₦airaland Forum

metalgear11:
Quite understandable, but parenting from afar is very very dangerous. This is something the wife is and will continue to use against him to poison the kids minds, and soon they will begin to see things her way if his absence continues to grow longer.

i agree with you bro, although it is even more important to prioritize your mental health above every other thing.

metalgear11:
I feel Chike should have persevered for the sake of his kids. His absence is going to have a lasting effect on their young minds. Being a dad is not only about calling them. His physical presence in their lives matters a lot. Ijeoma will definitely use that as a tool to turn them away from him as they grow older.

Thank you for your feedback.

Chika is in a very precarious position. It seems the children are the major reason why most people remain in toxic relationships. The young man obviously love his children but need to rebuild his life so that he can provide adequately for them as they grow up.

My People,
Thank you so much for taking time out to read my story. I truly appreciate the love and support it means more than words can express.

Please, I’d love to hear from you. What did you think about the story? What stood out to you? Was there anything you feel could be better? Your honest opinions, thoughts, and suggestions will go a long way in helping me improve and keep telling stories that truly connect with you.

Feel free to drop your comments. I dey wait to hear from you!

The Years the Locusts Ate

The concluding part

"A man can rebuild what time and pain have broken, but only if he has the courage to walk away from the fire."

Chike didn’t leave with a dramatic exit. There were no raised voices, no slamming of doors. One morning, before the children woke up, he quietly packed a single duffel bag, took a final look at the home he once built with dreams, and stepped out into the dawn.
The street was still sleeping. Port Harcourt’s humid air clung to his skin, but he felt strangely light. For the first time in years, the noise in his head was silent.
He didn’t leave a note. He knew Ijeoma would find a way to twist it. But he also knew that if he stayed one more day, he would break in a way that could never be repaired.
He took a bus — destination unknown. Somewhere far, where his name wasn’t associated with shame, where pity didn’t greet him from every neighbor’s glance. Somewhere quiet enough for him to breathe again.

Starting over wasn’t easy. He had no job lined up, no savings to fall back on. He found a modest room to rent, in a small, dusty town where no one knew his past. He began doing odd jobs — teaching mathematics to schoolchildren, helping out at a printing press, sometimes carrying cement at construction sites. It was humbling. But it was honest.
Every night, he thought of his children.
Nathaniel. Diana. Elijah.
He missed their laughter, their bedtime prayers, their tiny arms around his waist. He missed helping with homework and fixing toys. Their absence gnawed at him like hunger.
But he still spoke with them. Twice a week, he called Ijeoma’s line. She never spoke to him, never even said hello. But she would hand the phone to whichever child was close, and walk away. Her silence was her message.
Yet the children filled the silence with light.
“Daddy, Nathaniel made 8 out of 10 in math today!”
“Daddy, Diana’s teacher said her handwriting is the best in class!”
“Daddy, when are you coming to pick us?”
Each call felt like both a blessing and a knife. He would smile and answer their questions, remind them to pray, to help one another, to be good. Then he’d end the call and sit in silence, staring at the wall for hours, clutching his phone as if it still carried the sound of their voices.
He thought of calling more often, but he feared Ijeoma might cut the line off completely. And so, he rationed his love, measured it into short calls, letting their voices carry him through the hard days.

And as expected, the lies began.
Soon, word spread to old friends, colleagues, even relatives:
“Chike abandoned his wife and kids for another woman.”
“He ran off after squandering his company’s money.”
“He was never the good man people thought he was.”
Ijeoma, as always, played her part well. She wept in church, gave generous offerings, and posted cryptic Bible verses online about betrayal and single motherhood. Her loyal followers clapped, comforted her, sent gifts.
But something had changed.
A few neighbors — the ones who had seen too much over the years — began to whisper.
“But didn’t she once slap him in front of their compound?”
“Why did she never let his mother visit?”
“Why is there never any sign of mourning from her, only performance?”
Even her cousin Amaka was overheard saying at a salon meeting, “I love Ije, but sometimes I wonder if she ever truly loved that man.”

