The shortcut that never was

A shortcut gone wrong teaches patience, friendship, and endurance.

It all began so simply, I couldn’t have guessed it would turn into the longest, strangest day of my life.
We were just a few friends on bikes — no grand plan, no rush, just the road ahead and a bit of laughter between us. The mission? Go get some milk. Quick, simple, harmless.

Until one of the bikes started losing air.

We thought it was just a bit of air escaping, nothing serious — until we realized it was a full puncture. That’s when this little village boy appeared and said he knew where we could find a pump. So we followed him — deep into some dusty, narrow path, far from the main road.

He led us to an old man — the kind who looked like he had seen every mistake young people could make. Grumpy face, slow steps, eyes full of stories. He told us we could use his pump. The one with the punctured bike got to work, while another friend tried making small talk with the old man, who we didn’t know was actually the owner.

A few minutes later, the man entered his home — only to find the same little boy inside. They seemed to know each other. The man exploded, shouting at the boy, cursing him, saying he’d warned him never to come without asking. The boy ran off, frightened. Luckily, the friend who had been talking to the old man earlier had unknowingly softened his heart — so he allowed us to finish pumping the tire.

By now, the sky was dimming. The air grew colder. The old man inspected the bike again and shook his head. “This one’s worse than you think,” he said. “Fifty shillings, I’ll fix it.”
Luckily, one of us had exactly fifty.

But time dragged on — and the man’s hands moved slowly, carefully, as if each turn of the wrench carried its own story. Just when we thought he was done, he found another puncture. Then another. We were broke, tired, and surrounded by silence.

Then, just as we were trying to figure out what to do, the one who had gotten us lost in the first place took a better bike and said, “I’ll ask for directions.”
That was the beginning of our real trouble.

Minutes passed. Then half an hour. Still no sign of him. The old man worked in silence. The shadows grew longer, and the first sounds of night filled the air — crickets, frogs, the hum of a far-off motorbike. I began to feel that strange, sinking feeling — that realization that maybe, just maybe, you’re truly lost.

Finally, the guy returned — breathless, sweating, and with nothing good to say. He told us the way home was still far, but “not that far.” The old man backed him up with a frown. “It’s long,” he said, “but if you keep going… you’ll make it.”

We couldn’t pay for more repairs. So the one with the broken bike decided to ride as it was. It was already dark, our phone — the only phone — had died, and we were now three silhouettes pedaling blindly into the night.

The road ahead was just dirt and darkness. No streetlights. Only the occasional glow of distant houses and a few motorbikes speeding past. I could barely see my own handlebars.

When we reached the first small town, we cheered — thinking we were finally back. But no. We had only entered another stretch of the countryside. One village became two. Then three. Then four. Each time, we’d stop, ask for directions, get pointed “just ahead.”

It was endless.

At that point, I was angry. My legs were numb. My patience was gone. And every time I asked, the same guy — the one who got us lost — would grin and say, “We’re almost there.”

When we finally saw familiar lights, I could have cried. By then, we’d covered what felt like a nine-kilometer ride — off-road, dusty, rough terrain. I couldn’t even imagine what would’ve happened if it had rained.

The guy who caused the whole mess was the first to get off, since his home was the first we recognized. And with all the confidence in the world, he waved and said, “Fun day, guys. See you later.”
The audacity.

I rode on with the other friend, both of us exhausted, until we reached town. But it still wasn’t over.

My parents’ workplace was nearby, and I knew I was in deep trouble for being late. So I sent my friend to check if my mother was there. He went, came back saying the job was open — but I needed him to check if she was inside. So he went again… and took too long.

When he finally returned, he said my mother had seen him — and asked where I was. My heart dropped.

We rushed to return the borrowed bike. The plan was that my friend would take one to the owner and the other to his home, but no one was at the first stop. That meant I’d have to go with him. I was out of time. So I rode home instead — dusty, exhausted, and mentally done.

When I got in, only my sisters and our helper were there. They looked up and asked, “Where’s the milk?”
That’s when it hit me — I’d completely forgotten it. I panicked and tried to bluff, saying I hadn’t heard anyone tell me to get it. But inside, I was crumbling.

I went to shower, hoping to calm down — but when I came back to my room, I froze. My laptop — the only device I had — was lying face-down on the floor, screen cracked. My two-year-old nephew had dropped it.

That was it. I was done.

So I pretended to sleep, waiting for my parents to come home. They arrived around 8:45 PM. I apologized — for the milk, for being late, for everything. Somehow, they forgave me. I was relieved, but only a little.

This morning, I woke up at six to go get milk again — sleepy, tired, still processing everything. As I rode through the quiet air, I couldn’t help but think:

Sometimes the smallest plans turn into the biggest lessons.
Sometimes the longest road is the one you take when you think you’re saving time.
And sometimes, the shortcut that never was — becomes the story you’ll never forget.