The diner was already noisy when Amina arrived, apron in hand, hair tied back to hide the exhaustion beneath her eyes. The smell of frying oil clung to the air, mixing with loud laughter and clattering cutlery. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept her mother's medicine on the table.
She slipped between tables with practiced ease, balancing plates and forcing a polite smile. Inside, her heart was heavy. Every day felt like running on a treadmill —sweating, working, moving, yet going nowhere.
But when she hummed, the weight eased.
It began softly, a tone from the notebook tucked in her bag. She sang under her breath while wiping down a table —gentle, fragile but with hope.
Unnoticed by her, a young man in a hoodie near the back leaned forward. He wasn't interested in the greasy food or the noice. He held up his phone, recording her without a word. The lens captured her voice, raw and unpolished, weaving through the chaos of the diner like a spark in darkness.
"Oi, Amina!" The manager's sharp voice cut through her song. "Stop daydreaming and get the orders right!"
She bit her lip, cheeks flushing, and hurried off. Singing was her only rebellion, her only escape —and even that felt stolen.
Hours later, when her shift ended, she draged herself home, a few crumpled naira notes tucked into her pocket. Before she could hide them, her father's rough hand snatched them away at the doorway.
"Is this all?" he slurred, shaking the money. "You're useless. Can't even earn enough for a proper drink".
Her sister's eyes widened in fear. Her mother coughed weakly in the background. Anima's fists tightened, she said nothing. Fighting back would only end in broken plates and bruises.
When her father staggered off, muttering something about meeting "friends," she sat on the edge of her mattress. From her bag, she pulled out the battered notebook. It's pages were filled with lyrics scribbled in the margins, verses written late at night when the world was asleep.
She hummed again, low and soft, as though singing only to herself. The melody wrapped around her like armor.
Far across the city, in a small apartment, the video of her voice was uploaded to the internet. Within hours, strangers began to share it.
"Who is the girl?"
"That voice .... it doesn't sound like anyone famous."
"She sings like she's lived through the pain."
Unaware of the storm brewing online, Amina closed her eyes, whispering to the notebook:
"One day .... someone will listen."