The village was hosting its annual Yam Festival, and Chuka insisted Jane join him and Ezinne.
"You've never really experienced this place until you've seen everyone dancing like they've lost their minds," he teased, grinning as he helped Ezinne into her colorful wrapper.
Jane laughed, adjusting her own borrowed outfit—a vibrant blouse and skirt her mother had dug out from a trunk. It felt strange, dressing up for a village festival, standing in front of a man who wasn't her husband, and feeling beautiful again.
When they arrived at the square, music filled the air. Drums beat steadily, children darted around with roasted corn in their hands, and women in headwraps moved in joyful rhythm. Jane felt the pulse of it all in her chest—life, community, and something else stirring under the surface.
Chuka never strayed far from her side. When people greeted him, he introduced her as "a friend from the city," but his eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, his hand occasionally brushing against hers.
At one point, while Ezinne ran off to chase her cousins, Chuka leaned in and asked, "You're smiling more these days. Is it the village—or something else?"
Jane hesitated, her heart quickening.
"Maybe both," she replied, unable to tear her eyes from his.
They didn't kiss. Not yet. But they didn't need to.
Some things were louder than words.
In the following days, their connection deepened like the tide pulling them inward. Chuka took Jane to visit his cousin's farm, to a friend's naming ceremony, and once even to the old abandoned lighthouse at the cliff's edge—his favorite quiet place.
"You're easy to be around," he told her one afternoon as they sat beneath the lighthouse, feet dangling over the rocks.
Jane smiled, unsure what to say. Her heart wanted to believe this was something real—but her past reminded her how quickly "real" could fall apart.
"I don't want to ruin this," she said at last.
"You won't," Chuka replied, voice firm. "Whatever this is, it's ours. We get to decide."
That night, she lay awake, her hand still tingling from where he'd held it.
Then came the storm.
It happened on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. Jane was helping her mother pluck vegetables in the backyard when she heard voices rising from the front gate—unfamiliar, loud, frantic.
She stepped out cautiously.
And saw her.
A tall woman in a faded but elegant dress, with sharp cheekbones and fire in her eyes. Her hands were clenched at her sides, her expression wild with something between grief and rage.
"I'm looking for Chuka," the woman snapped.
Jane blinked, confused. "He's not here. Can I—?"
"I'm his wife."
The words dropped like stones.
Jane felt the air leave her lungs. "What?"
"He told everyone I died," the woman said bitterly. "But I'm not dead. I'm back. And I want my man back."
She turned and stormed off before Jane could process what had just happened.
Her mother stood frozen beside her.
Jane's fingers trembled. Her heart pounded—not out of jealousy, but disbelief. She had felt something real with Chuka. And now… this.
Back at his house that evening, Jane waited at the edge of the compound as Chuka walked up, looking like he'd aged ten years in one afternoon.
"She came to see me," Jane said quietly.
Chuka rubbed his face, weary. "Her name is Adaora. We thought she was dead. She disappeared three years ago. No calls. No notes. Nothing."
"And now she's back," Jane said, trying to steady her voice.
He nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me she was missing—not dead for sure?"
"Because I believed she was gone. We all did. Even her family."
Silence stretched between them.
"Jane, I didn't plan this. I didn't see you coming. But everything we've shared—it's real."
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she held them back.
"I need time, Chuka. This… changes everything."
He didn't stop her as she turned to leave, but she felt his eyes on her back.
And this time, the sea didn't whisper.
It roared.