For Chike, each day brought small pieces of healing. He journaled at night, prayed in the mornings, and spent hours walking aimlessly just to feel the wind. He began reading again — books he hadn’t touched in years. He even started writing a story, inspired by his own journey. He titled it, The Years the Locusts Ate.
One day, while tutoring a young boy named Kelechi, the child suddenly asked, “Sir, do you have children?”
Chike froze.
After a pause, he smiled faintly and said, “Yes. Three. They are wonderful.”
Kelechi nodded. “I think they miss you.”
The words hit deep. He left that session and cried — but this time, it wasn’t the cry of helplessness. It was the cry of a man reclaiming his humanity.

Back in Port Harcourt, life went on.
Ijeoma’s salon remained popular, but the energy had shifted. People noticed she laughed louder when others were watching. Her Instagram posts became more defensive. Her tone in church, once humble, now seemed aggressive. She was often seen arguing with her staff, berating Nathaniel in public, or making loud comments like, “I’m mother and father now! I’m the only one they’ve got!”
Even the children had changed.
Nathaniel had grown more withdrawn, often staring out the window for hours. Diana stopped singing. Elijah began asking, “Where’s Daddy? Why can’t we see him?”
Ijeoma had no answers. Only more excuses. “He left us. He chose another life. You must be strong.”
But children know. Their hearts are small, but not stupid. They remembered their father’s gentleness, his bedtime stories, his quiet strength.
One evening, Elijah drew a picture of their family for school. It had five figures — Daddy included.
His teacher, curious, asked, “But your daddy doesn’t live with you anymore, right?”
The boy replied, “Yes, but he still calls. Every week. He loves us very much.”

Months passed.
Chike, now leaner but brighter, received a call from an old friend who had moved to Abuja. He had read a short essay Chike posted anonymously on a blog.
“That piece,” the friend said, “It’s raw. Real. There’s a space in my publishing firm. If you’re ready, I want you to join us. Your story needs to be heard.”
Chike smiled — not the broken, tired smile of before, but one filled with quiet gratitude.
He packed his bag again.
This time, he wasn’t running.
He was rising.

At the bus terminal, he saw a boy clinging to his father’s leg, not wanting him to travel. It reminded him of Elijah.
He closed his eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry. One day, I’ll return for you.”
He didn’t know when or how. But he knew the day would come when the truth would shine through all the lies. When his children would be old enough to choose who to believe.
Until then, he would rebuild — piece by piece, breath by breath.
He would no longer mourn the years the locusts had eaten.
Because what the locusts stole, the future could still restore.

The End
But also, the beginning.

The Years the Locusts Ate

The morning after the note and the accident report, Ijeoma sat by the window for hours, eyes dry but soul unraveling. The man who once begged her for peace had left behind silence. But Chike didn’t die — not that day.
He had walked to the Elelenwo flyover, yes. He had stood there, looking down at the surge of traffic like a man at the edge of a cliff. But as the tanker approached, the memory of Elijah’s small voice whispering, “Daddy, don’t go,” pierced him like a blade. He stepped back.
He didn’t return home that night.
He didn’t return the next night either.
When he finally did, his face had changed. It was the face of a man who had seen the end, touched it, and turned away — only to realize he had nowhere else to go.
Three weeks later, the company downsized. Chike was among the first to be let go. No severance. No warning. Just a white envelope and a handshake. As he walked out of the building, it felt like the sky had cracked open and poured the last of God’s silence into his ears.
Back at home, Pearl Touch Spa flourished more than ever. Women came from other cities just to get their hair done. Ijeoma bought a new car and hired a personal driver. The gap between her world and Chike’s was now a chasm.
He sat on the balcony most days, watching life pass him by. When he tried to help out in the salon's logistics or offer advice, she snapped.
“You're jobless, not the manager. Stay out of my business.”
So he stayed away. He cooked, cleaned, took the children to school. At pick-up time, other parents whispered:
“That’s the man who used to work in the oil company... Now he’s just a househusband.”
One Saturday evening, while sweeping the corridor, Chike’s phone rang. It was his younger sister, Ifeoma. Her voice trembled.
“Chike… Mama is gone.”
The broom slipped from his hand.

