Happiness followed me as I left the office, walking past rows of desks and into the elevator. My shoes clicked softly on the tiled floor and the faint smell of cleaning polish that lingered in the air. I pressed the button for the ground floor, my finger hesitating for a second before the elevator hummed to life and began its slow ascend. The soldiers at the gate saluted, their movements sharp and practiced. I nodded back, grateful for the routine. Their faces were blank but I felt a small comfort in the way they greeted me each day, never missing a beat.
The short drive into town felt longer today, my mind drifting to Paul and that old question about peace. The traffic crawled along the main road, cars weaving around potholes, street vendors waving tomatoes and bananas at passing drivers. I kept my window closed but could still hear the distant sounds children laughing and a radio playing sungura. I kept thinking, can the world really not give us peace? Is it just spiritual, just a gift from God, or is it something you have to build, over and over, even with trembling hands?
I thought of Jessica, and all I’d done to make her happy. The working late, the small gifts, the way I tried to shoulder everything so she could rest. I remembered the way her face softened when I brought home groceries or when I remembered her favourite snack from town. And yet, some mornings, she would stand by the kitchen sink, her back to me, her voice small and tired. I could see the steam curling up from her mug of tea, her shoulders slumped as the kettle clicked off behind her. “I just want peace in this house,” she’d say, or sometimes sharper, over the chaos of the children running around, dropping their bags and fighting over bread.
But what always got to me was when she’d turn, smiling, and shake her head. “You’re a grown man, Percy. You’ve got a job, you’re a Christian. What more do you want?” Her voice half-joking, half-serious, as if I was missing something obvious. The way her eyes searched mine made me feel seen and a little lost at the same time.
Today, her words brought up another memory. Her Uncle Samuel, the good man who had everything on paper but still found something missing. I could picture him, closing up his shop, the metal shutter rattling as he locked it for the night, sitting under the jacaranda tree while the city hummed around him. The air would be full of the scent of fallen flowers and dust. “I have everything I need but I don’t have peace,” he’d once said, his voice low and a bit sad. And maybe, like Uncle Samuel, I was always waiting for something I couldn’t name.
Jessica’s aunt was right, I thought: “Maybe peace isn’t about having everything. Maybe it’s about letting go of what you can’t control.” But did anyone really let go? Did anyone ever really hold peace, even for a moment? Sometimes I doubted it. Sometimes I wondered if we just chased peace the way children chased the last sweet in the packet, hoping it would last.
Paul was a spirit man. He saw visions, wrote letters and sang hymns in prison. If anyone should have found peace, surely it was Paul. Yet he too wrote about a thorn in the flesh, a trouble that never left him. He begged God to take it away. But God’s answer was not, “Here, be at peace,” but “My grace is sufficient for you. My power is made perfect in weakness.” Maybe peace is not the absence of the thorn. Maybe it’s learning to stand, to breathe, to trust, even while the thorn remains. The daily act of waking up and choosing to try again, even if nothing feels different.
I parked under the city building, handing a dollar to the City Park man who appeared at my window. He nodded, wrote me a slip and I slipped it on the dash. The paper fluttered for a second before I closed the car door and straightened my tie. The noise of town greeted me. Taxi horns, shoe shiners calling out for customers, the sound of someone sweeping the pavement with a rough broom.
Jessica was already there, standing just beside the entrance, her phone in hand. She wore a simple black dress and the sun caught the edges of her hair, making it shine. She looked up as I walked over. Her eyes met mine and for a moment, the noise of town faded away.
I smiled. She smiled back, small but warm and tucked her phone away. We stood facing each other, close enough to see the small lines of worry and laughter around her eyes. She reached out, bruised my shoulder and let her hand linger for a heartbeat.
“You made it,” she said softly, her voice gentle as if she was afraid to break the quiet between us.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I answered. We stood like that for a few seconds, just breathing in the morning, sharing a silence that felt full, not empty.
We walked in together, side by side our steps in time. At the glass doors, I held one open for her and she laughed, nudging my arm. The world outside felt far away as the doors closed behind us.
Inside the agency, one of those new glass buildings in town, a light box written Silomarket Writing Agency. Eno, my manager, met us at the door. “Boss, welcome!” he said, shaking my hand, then Jessica’s. We laughed together as we went up in the lift, the doors closing out the city’s noise. The floor tiles shone under the morning sun. I could smell a hint of fresh paint and coffee in the air.
My office was sunlit, with two mugs ready for tea. I asked Eno to have someone bring us something sweet, and he hurried off, eager to please us. The hum of the city faded behind the thick glass, replaced by the soft clatter of cups and the quiet voices of the office staff moving about.
Jessica sat across from me, looking out over the city. The world seemed quiet for a moment. I found myself wondering again about peace. Why it feels close one minute and slips away the next. Why sometimes it settles in your chest, warm and steady, and other times it’s a memory, almost out of reach. Her fingers traced patterns on the side of her mug and I watched the sunlight catch on her wedding ring.
We drank tea and laughed, letting the little victories of the day carry us. For a while, I forgot about the unanswered questions. And for that moment, peace felt real. It was in the taste of sweet tea, the sound of Jessica’s laughter, and the soft glow that filled the room.
But as I watched Jessica stir her tea, I knew like Paul and Uncle Samuel I was still searching. Still learning to live with my thorns, still hoping for something steady and deep, even if I could never quite hold it. The world outside kept moving, and I wondered if everyone else felt the same way, quietly hoping for a peace they could never fully explain.
Maybe that’s all peace ever is a fleeing gift, a quiet moment you wish for, something to reach for, even if you can’t explain it. Something you can only pursue but never touch and maybe that is enough.
The End
