Outside, Nairobi was already in motion. Matatus roared past like impatient beasts. Vendors called prices. Frying mandazi perfumed the air with sweetness that almost felt cruel.
Nairobi never paused for anyone’s grief. It demanded movement, survival, endurance.
On her walk to work, Wanji stopped at a roadside kiosk for weak tea. It was all she could afford. She drank it slowly, making it last, letting the warmth pretend it was a meal.
The baby kicked harder.
“I know,” she murmured under her breath. “I’m trying.”
The restaurant sat in the heart of the city, polished glass and soft lighting designed to make wealth feel effortless. It was the kind of place where candles were lit even when the sun still existed, because atmosphere mattered more than reality.
By the time Wanji arrived, the staff were gathered near the back entrance, laughter floating light and careless.
She smiled politely when greeted but didn’t linger. Friendliness could turn dangerous without warning, especially when you were the easiest target.
Esther Adabio, the floor manager, stood near the schedule board with her arms crossed. Her eyes flicked toward Wanji’s stomach for one second too long.
“You’re late,” Esther said flatly.
“I’m not,” Wanji replied calmly, pointing to the clock. “I’m five minutes early.”
Esther’s lips tightened. “Then don’t argue. Go change your apron.”
Wanji did as she was told.
Arguing never helped. It only gave Esther excuses.
As she tied the apron, her thoughts drifted, unwanted, to a time when mornings had been different. When she woke in a quiet house, sunlight filtering through curtains she had chosen. When coffee came in two cups because someone else knew her sugar.
She pushed the memory away hard.
That life belonged to another woman, another name.
She was no longer Wanji Kuina.
