She orders the same coffee every day—a cortado with a whisper of cinnamon. He’s been waiting four months to ask her name.
Wallace knows precisely when she’ll walk through the door: 8:43 AM, Monday through Friday. As a barista with dreams bigger than his tip jar and a heart more fragile than the foam art he creates, he’s perfected her order but fumbled every chance to learn who she really is.
This is Part One of an ongoing story article written to reflect a day in the life of Timi Waters.
My room is a cocoon of darkness, pierced only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the windowpane. Outside, Lagos trembles beneath the weight of the storm, the streets slick with water, the air thick with a dampness that clings to the skin like an unwanted memory. The grating hum of my neighbor’s generator gnaws…
It all started with a dinner invitation I didn’t know I couldn’t afford. As your typical Igbo guy newly settling into Florida, I had long heard of the infamous American tipping culture—a capitalist romance between customers and service workers where one party does all the work, and the other is guilted into subsidizing their paycheck….
Look, I get it. You’re tired. Tired of picking up another Nigerian novel only to be hit with colonialism, civil war, poverty porn, or some combination of all three. Don’t get me wrong – these stories matter. But abeg, sometimes a babe just wants to read about two people falling in love without having to…