Why do they say the wicked won't have peace? It's as if they are the people that have the most peace, i presume.
Peace. That word used to mean something still, something certain. A promise of calm after the storm. I believed that once I found peace, it would stay with me,steady and quiet like a loyal friend. I thought I had found it once, not too long ago. But I was wrong.
Peace is not always a place or a feeling. Sometimes, it's just the absence of chaos. And when you have lived too long in the fire, even silence feels suspicious.
I had just left a relationship that had nearly broken me in every possible way. It wasn't the kind of heartbreak people talk about at brunch or over a bottle of wine. It was silent suffering, the kind that eats at you slowly, making you question your sanity.
He wasn't always cruel. That's the dangerous part. He started as kind, thoughtful, the kind of man who texted good morning and remembered how I liked my meals whenever I visited.I always long to pay him a visit as I was said to be a foolish girl in love . The kind of man who made you feel chosen. And I clung to that version of him, even when he changed.
I stayed when he started raising his voice. I rationalized the insults. I forgave the cold silences, the dismissive tone, the control masked as care,my frustration turned me numb most times. I cried my way out every situation and I will keep motivating myself that everything is going to be fine but I was wrong. Until one day, I woke up and didn't recognize myself anymore. I was anxious all the time, apologizing for everything, tiptoeing through conversations, crying for everything, I could actually remember that my friends nicknamed me A CRYING BABY. I felt smaller each day, it was so frustrating and I was in my final year in school then, stress from school and relationship was draining me slowly.
It took strength I didn't know I had to leave. And when I did, I swore to myself: No more. Focused on my studies and graduated.
No more love that demanded I shrink. No more relationships that drained me. I needed to be alone, not just single, but truly alone with myself, to rebuild, to breathe, to figure out who I was outside of someone else's shadow.
That decision gave me a strange kind of comfort. Even though I was grieving what I had lost, I felt free. And after graduation, a relative of mine,my father's cousin, more like an older sister offered me a job at her firm and a room in her house, I saw it as a sign. A new beginning.
The job wasn't glamorous, but it was stable. The room wasn't luxurious, but it was safe or so I thought. I moved in, eager to get back on my feet. I told myself I was lucky. Family, work, a roof over my head what more could I ask for?
But the house never welcomed me, I could feel it in my bones but I don't have any other place to go to given that they are the only people I know in that town.
Her husband didn't want me there. I felt it immediately in his cold greetings, in the way he looked at me like I was a mistake that needed correcting. At first, I tried to brush it off. Maybe he was just reserved, private. I was determined not to cause tension.
I helped around the house, kept to myself, never overstayed in the common areas. I went to work early, came home quietly. I tried everything to be invisible. But sometimes, no matter how small you make yourself, some people still think you take up too much space.
He started small. Petty comments. Disapproving looks. Doors closed just a little too hard. Then came the gate incidents. He would wait until late in the evening, knowing I wasn't home yet, and lock the front gate. I will come back to find it bolted from the inside, my knocks ignored,my calls ignored.
The first time it happened, I sat on the steps for hours. I didn't want to make a scene. I texted my relative. No response. I told myself it was a one-off, a mistake. But it happened again. And again.
Some nights, I curled up outside on a plastic chair, a scarf wrapped tightly around me to fight the mosquitoes and night chill. Other nights, I just cried. Not loudly. Quietly. The kind of crying that creeps up on you, soft and hopeless.
Inside that house, I wasn't a guest. I was a ghost, unwanted, unseen, and slowly fading.
My relative never said anything. my relative indeed. Or maybe she just didn't want to choose between loyalty and truth. Most times I want to fully blame her but I don't, even now. But her silence stung more than his cruelty.
Work became the only place I felt remotely okay. It wasn't joy, it was distraction. I became good at pretending. Smiles for the office, polite small talk. I stayed late, took on extra work just to avoid going back to the house.
That's when I met him. Chukwubuikem,his name meant God is my strength.He never had an English name to start with.
