The Land of The Rising Sun- Chapter 8:Paths that meet again

CHAPTER EIGHT PATHS THAT MEET AGAIN A few months had passed since I returned to Ubakala, and I had begun to enjoy the quietness of home. There was something comforting about waking up without having to think about deadlines, assignments, or where the next story would take me. I spent most of my days with my family, helping my mother around the house, going to the farm, and enjoying the simple life I had almost forgotten. Ndubuisi had also been visiting whenever he could. He had a relative living somewhere around the village, so whenever he came to see them, he sometimes found his way to our compound. At first, his visits were nothing more than friendly greetings. He would stop by the gate. “Good afternoon, Mama.” “Good afternoon, my son. How are you?” “I’m fine.” Then he would greet my father, exchange a few words with whoever was outside, and leave. But after some time, his visits became less like passing by and more like something we both expected. One afternoon, I was returning from the farm with a bundle of firewood balanced against my shoulder when I saw him coming along the path. He smiled when he saw me. “You’re carrying all that?” I looked at the firewood and then at him. “I've carried more than this.” He laughed. “Give me some.” “I can carry it.” “I know you can. Just give me some.” Before I could argue, he took part of the bundle from me. We continued walking together. For a while, neither of us said anything. Then he asked, “How have you been enjoying your holiday?” “Fine. Though my mother has made sure I don't forget that holidays are also for working.” He laughed. “That's how it should be.” “Easy for you to say. You're not the one she sends to the farm every morning.” “Then I should come and help you more often.” I looked at him. “You?” “Yes, me.” I smiled. “We'll see.” After that day, things seemed to become easier between us. Sometimes he would come and we would sit outside with my family, talking about whatever came to mind. Other times, we would walk around the village and talk about things that seemed important at the time—books, journalism, childhood memories, and the places we hoped to see someday. There was never any need to force conversation. We were simply comfortable around each other. My younger sister was one of the first people to notice. One evening, after Ndubuisi had left, she looked at me and smiled. “What?” “Nothing.” I knew that nothing meant something. “Say it.” She shook her head. “You and that man.” I laughed. “What about me and that man?” “You talk to him differently.” “Differently how?” She shrugged. “I don't know. Just differently.” I dismissed her and went inside. At the time, I thought she was only teasing me. Perhaps she was. But as the weeks passed, I began to notice that Ndubuisi had become part of my ordinary days. Not in any dramatic way. He was simply there. A familiar face on the village path. A voice calling from the gate. Someone who would help carry firewood without being asked. Someone I could talk to without having to think about what to say next. And perhaps that was how it began. Not with a declaration. Not with promises. Just two people slowly becoming important to each other without either of us stopping to give it a name. Beyond our little corner of Ubakala, however, the country was changing. The stories coming from other places were becoming harder to ignore. One evening, Ndubuisi came to the compound later than usual. I noticed immediately that something was different. He did not smile when he greeted my father. He sat quietly for a while before finally speaking. “Something happened on the road.” My father looked up. “What happened?” “There was an explosion near the next village.” The compound went silent. My mother stopped what she was doing. “An explosion?” Ndubuisi nodded. “They said it was a shell. Nobody knows who fired it.” For a moment, nobody spoke. Then my father waved his hand dismissively. “Whatever is happening out there will not reach here.” Ndubuisi looked at him but said nothing. That night, the village did not feel quite as peaceful as it had the evening before. People stayed indoors earlier than usual. Doors that were normally left open were shut. Conversations became whispers. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the occasional sound of movement outside. The next morning, my mother told me not to go to the farm. “Why?” “Just stay around the house today.” “But why?” She hesitated. “Your father said so.” I knew then that something had changed. And I knew it wasn't only in the next village. It had finally begun to come closer.

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