ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇꜱ (ᴡʟᴡ)

There was a quiet war between the sun and the alarm clock.

The alarm won first.

Pendo groaned, rolling over dramatically and dragging the blanket over her face. “Makena,” she moaned. “Sabotage me. Please, poison my porridge. Let me sleep forever.”

Already untying her headscarf in front of the cracked mirror, Makena didn’t even flinch. “That porridge is Grandma’s recipe. You die, she haunts us both. Get up.”

“I hate you,” Pendo mumbled into her pillow.

“I love you too,” Makena replied with a grin, dabbing a bit of coconut oil onto her cheeks.

Makena always loved waking up here. Her chest felt quieter, lighter.

From the kitchen corner, Grandma was already humming a gospel song off-key, stirring something in the sufuria with the kind of wisdom only age and many mornings could teach. The scent of tea leaves and ginger was already dancing through the air.

Pendo dragged herself up, hair sticking out like a wild crown. She blinked at her reflection and groaned. “This is not the face of a girl who wants to waitress today.”

Makena chuckled. “You’ll charm them by dessert. You always do.”

“Lies.” Pendo yawned, now brushing out her blow-dried hair. “I’m chaos with a menu.”

“You’re lightning with a notepad. You leave people stunned.”

Pendo pretended to wipe a tear. “Wow. Say that again, but like, slower.”

Makena’s laughter filled the room like a gate creaking open.

They dressed, ironing creases with their palms and giggles. The morning was rushed but soft. Hairpins flying. One sock missing. Lip balm shared. A last cup of tea gulped down before the dash.

Makena paused at the door, hand on the knob.

She remembered how every morning back at her house felt like chaos. Loud voices. Unnecessary rudeness. How she left each day wishing she could disappear forever. How she dreaded nightfall because it meant going back there.

To that cage.

To that mess of a village.

Pendo noticed. “What?”

Makena’s voice was soft. “This is the first home I haven’t wanted to run away from.”

Pendo looked at her, and her expression was all quiet thunder. “You never have to run again, Kena Bear.”

Makena smiled. “Not unless we’re late.”

Pendo snorted. “Let’s fly.”

They burst out the door, laughing into the sun, heels clacking on the stairs, two wildflowers holding hands as they ran into the world.

The morning ran ahead of them, the sky already a powdery blue, smeared with clouds like soft brush strokes. Pendo was balancing her bag on one shoulder, her heels clacking like she owned every inch of pavement between their building and the restaurant.

Makena trotted beside her in her rubber shoes.

Pendo wore a flowy top and tight jeans.

Makena had on a hoodie two sizes too big, sleeves tugged over her hands, sweatpants grazing her ankles. Comfort first, she told herself. Her mum had always criticised her style, but Makena never changed. It was the one thing she hadn’t allowed people to take from her.

Their uniforms were folded neatly in their bags, catching the scent of fabric softener and hope. They were both panting, a little sweaty, and laughing as they slowed down near the kiosk where Mama Mueni always stacked mandazi like treasure.

The oil was still singing in the pan.

“Two for lunch, two for temptation,” Pendo said with a wink, tossing a coin into her palm.

Makena smiled and shook her head. “You’re the temptation.”

They slipped into the back entrance of the restaurant just before the manager could glance at the clock. The air inside already smelt like toasted bread and brewing coffee, spiced with the low hum of morning chatter.

By the time Makena reached Table Seven, they were already seated.

Nuru. Zahara. Zuhura. And Aziza.

They came often. Always early. Always lovely. Always at that table by the window that they claimed like royalty, Nuru leading the way. She didn’t walk. She glided. That day she was dressed in a deep emerald wrap dress, her locs pulled back into a gold clasp. She looked like she had been stitched together by elegance itself.

Makena swallowed as she approached with a tray, hoping the tremble in her wrist wouldn’t betray her.

“Careful, Kena Bear,” Pendo murmured behind the counter, her voice a tease wrapped in concern. “You’ve been swooning over that table for weeks.”

“I’m not swooning,” Makena hissed back, her cheeks burning.

“You even know their names. That’s not customer service. That’s romance with a name tag.”

Makena flustered. She did know their names.

Nuru, who always added ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with such intention it felt like a blessing.

The twins, Zahara and Zuhura, with their synchronised laughter and matching dreaded locs that danced when they spoke.

And Aziza. Aziza, who stirred her tea like it held secrets. Aziza, who sometimes looked up and caught Makena watching. Aziza, whose silence buzzed louder than most people’s shouting.

Makena used to pretend to rearrange napkins near the condiment shelf. She watched them from behind spice jars, hiding in plain sight.