Three months earlier, Mama Nneka had fallen ill. A quiet fever that wouldn’t leave. She had asked, begged, to come and stay in Port Harcourt so Chike could care for her.
But Ijeoma refused.
“This house is not a sickbay,” she had said.
“If your mother comes here, I leave with the children. Choose wisely.”
Chike chose silence — and guilt.
He sent money instead. Called weekly. Prayed from afar.
Now it was too late.
The burial was quiet. Chike went alone. Ijeoma didn’t attend. The children stayed back for “school exams.” He stood beside his mother’s simple casket in their village in Enugu, dressed in a faded black shirt, surrounded by aging uncles and village women who muttered, “Ah, Chike... we warned you.”
At night, lying on the old mattress in his childhood room, Chike broke.
He wept — not just for Mama, but for every door he had closed, every voice he had silenced in his pursuit of the perfect life.

He remembered it all:
The day he first held his degree, promising her a new house.
The day she slept outside the hospital because he couldn't send money in time.
The day he told her to “give Ijeoma space,” not knowing that space would become a wall.
He had spent his youth trying to give his family everything — except himself.
He wanted to be the provider, the superhero, the golden son. But in building castles, he had forgotten to pour a foundation beneath his own feet.
There was no savings. No property. No fallback. His investments had all gone into Ijeoma’s comfort — the salon, the furniture, the cars, the clout.
He didn’t even own the house they lived in. It was rented — and the rent was due soon.

A week after the burial, he returned to Port Harcourt. His shoulders stooped, his eyes hollow. The children welcomed him with hugs, but even they could sense something had changed.
Ijeoma barely spoke to him.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Chike sat in the sitting room, alone. He opened a small wooden box — the last gift from his mother. Inside was an old black-and-white photo of them at his graduation. She was laughing. He was kneeling, holding her legs in gratitude.
Behind the photo, a handwritten note:
“My son, life will not always clap for you. But when it stops, do not clap for it in return. Get up. Love again. Live again. And if you must start from the ground, make sure your feet are firm.”
The paper trembled in his hands.
He finally understood what the elders meant when they said:
“These are the years the locusts have eaten.”
The years he could not recover.
The years of chasing shadows.
The years of loneliness in a crowded home.
The years of silence in the face of insult.
The years of losing his essence in a bid to keep a family whole.
Chike closed the box and stood up.
He walked to the window. It was raining.
But something in his chest was finally breathing again. Chike has made up his mind. “Mama! I’m sorry. God, please forgive me” he muttered to himself.