He wasn't the type of guy who lit up the room or made heads turn. He was the opposite, quiet and observant. He worked in the same building, in a different department. We shared the same lunch hour. At first, it was just glances, occasional nods.
Then one afternoon, I found myself on the rooftop. It was my hideaway, a place I went when the weight of everything felt like too much. That day, I broke. I sat on the rooftop, head in my hands, crying harder than I had in months.
I didn't hear him approach. I only realized someone was there when he sat beside me without saying a word. He waited. He didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't offer hollow advice. Just presence.
"No one deserves to feel homeless when they have a roof over their head," he said softly.
I looked up, startled. I hadn't told him anything. But somehow, he saw straight through me. And just like that, I told him. About the house. The husband. The nights outside. The heartbreak that came before it. I didn't even mean to. The words just spilled.
He listened. Really listened. Not like someone collecting gossip or waiting for a turn to speak. He let my silence be part of the conversation.
From then on, he became a quiet comfort. He'd wave when he saw me. Drop off coffee when I looked tired. Text to check in. At first, I thought it was just kindness. But slowly, it felt like more. I actually said to myself one day,"Hope this guy is not using me as a charity case?"
I reminded myself I wasn't ready. That I had promised not to get involved again. That he was just a friend. A distraction, maybe. Someone to keep the loneliness from swallowing me whole.
But there's something dangerous about being seen when you've been invisible for so long. You start to crave it.
He never pressured me. In fact, in the beginning, he kept a distance. Kind, but cautious. I liked that. I needed that. It gave me space to breathe.
Then the gestures started changing. A note on my desk: "Don't forget lunch today." A text: "It's going to rain. Did you take an umbrella?" These little things began to chip away at the walls I had built.
Still, I questioned myself constantly.
Am I doing this because I like him? Or because I need something, anything to hold onto?
One evening, I finally asked him. We were sitting in his car after dinner. I stared out the window, afraid to meet his eyes.
"Do you think I'm wrong to be with someone right now?" I asked.
He paused. Then said, "I don't think healing has a timeline. Maybe I came into your life too soon. Or maybe… you just needed someone who didn't make you feel like a burden."
I didn't respond. But that night, I stopped fighting it.
I let myself lean into the comfort, into him. We weren't perfect. We didn't define what we were right away. But being around him gave me something I hadn't felt in a long time. I felt hope again.
Meanwhile, back at the house, things hit a breaking point.
One evening, it was pouring. I stayed late at work, caught up in a project. By the time I got back, soaked and tired, the gate was locked again. The rain didn't care. It fell relentlessly. I knocked. I called. No one answered.
I stood outside for an hour before calling Chukwubuikem.
I hated that I had to. I hated needing someone. But I was tired of pretending I could keep enduring things that no one should have to.
He didn't hesitate. He drove across town, umbrella in hand, extra clothes in the backseat. He didn't say much. He just held my hand and drove me to his apartment.
That night, I slept in peace.
The next morning, I packed my bags.
With Chukwubuikem's help, I found a small studio. It was modest, a little worn. But it was mine. For the first time in a long time, I had a key to a place that welcomed me.
Living alone wasn't easy. Bills. Groceries. Long, silent evenings. But it was better than living in a place where I was unwanted.
Chukwubuikem didn't try to move in or take over my life. He respected my space. We grew together, slowly, with intention. He never tried to fix me. He just stayed.
Some days, I still questioned myself. Was I rushing into something new? Was I replacing pain with comfort?
But the truth is, healing doesn't happen in a vacuum. We heal in connection. In safety. In small, gentle moments.
Chukwubuikem didn't erase my pain. But he helped me remember who I was before it.
So, was I wrong for entering another relationship while still healing?
Yes or No?
I was surviving. I was learning to live again. And sometimes, living means allowing someone in or is there more to living?,even if you're still putting the pieces together or is there something else I don't know?.
Chukwubuikem wasn't my rescuer. He didn't save me.
He just held my hand until I realized I could save myself.
And that made all the difference,at least at some point.