The kitchen, once a place of mere survival, slowly became a place of quiet mastery for Sonia. She was indeed a sharp girl. She didn't just scrub pots; she watched how the cooks spiced the stew, learning the secrets that made customers come back. She didn't just peel plantains; she learned to do it faster and with less waste than anyone else. Her intelligence, once stifled in school and abused at home, found a new outlet in the rhythm and logic of food preparation.
It was during her breaks, sitting on a low stool at the back of the canteen, that she met David.
David was a hustler. He supplied the canteen with fresh eggs and vegetables from his father's farm and sometimes helped with deliveries. He was all easy smiles and relentless energy, his clothes often dusty from the road. Unlike James, whose kindness had felt like a fragile gift, David's presence was solid and grounded in the same hard reality as hers.
He started by sharing a piece of roasted corn with her. Then, he began to sit with her during his breaks. He told her about his life. His mother, a formidable woman, sold (bean cakes) by the roadside to support the family. His father was a farmer who worked from dawn till dusk. David was the third of eight children, and he had been hustling—selling newspapers, fetching water, running errands—since he could walk.
He spoke of his family not with shame, but with pride. He told funny stories about his many siblings and the chaos of their small house. To Sonia, it sounded like a kind of paradise.
He saw her, not as a victim or a thief, but as a sharp, quiet girl who worked harder than anyone in the kitchen. He admired her. He started asking for her opinion on his business ideas. "Sonia, do you think people would buy more if I bundled the peppers with the onions?"
For the first time, someone was valuing her mind. With David, there was no pretense. He knew struggle, but he also knew joy, family, and the dignity of hard work. He offered her not a rescue, but a partnership. In the steam-filled backyard of that canteen, surrounded by the sounds of clattering pots and sizzling oil, Sonia began to feel the first, fragile tendrils of something she had almost forgotten: hope, built not on charity, but on mutual respect.
Although David's presence was a warm sun in her cold world, Sonia found herself pulling back. The memory of James's betrayal was a ghost that stood between them. James had also been nice at first. He had also helped her. The fear was a reflex now: What does he want from me? When will he change?
She kept a careful distance, her smiles guarded, her gratitude polite but measured. She accepted his friendship but was afraid to close the gap into something more.
But David was different. His kindness was persistent and patient. He didn't just see her hunger; he saw her dignity. When he came to visit her, he wouldn't just bring food; he would bring a simple, beautiful cloth, saying, "A fine woman like you should wear fine things." He would give her a little money, not as a payment, but with a practical, respectful tone: "For your pocket. For anything you need."
There were no strings attached. There were no lectures, no reminders of her past. He was simply, consistently, good to her.
Slowly, brick by brick, the wall around Sonia's heart began to crumble. It wasn't a dramatic fall, but a quiet surrender. She started to share little pieces of her story—not the brutal details, but the weight of it. She told him about Kemi, and he listened. She mentioned her struggles at home, and his jaw would tighten with a protective anger that felt safe, not threatening.
Love began to grow in the space between his consistent kindness and her hesitant trust. It was not a fiery, dramatic passion, but a slow-burning, steady flame. It was built on shared struggle, on the understanding of what it means to work with your hands, and on the quiet respect they had for each other's resilience.
She started to look forward to his visits, her heart lifting at the sound of his voice. The fear was still there, a faint echo, but it was being drowned out by a new, unfamiliar feeling: safety. For the first time, loving someone didn't feel like a prelude to pain.
The trust between them had grown strong enough for secrets. They were sitting under the same tree behind the canteen, the shade a private world for just the two of them. David, usually so full of bustling energy, grew quiet.
"You know about my family," he began, not looking at her, but at his hands, which were calloused from work. "But you don't know my story, Sonia. Not all of it."
He told her then. He spoke of the years of relentless hustle, not as a point of pride, but as a simple fact of survival. He described waking up at 4 a.m. to help his mother grind beans for the beans cake the smoke stinging his eyes before the sun had even risen. He told her about the constant pressure of being one of eight children, the fear that there would never be enough—enough food, enough space, enough attention.