The Years the Locusts Ate

The laughter from Pearl Touch Spa echoed down the street like a taunt. Women in sleek wigs and Ankara gowns flowed in and out, taking selfies with Ijeoma under the golden signage. The once quiet neighborhood of Rumuodara now buzzed with whispers of her success.
“Ijeoma is a smart woman,” one neighbor said at a borehole stand.
“Not like that husband of hers,” another added. “Always walking with his head bent.”
Chike heard them. He always heard them.
It had been a year since he opened the salon for her. The same salon he now avoided walking past. The place was thriving — all credit to Ijeoma’s relentless drive for attention. She hired only light-skinned girls with fake accents and flashy nails. She bought scented candles from Dubai and blasted American R&B through outdoor speakers. The business, once meant to be a backup, had become her personal empire.
And yet, Chike saw nothing from it. No support. No gratitude. Just more demands.
Their compound had become her theater. If he came home a minute late, Ijeoma would scream from the balcony:
“So you’ve gone to see your village girlfriend again, abi? Chike, you’re a disgrace!”
Neighbors gathered like moths to flame. Children paused their football matches to listen. Elderly women shook their heads and sighed, “Ah, women of today...”
Inside, the house was worse. She spoke to him like a stranger. Sometimes she wouldn’t answer when he called her name. Other times she would mock him in front of the children:
“Your father thinks he’s still important. If not for me, we’d still be eating garri in Enugu.”
The children began to sense the cracks. Nathaniel, now eight, started keeping to himself. Diana, only six, often asked, “Daddy, are you sad?” Elijah, still four, cried when Chike left for work, clutching his leg and begging him to stay.
Work, once his sanctuary, had become a looming threat. Rumors swirled like Harmattan dust — talk of a massive downsizing. The oil company had taken a hit. Meetings turned tense. Managers spoke in riddles. Names were whispered. Chike’s name.
He wasn’t the star employee anymore. His eyes were tired, his reports late, his suits rumpled. At lunch, his colleagues avoided bringing up job security — everyone sensed Chike had the most to lose.
He was scared. Not for himself. But for the reality he could no longer deny: If he lost his job, he would be alone. Ijeoma had shown him no loyalty, no partnership, no softness. Her earnings, fat as they were, never touched the household. When he once suggested that she could help cover the electricity bill, she scoffed:
“You’re the man. Don’t emasculate yourself.”
Even his mother, Mama Nneka, now kept her calls brief. Ijeoma had barred her from visiting the children months ago. “Your mother brings bad luck,” she claimed. And when Chike protested, she hissed, “Defend her again and you’ll sleep outside.”
He had nowhere to turn. Abdul, his friend, was now in the UK. His siblings were struggling. His pastor had tried to mediate once, but Ijeoma accused the man of “spiritual manipulation” and vowed never to return to church.
At night, Chike stared at the ceiling, hands behind his head. The ceiling fan squeaked like a sorrowful violin. He imagined a different life. Maybe if he had listened to his mother… if he had taken his time... Maybe if he hadn’t been so eager to prove he had arrived.
But regrets were like thorns — the more you touched them, the deeper they pierced.
He tried one last thing.
He called Ijeoma into the sitting room one evening. The kids were asleep. The generator hummed outside.
“Ije,” he said softly, “we need to talk.”
She barely looked up from her phone. “I’m listening.”
“I’m scared. There’s talk at work. If I lose my job, I don’t know how we’ll survive. Please... let’s plan together. Let’s rebuild this thing. For the kids. For us.”
She looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“You want us to plan together now? So I can carry the burden when you fall? O di egwu. You’re on your own, Oga. You’ve failed. Accept it.”
Chike felt something shatter inside him.
Still, he nodded slowly. “Okay. I hear you.”
He walked out of the room quietly. That night, he sat on the floor of the boys’ room and watched them sleep. Elijah’s tiny fist clenched around a toy car. Nathaniel had drooled onto his pillow. Chike blinked back tears.
In the morning, he wore his best shirt. Pressed, sharp, dignified.
He left the house without a word to Ijeoma.

That evening, Ijeoma returned from a business brunch, laughing and chatting with her cousin Amaka. As she approached the front door, she noticed something pinned to it.
A single white envelope.
She opened it.
Her laughter stopped.
Inside was a handwritten note:
“For ten years, I tried. For ten years, I believed love would conquer pride. But love cannot grow where it is mocked. I will not beg to be a man in my own house. Take care of the children. One day they will ask why I left. Tell them the truth... if you remember it.”
There was no signature.
Her phone rang. It was her mother. Her voice sounded panicked.
“Ijeoma, check Channels TV! There’s been a terrible accident near the Elelenwo flyover. A man jumped in front of a tanker.”
The phone slipped from Ijeoma’s hand.
She stumbled backward, her chest heaving, her mind spinning.
“Chike?” she whispered. “No… no, he wouldn’t…”
She looked at the envelope again.
And for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure of anything.

[To be continued in Part Three: Ashes and Rain]

