Please, Mr. Buchi—”

“You’ve heard of me, haven’t you? I used to lead men in the creeks. I know what it means to find someone. Two days, Pastor.”

I stormed out. The people in the waiting line stared in shock. Some whispered prayers under their breath. But I didn’t care. My whole world was on fire.

Back home, I sat on the sofa, staring into nothing. The television was on, but I wasn’t watching. My mind was far away — in deserts and boats, with Chisom. What if she was somewhere crying for help? What if she had been trafficked? That thought cut deep.

“No,” I whispered. “Not my Chisom.”

Tears blurred my vision. I wiped them quickly when I heard small footsteps. The girls were back from school.

“Daddy,” Chidinma said, frowning. “Were you crying?”

“No, my dear,” I lied. “Just tired.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, my baby. I’ll be fine.”

She stared at me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, Dad. Go rest, then.”

After they slept, I sat outside under the stars. The night breeze was cool, but my heart was burning. I whispered into the dark, “Chisom, where are you?”

The next morning, I was still restless. I dropped the girls at school and returned home. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t pray. It was one day left for the pastor’s deadline. I had already made up my mind — if he didn’t have answers, I’d drag him to the police or worse.

Around midday, my phone rang. It was Chima.

“Buchi,” his voice trembled. “Where are you?”

“At home. What’s wrong?”

“Please, turn on your TV. CNN. Now.”

My stomach tightened. “What is it?”

“Just do it, my brother. Please.”

My hand shook as I grabbed the remote. CNN was already the default channel. The screen flickered — and then I saw it.

A breaking news banner flashed across the bottom:

“Tragedy in the Mediterranean: Dozens of Migrants Feared Dead After Boat Capsizes Off Libyan Coast.”

The camera panned to lifeless bodies being pulled from the sea. Clothes torn. Faces blurred by salt and death.

My breath caught in my throat. I couldn’t move. My knees went weak, and I fell to the ground.

“God... please... no.”

A reporter’s voice spoke through the chaos:

“Officials say the migrants were believed to be from West Africa — Nigeria, Ghana, and Cameroon among them...”

My vision blurred. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would break through my ribs. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

I saw Chisom’s face — her smile, her laughter, her last words before she left: ‘Buchi, I’ll call you when I get there.’

But she never did.

Tears streamed down my face. I whispered through trembling lips, “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Then, darkness swallowed .

TO BE CONTINUED