THE LONGEST WALK HOME

THE LONGEST WALK HOME.

The sound came craaaassshhhh!

“Oh God,” I muttered under my breath. “Please, let it be my bones.”

For a few seconds, I was too stunned to move. My heart pounded furiously in my chest as I slowly raised my head, afraid of what I might see.

Then my eyes fell on the ground.

My heart sank.

Scattered across the road were pieces of my wife’s beautiful ceramic vase.

“No… no, no, no!” I whispered.

That vase.

Of all things that could have broken, it had to be the vase.

The boy who had crashed into me with his bicycle was lying on the ground, struggling to pull the bicycle from on top of him. He looked frightened and confused. His knees and elbows were badly scraped, and there was a small cut on his forehead.

The road was unusually quiet. Only a few people passed by, and none seemed interested enough to stop.

I looked at the broken pieces again.

Then I looked at the injured boy.

For a moment, I didn't know what to do.

I was angry. I was frustrated. I wanted to shout at him. I wanted to ask him why he had been riding so carelessly.

But seeing him lying there, injured and helpless, made my anger disappear.

Leaving him there would have been cruel.

“Are you okay?” I asked as I walked towards him.

He shook his head slowly.

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” he said, his voice trembling.

“Forget that for now. Let me help you up.”

I carefully helped him to his feet and supported him as he struggled to stand properly.

Before leaving, I bent down and picked up as many pieces of the vase as I could. I gathered them carefully, almost as though I could somehow put them back together simply by holding them close.

But I knew better.

It was broken.

Completely broken.

I wrapped the pieces in a piece of cloth I had with me and tucked them safely under my arm. Then I helped the boy to a nearby pharmacy.

Thankfully, the pharmacist was kind enough to attend to him immediately. His wounds were cleaned and treated, and after everything was done, I asked how much I owed.

The amount was not more than I could afford, so I paid without hesitation.

“Thank you, sir,” the boy said quietly.

I nodded.

“Just be more careful next time.”

He apologized again before leaving.

I remained seated inside the pharmacy, staring blankly at the floor.

Now that the boy was fine, another problem had taken over my mind.

How was I going to go home?

I glanced at the broken pieces of the vase beside me.

My wife was going to kill me.

Well… perhaps not literally.

But I knew that look she would give me. The silence. The disappointment. The questions.

I had begged her to let me borrow that vase.

It had taken her an entire year to save enough money to buy it. She had talked about it for months before finally getting it. To her, it wasn't just a vase.

She cherished it like a child.

It had brought a little colour into our small, bland sitting room. Whenever visitors came, she would proudly point it out as though it were some priceless treasure.

And now, I had broken it.

Well, technically, the boy had broken it.

But I had been the one carrying it.

I sighed deeply and rubbed my face.

I had only borrowed it to decorate the table for my students' catering practical. I had promised my wife I would be extremely careful with it.

“I'll guard it with my life,” I had told her jokingly.

And I had tried.

I really had.

I had carried it carefully all the way home, feeling proud of how beautifully the table had turned out.

Then, on my way back, the boy came rushing towards me on his bicycle.

One second, I was walking peacefully.

The next—

CRAAAASH!

And there went the vase.

“Sir, do you need anything else?”

The pharmacist's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

I looked up.

“No, sir,” I replied quietly. “I just want to rest for a little while.”

He nodded and went back to arranging some medicines.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.

A few minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Then another.

I kept telling myself, Just a little longer.

But five hours later, it was already dark.

The pharmacist eventually approached me.

“Sir, I'm about to close the shop.”

I opened my eyes and realized how late it had become.

“Oh… I'm sorry.”

I stood up slowly, gathered the broken pieces of the vase, and stepped outside.

The streets were quiet.

The cool night air brushed against my face, but I barely noticed it.

Every step towards home felt heavier than the last.

I thought about lying.

Perhaps I could tell my wife the vase was stolen.

No.

She would ask questions.

Perhaps I could pretend I had left it at school.

No.

She would want to see it.

Perhaps I could simply run away.

I almost laughed at the thought.

Run away from my own house because of a vase?

But the closer I got to home, the more tempting the idea became.

Eventually, I reached our doorstep.

I stood there for several seconds, staring at the door.

My heart was beating so loudly that I could almost hear it.

I took a deep breath.

Then another.

Finally, I knocked.

Knock. Knock.

The door opened.

My wife stood there.

“Muniru,” she said, her face filled with worry. “Why is your phone switched off? I've been calling you all day.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Her eyes moved from my face to the cloth bundle in my hand.

Then she looked back at me.

“And where is my vase?”

Silence.

My mouth went dry.

I stood there, eyes wide, completely frozen.

She stared at me.

I stared at her.

And suddenly, one terrible thought crossed my mind.

Should I just run away?