It started with whispers.
At first, Chike thought it was stress talking. Then he overheard it from Ijeoma’s sister, Nkechi, one Sunday afternoon while she spoke loudly on the phone:
"The man is stingy. My sister is suffering in that house. No light, no AC, no respect. If not that she has children, she would’ve left long ago."
Chike froze at the corridor. Suffering? The very house she handpicked, he furnished to her taste. The one where the fridge was always full, and the wardrobe overflowing.
But that was Ijeoma’s gift — a rare, dangerous kind of craftiness, cloaked in silk and smiles. When people visited, she transformed into the perfect wife: respectful, soft-spoken, serving food with a rehearsed gentleness. Behind closed doors, she was volcanic — shouting, mocking, slamming plates. She once called his mother “a market woman with zero class” during a heated argument. Chike had stood speechless, shaking with disbelief.
He confided in his friend, Abdul, one night at a bar.
"Bro, I’m drowning and no one believes me," Chike whispered.
Abdul sighed. “Na her kind dey always win. They know how to twist stories like tie wrappers. Omo, be careful.”
Chike tried to fix things. He opened a beauty salon for her — Pearl Touch Spa — complete with imported chairs, high-end dryers, even a POS system. He told her, “Just in case my job ever shakes, this can support the family.” She smiled, kissed his cheek, and said, “You’re a good man, my love.” That night, he slept like a baby — hopeful again.
But by the third month, the business had become a social club. Her friends lounged more than customers. Stock went missing. Staff complained of unpaid wages. When he questioned the books, Ijeoma snapped, “So now you think I’m a thief? You want me to live like your mother, counting coins?”
Still, Chike endured. For the children: Nathaniel, their firstborn son who looked just like him; Diana, the gentle girl who sang lullabies to her dolls; and little Elijah, always holding onto his father's trousers like a shadow. They were his light in the tunnel.
But the accusations began to grow. One day, her brother, Obiora, stormed into their home.
“So you’re beating my sister now?”
Chike looked stunned. “What? I’ve never raised my hand!”
Ijeoma stood behind her brother, tears streaking her face like a master actress. “I didn’t want to tell anyone. I tried to protect him…” she whimpered.
It was a lie. But everyone believed her.
Suddenly, family meetings were held without Chike. Her mother, Madam Patricia, called his mother a “useless woman who raised a coward.” Ijeoma wept during video calls to relatives, claiming emotional trauma. People began to avoid Chike. At work, his performance slipped further as he battled stress and shame.
Yet each day, he still made breakfast for the children, still paid school fees, still hoped she’d change.
But deep down, something in him had begun to die.

The Years the Locusts Ate

Part One: The Dream Begins

For Chike, the day felt like a dream. Clutching his certificate from the University of Nigeria, freshly printed and smelling of ink and hope, he whispered a silent prayer. He was the first in his family to wear a graduation gown. His widowed mother, Mama Nneka, had sold wrappers, firewood, and even her only goat to get him there. "You will be great, my son," she often said, with tears in her eyes and pride in her voice.

Two months after graduation, Chike got the call that changed everything — a job offer from a multinational oil company in Port Harcourt. The salary was unimaginable. He wept that night, kneeling before his mother in their cramped home in Enugu. “Mummy, I am going to end your suffering very soon,” he promised with a huge smile on his face.

Port Harcourt was a boisterous city. Beautiful buildings, expensive cars, and endless meetings filled Chike’s new life. He learned fast, rose faster. His supervisors spoke highly of him. He sent money home every month, renovated their house, and placed his younger sister in a nursing school at Agbor, Delta State. The dream was unfolding just like he had hoped — until he met Ijeoma.

Ijeoma was beautiful. Elegant. Confident. Her father was a retired general, her mother a socialite. They moved through Port Harcourt’s high circles, and Ijeoma was known for her poise. When she smiled at Chike at a friend's wedding, he felt like he had touched the stars. She was unlike the girls he had known — polished, well-connected, and full of allure. Her presence made Chike feel like he had finally arrived.
The courtship was short. Everyone warned him: “Slow down.” Even Mama Nneka, ever gentle, had her reservations. “My son, be sure this one has heart, not just face.” But Chike was blinded and naïve. Ijeoma was the final jewel in his crown of success. Within just six months, they were married. Chike ignored all the warnings and red flags.

The first cracks appeared on the honeymoon. She complained about the hotel. The food. His shirt. His breath. At first, Chike laughed it off, she was a woman of class, and he was still learning. But as the months rolled by, her criticisms grew sharper and louder. Her demands became endless a bigger apartment, designer clothes, a new car for her, and constant gifts for her parents and siblings. Her family practically moved into their lives, uninvited and insatiable.

At work, Chike started missing deadlines. He was tired, mentally drained. Every evening at home was a battle — about money, status, and expectations. Ijeoma never worked a day, claiming her “duty” was to maintain the home. Her mother openly insulted Chike for not "leveling up" to their family standards. When his promotion was delayed, she mocked him, “Maybe they’ve finally seen your real worth.”
Chike began sleeping in the guest room. He no longer laughed at jokes. The vibrant young man full of promise was slowly crumbling inside a beautiful prison.

But this was just the beginning.

To be continued...