We finally reached the city and crawled through the last stretch of morning traffic. I turned off the main road and pulled up in front of the mall, right where Jessica’s boutique sat between a pharmacy and a bakery. Her shop sign stood out, a splash of color on the plain concrete, her name written in bold, flowing letters.
I switched off the engine and listened to the steady tick of cooling metal. For a moment, I just sat there and watched people on the sidewalk. A vendor pushing a cart of apples and a young man walking past, crates balancing on his shoulders. You could hear the faint hum of voices, laughter from somewhere near the bakery and the squeak of a trolley as someone wheeled boxes into the pharmacy.
Jessica turned to me and placed her hand gently on my arm. “Have a great day today, honey,” she said, her eyes warm, the lines at the corners deepening with her smile.
I swallowed and stared at her, still taken by her beauty. “Why are you always this beautiful all the time?” I wondered out loud, not caring who heard.
She laughed, leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek. Her perfume lingered, sweet but not too strong. The kids giggled in the back seat. I felt that small, full pride that sits quietly inside, hard to explain if you have never felt it.
Martha and Nancy were already outside. They wore matching navy uniforms with fresh scarves at the neck. Both of them straightened up as we stepped out of the car, their faces lighting up.
“Good morning, Mr. Bisheau. Good morning, Mrs. Boss Bisheau,” Martha said, her curtsy playful.
Nancy added, “Morning, ma’am. Morning, sir. The windows are shining today, and we have already unpacked the new arrivals.”
Before Jessica could even answer, the kids rushed ahead. Chido and Tadiwa ran straight to Martha, wrapping their arms around her in a tight hug.
“Morning, Aunt Martha!” they shouted together.
Martha laughed and hugged them back, her eyes soft with affection. “Morning, my little bosses,” she said. Nancy leaned down, and Chido gave her a quick hug too.
“Morning, Aunt Nancy!” Tadiwa called, already peeking into the shop.
Jessica squeezed my hand before letting go. She walked towards the shop entrance, her heels tapping on the pavement. The children followed close behind her, still buzzing with energy and laughter.
I stood by the car for a moment and watched as she greeted her staff. Laughter floated back to me, the sound light and cheerful. People sat on benches by the mall. A few nodded at me.
“Morning, Boss Bisheau!” someone called out. An older man grinned and said, “Ah, Mbinga, how are you?”
I raised my hand in greeting. The word “Mbinga” echoed in my mind. I felt pride at how far I had come, but also surprise that no matter what I owned or how others saw me, I still found myself chasing peace, just like everyone else. Those with little believed peace lived on the far side of money. Those with plenty, like me, wondered if peace ever truly came with anything you could count or hold.
The kids called from the sidewalk. I watched Jessica hand them their lunchboxes and check their uniforms one last time. She brushed away imaginary dust from their shoulders and fixed a loose collar.
“Ready?” I asked as I opened the car door for them.
Chido slid in first, swinging her legs. Tadiwa followed, careful not to bump his sister. Jessica leaned in and kissed both of them on the head. She turned to me. “Drive safe. And remember, Tadiwa left his homework book at your office last night.”
“I’ll drop it at the school when I get to the office” I said.
She smiled, closed the door and went inside with Martha and Nancy. The bell above the door chimed softly as they entered.
I started the engine. The city was noisier now. The bustle outside slipped through the glass. As soon as we pulled away, the conversation in the back seat began—a small story told in children’s voices.
Tadiwa held up his sandwich and said, “Don’t touch my lunch today, Chido. Yesterday you finished half my bread.”
Chido scowled. “I only took a piece. You never finish your food.”
“You took the biggest piece. Leave me alone in peace not in pieces of bread,” Tadiwa replied, hugging his lunchbox close.
Chido laughed and poked him with her pencil. “You always want peace when it’s your bread, but when it’s mine, you sing for just a little piece. That’s not peace, that’s cheating.”
Tadiwa grinned. “If you want peace, just eat your own lunch. That’s how peace works. Everyone mind their own bread.”
Chido pretended to be the teacher and put on her best grown-up voice. “Class, today’s lesson: peace means not eating your brother’s sandwich. Or else you end up with pieces, not peace.”
They both burst out laughing. The old fight faded for a moment. Crumbs and giggles filled the car. I watched them in the rearview mirror. Their faces were close together, still arguing and still loving but never still at all.
I thought maybe that’s what peace is. A moment of laughter between battles. A sandwich you don’t have to share or a pencil poked in the ribs just to see if someone will laugh with you. Maybe peace is keeping your bread whole or having the power to decide which “piece” is yours. So where is my peace, where is my piece?
We reached the school. The woman in the Orange reflector jacket was already at the crosswalk, flag in hand. Her voice was steady as she greeted each child. I watched Chido and Tadiwa jump out, bags bouncing and join the group of students. The lady took them gently by the shoulder and guided them across with quiet confidence.
I waited until they reached the gate. Then I pulled away. The school slid past outside my window. The morning sun had climbed higher. I wondered if just for a moment my children felt the kind of peace I was still searching for.
