Her Crown of Thorns

The buzzing fluorescent lights inside The Daily Grind cast a dull yellow glow over the chipped floor, making everything look even more tired than it already was. Outside, Lagos was alive with its usual nighttime chaos, but in here, the air was heavy with the scent of old coffee and burnt sugar.

I wiped the counter slowly, the cloth in my hand damp and lifeless. Sticky traces of spilled lattes clung to the surface, refusing to come off. My shoulders throbbed with a pain I'd gotten used to, and my feet-stuffed into sneakers that should've been thrown away months ago-felt like blocks of stone. It was almost closing time. Soon, I could finally take off this sweaty, stained uniform and get away from the never-ending whine of the espresso machine.

Each movement was a reminder of how tired I was-and how broke. I mentally calculated how much I'd made today. Not enough. Rent was due in three days. My younger brother, Emeka, needed his asthma meds again. And the electricity bill was higher than usual this month. Mama hadn't said anything, but I'd seen the worry in her eyes.

I wasn't hungry, but something still ached in my stomach. That tight, gnawing feeling-anxiety. The kind that never went away. No matter how hard I worked, it always felt like I was running in place, never catching up.

I stacked some old mugs and glanced at the dirty window. Outside, I could hear the traffic, the city sounding like a wild animal, always hungry. Just for a second, I let my mind wander-imagining soft lights, clean fabric, and the scratch of pencil on paper as I brought one of my clothing designs to life. But it was a dangerous thought, that dream. A distraction. I pushed it aside and focused on the sugar dispensers. They needed refilling. At least that was something I could control.

As I poured sugar into one of the containers, the grains spilled onto the counter-just like the worries overflowing in my chest.

I had just wiped down the last table when I heard a familiar sigh behind me.

It was Mr. Adebayo, the café's owner. His shoulders always drooped like he carried the weight of the whole city. He wasn't a bad man. Just tired-like the rest of us in this struggling part of town.

"Zara," he said, voice rough and low. "Slow day again. The generator chewed up half our profit, and that espresso machine is acting up."

I didn't turn around. I already knew what he was going to say. I wiped the table more slowly, bracing myself.

"I might need to cut some hours next week," he added. My stomach dropped. "And your pay from yesterday... I'll need to hold on to it for a day or two. Just until the next delivery. You understand, right?"

My hand froze on the table. A day or two? The words hit me like a slap. A cold wave of fear cut through my exhaustion. He said it like it was nothing-but it wasn't. Not to me.

It was Emeka's Ventolin.

It was dinner for tonight.

It was the thin line between just barely surviving... and slipping completely.

"Understood, sir," I said quietly, forcing the words out. My voice sounded calm, but it was a lie-one I told with every part of me. I gripped the damp cloth tighter, my knuckles going white. Inside, I wanted to scream: No, I don't understand. I need it now. Right now.

But I said nothing. The words stayed trapped in my throat, useless and unheard.

He nodded, probably thinking I was fine with it, then shuffled back to his dim little office.

I stayed there, standing in the silence of the nearly empty café. The stillness felt heavier than usual. The numbers in my head-my careful plans-fell apart like broken glass. That money was part of everything. Without it, everything else crumbled too. And there was no backup plan. There never was.

When I finally stepped outside, the night air hit me hard, cold against my skin. The bells above the café door jingled behind me, almost mocking. I crumpled my apron in one hand, my uniform half unbuttoned beneath my old jacket. The street stretched out ahead, lit by tired yellow lights. Shadows moved on the walls, stretching long and strange.

Somewhere down the road, Fuji music blasted from a buka, mixing with the rumble of generators and the calls of late-night hawkers. The street wasn't exactly dangerous-but it didn't feel safe either.

My mind was racing, full of fears I couldn't quiet.

Emeka's medicine.

Mama's worsening cough.

The landlord's angry phone calls.

Each step I took felt heavier, like I was carrying all of it on my back.

Mr. Adebayo's words rang in my ears: "A day or two."

That wasn't a delay-it was a sentence.

Without that money, Emeka wouldn't get his inhaler tonight. I pictured him struggling to breathe, chest rising and falling in fast, shallow gasps. My stomach twisted.

I pulled my jacket tighter, trying to block out both the cold and the rising panic. I had another job in two hours-cleaning offices downtown. No time to rest. No space to breathe. Just more work. Always more work, for money that never seemed to be enough.

As I turned the corner, the soft light from a boutique window caught my eye. The mannequins were dressed in elegant gowns-silk and satin shining under the lights. One of them, in emerald green, seemed to glow. It stopped me for a moment. My chest ached with longing. That dress belonged in another world. A world where I wasn't scrubbing floors and skipping meals. A world where I could afford to dream.

I closed my eyes and turned away. Dreams like that didn't belong to girls like me. Not anymore.

Old memories stirred-ones I tried hard not to think about.

Before Papa's accident.

Before hospital bills ate our savings.

Before his legs stopped working.

Before Mama worked herself into exhaustion.

We were never rich, but we were okay. There was laughter then. Peace in Mama's eyes.

Now, it was just me. Holding everything together with tired hands and borrowed strength.

Emeka depended on me.

Mama counted on me.

And that love-deep, fierce, unshakable-was the only thing that kept me moving.

Step after step, into another endless night.

My tiny room was a sanctuary, even if it was barely larger than my single mattress. The air was thick with the scent of old books and the lingering trace of Mama's dinner from earlier-beans and plantain, if I had to guess. I kicked off my sneakers, each movement sending sharp protests through my aching feet, and peeled off my damp uniform. The quiet hum of the old fridge in the corner kitchen was the only sound, a low, familiar comfort against the heavy silence of my thoughts.

Before I could even think about getting ready for my second job, I stole a few moments for myself.

From beneath a stack of worn textbooks, I pulled out my lifeline: a battered spiral sketchbook. The cover was creased, the edges frayed, but inside-it was sacred. The one place where I was still me. Not the girl counting coins or holding her breath at the pharmacy. Just... me.

My fingers, stiff from wiping tables and hauling trays, shook a little as I turned to a blank page. The pencil felt like an extension of something deep within me, something I couldn't name but always recognized the moment it touched the paper.

I started to draw.

First the outline of a fabric in motion-soft silk, draping like it had a soul. Then beadwork, intricate and deliberate, inspired by Mama's Ankara wraps. I twisted the familiar patterns into something modern, something bold. Lines flowed into curves, angles into texture. With every stroke, the noise in my head quieted, drowned out by the soothing scratch of graphite on paper.

Here, I was free.

Not Zara, the coffee shop girl with her head down and her voice quiet.

Not Zara, the cleaner rushing through fluorescent-lit offices after midnight.

Here, I was Zara the designer. The girl who saw stories in seams and power in pleats.

I was working on a gown I'd been dreaming of for weeks. Regal, complicated, beautiful. A high neckline that held the head like a crown, and a skirt that poured down in layers like a waterfall. I called it Crown of Thorns-though I never said it out loud. It wasn't just a dress. It was a message. A symbol of beauty born from pain, of sacrifice dressed up as grace.

It was my most impossible dream-and the only thing that still made sense.

For these few stolen minutes, it was real.

And for these few minutes... I could breathe.