The bell above the cafe door jingled again, and Morayo straightened her apron, trying to ignore the ache in her shoulders. She had been on her feet for hours, refilling coffee, wiping tables, taking orders, and dodging the constant hum of impatient customers.
It wasn't that she hated the work. She didn't. It kept her afloat, paid the bills, and gave her something to cling to besides her parents' disapproval. But some days, it felt like the walls of the café were closing in, squeezing every ounce of energy out of her, leaving only the polite smile she plastered on for strangers.
"Can I get a latte, please?" a man asked, leaning a little too close as he rested his elbows on the counter. His cologne was overpowering, and the way he smiled ,too wide, too knowing—made her skin crawl.
"Of course, sir," Morayo said, keeping her voice steady, hands shaking slightly as she fHethed the milk.
"You're new here, aren't you?" he said, tilting his head in a way that made her want to step back. "I like the way you—"
"Sir," she interrupted softly, forcing a smile, "please just let me make your drink."
His grin faltered, just for a moment, but the next second he leaned closer anyway. "I'm just trying to be friendly. Don't be so cold."
Morayo's chest tightened. She clenched the cloth in her hand, keeping her composure. "Friendly is fine. Harassment isn't. Your latte will be ready in a moment."
He chuckled and finally straightened, muttering something under his breath as he wandered toward a table. Morayo exhaled slowly, her heart still racing. A bead of sweat trickled down her neck; not from the heat of the espresso machine, but from relief that she had survived the encounter without losing control.
She wiped the counter again, staring at the spotless surface as if it could absorb some of the tension. This was her life: careful, cautious, controlled. One wrong step and the world would notice. One lapse and she'd be punished, or worse, blamed.
By the time her shift ended, the sky had turned a dull pink, signaling the early evening. She walked home with tired legs, her bag slung over one shoulder, the sounds of the bustling city fading as she approached the quiet street where her family lived.
The house smelled of antiseptic and simmering soup,always clean, always precise. Inside, her father sat at the dining table, arms crossed, brows furrowed.
"Morayo," he said without looking up. "Homework done?"
"Yes, Baba," she replied softly, setting her bag down and smoothing her skirt.
Her mother appeared from the kitchen, flour dusting her hands, her expression a mixture of concern and expectation. "And your chores? You've done everything I asked?"
"Yes Mama, I did them before leaving for work." Morayo's voice was polite, but her chest ached with the weight of constant vigilance. One wrong word, one careless action, and the careful balance she maintained would crumble.
Her father fires ...his eyes sharp. "Do not forget that your work,your studies, your responsibilities—are not optional. You will not slack because of some… distraction. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Baba," she whispered, bowing her head slightly.
Later, in her room, Morayo sank onto her bed, notebook in her lap. The walls were familiar, the small desk against the window her only quiet sanctuary. She traced the edge of the pages with her finger, thinking of the café, the man, her father's stare. She was polite, respectful, careful… but she felt so very small in the world.
A soft sigh escaped her lips. She wanted so much, though she couldn't name it. Freedom. Safety. Joy. Something beyond rules, beyond careful steps and measured words.
But in this house, in this life, wanting too much was a risk she had never been allowed to take.