The days blurred together in a peaceful haze. Jane spent her mornings walking the beach, breathing in the salt air, and sitting for hours under the shade of the palm trees. Her evenings were filled with dinners at Chuka's—meals of jollof rice, fried plantains, and the soft laughter of Ezinne.
In between, there was quiet. No buzzing of city phones. No deadlines pressing against her chest. But even in this tranquil corner of the world, the walls of her grief still stood, firm and unyielding.
The hardest part wasn't the absence of her ex-husband. It wasn't the end of the marriage. It was the empty space where her identity used to be—the woman who believed in forever, in love that stayed, in promises that held weight.
She felt like a ghost, floating in this village of well-meaning people, in this house with kind eyes and warm hands, but none of it could fill the cracks inside her.
One evening, Chuka invited her to help him harvest the cassava crop. "You'll get your hands dirty, but I promise it's worth it."
Jane laughed at the thought of herself in the field, but she agreed. The rhythmic work was more calming than she expected, her hands finding a steady pace as she pulled the tubers from the earth. Chuka worked beside her, his movements fluid and efficient. He seemed to do everything with such ease, as if life here was as natural as breathing.
"Did you always know you'd come back here?" Jane asked, wiping sweat from her brow.
Chuka paused, looking out over the field. "Not always. But there's something about this place. The sea. The soil. It doesn't ask you to be anything you're not. And it doesn't let you forget who you are."
She looked at him, the words hanging in the air between them. Something in his voice made her feel like she understood him—like, for the first time, she wasn't alone in her struggle to rebuild.
"You sound like you've found peace," she said softly.
He shrugged, his eyes distant. "I'm not sure I've found peace. But I've learned to live with what I have."
That night, after a long day, Jane found herself again on the beach. The stars had begun to appear in the deepening night sky, each one flickering like a distant memory.
She walked along the shore, letting the cool water lap at her feet. Her thoughts drifted back to her marriage, to the promises made and broken, to the dream of forever that had slipped through her fingers.
"I thought I could have it all," she whispered to the night. "But I was wrong."
A soft voice interrupted her thoughts. "Are you sad again?"
It was Ezinne, appearing beside her, holding a shell to her ear.
Jane smiled softly. "A little."
Ezinne gazed at the ocean, her small face serious. "Papa says the sea can wash away sadness. You should let it take it away."
Jane crouched down beside the girl, looking at the waves crashing gently at their feet. "Maybe," she murmured, unsure if she believed it.
But for the first time in weeks, there was something soothing about the thought. The idea that the ocean, vast and endless, could hold the things she couldn't let go of.
They sat in silence for a while, the sound of the waves and the night air surrounding them. Eventually, Jane stood, dusting off her hands.
"I should get back," she said, though she didn't want to leave the peace of the shore.
Ezinne stood with her. "Will you come tomorrow for dinner?"
Jane looked down at the girl and smiled. "Of course. I'll be there."
Later, as Jane lay in bed, the moonlight slipping in through the window, she thought about Chuka's words earlier that day. "The sea doesn't ask you to be anything you're not." For the first time since she arrived, Jane realized that the sea wasn't just an endless stretch of water—it was a part of her healing, too.
Maybe it was time to stop hiding her grief, to let it flow instead of holding it in, like the tide pulling away from the shore.
And maybe, just maybe, she could learn to live with it the way Chuka had learned to live with the land.