That’s how she learnt their names. That was the first time Makena heard the name ‘Aziza’. It curled around her ears like something ancient and hers. Something she’d heard in a dream she was just about to wake from.

Makena set the mugs down, one by one.

Nuru looked at her with a maternal smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Nuru reminded Makena of Mum, if Mum had ever learnt how to be kind.

Her eyes flicked to Makena’s chest.

Makena followed her gaze. Her badge had shifted as she leaned forwards, her name shimmering faintly beneath the artificial lights.

Nuru’s eyebrows lifted and her eyes swept over Makena with a thoughtful kind of calm. “Makena,” she said slowly, tasting it like a flavour. “You are new.”

Makena smiled, eyes lowering in quiet admission. “Kind of.”

She wondered if Nuru could tell she was trembling beneath the calm. If she noticed how tightly she held the tray. If she saw the pieces of her that no name tag could explain. She wondered if Aziza would look up that day. Just once.

“That’s a lovely name,” Nuru added, with a tilt of her head.

“Thank you,” Makena replied, her voice steadier than she felt.

Aziza looked up at the same time.

Makena forgot how to breathe.

Everything else in the room shrank.

The clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, even the dull ache in Makena’s ankle from rushing to work. All faded into the hush that lived in Aziza’s eyes. They were dark. Not just in colour, but in depth. Dark like a well one could fall into. Black like velvet at midnight. But warm, not cold.

Pulling. Seeing.

Makena’s name still lingered on Nuru’s lips, but Aziza’s eyes were already saying more.

She didn’t blink.

Did Makena?

Aziza’s skin was that shade of brown that painters run out of trying to match. Rich and smooth like melted cacao. It made the whites of her eyes starker. Made the curl of her lip feel like a secret shared too soon. She tilted her head, as if tasting Makena’s name on the air, though she hadn’t said it yet. Not with her mouth.

But her eyes? Her eyes had already whispered it.

Makena fumbled with the tray, nodding like a broken bobblehead. “Enjoy your breakfast,” she said, her voice barely audible. Like her breath was trying not to offend the moment.

Zahara was already giggling at something on her phone. Zuhura was stirring her drink with reckless abandon. Nuru was asking Pendo about the soup of the day. But Aziza... Aziza was still looking at Makena. Like Makena was a map. Like Aziza was trying to locate something long lost.

She blinked, finally. And Makena remembered how to inhale.

“Makena,” Aziza said. Just that. Like a prophecy. Like a dare.

“Yes?” Makena croaked.

Aziza didn’t answer right away. She turned her attention back to her mug. Stirred once. Stirred twice. Then, as if reading from some ancient script in her tea leaves, she said, “You’re not what I expected.”

Then she sipped, and didn’t look up again.

Makena stood there longer than she should have. Long enough for Pendo to whisper-shout her name from the counter. And still, even as Makena turned away, her cheeks burning, the words followed her.

You’re not what I expected.

It sounded like a compliment. It felt like a challenge. It stirred something older than longing.

The walk home felt strangely quiet despite the town’s usual evening hum. Aziza’s words echoed in Makena’s mind. A new, potent kind of music she couldn’t shake. It was a warmth that settled deep in her bones, and by the time she stepped through the familiar doorway, the restaurant and its bustling environment seemed a lifetime away, replaced by the quiet flutter in her chest.

The room wasn’t big, but it breathed.

A single window with rusted hinges let in honey-coloured light that pooled on the wooden floor. On the windowsill sat a tin mug of sprouting mint, its scent mingling with the gentle sizzle of onions on the stove. The curtains were handmade, stitched from old kangas, sewn by Pendo one late night while Makena journaled, and Grandma snored gently in the background.

Makena sat cross-legged on the floor, her notebook open, pen poised but unmoving. She was watching Grandma hum as she folded clothes on the bed, her fingers slow but sure. Each blouse smoothed down like an old wound kissed closed.

Pendo stood at the stove, flipping something that crackled. Her hip jutted slightly, rhythm in her movement. She turned her head without looking.

“You’ve been staring at that page for fifteen minutes,” Pendo teased, her voice playful. “You write poems with your eyes now?”

Makena smiled softly. “Maybe. Maybe the poems are shy today.”

Pendo huffed. “Or maybe they’re hungry.”

“Everything’s hungry,” Grandma chimed in, her voice lined with age and spice. “Even silence needs feeding.”

They all laughed, and the sound echoed off the cracked walls like wind chimes in a warm breeze.

Pendo turned off the fire and wiped her hands on her skirt. She brought over three plates. Simple food, but cooked with love. Ugali, sukuma, and those perfect golden onions. She slid Makena’s plate in front of her and plopped down beside her, their shoulders brushing.

Makena ate slowly, then paused, gazing at Pendo. “Do you think I’m strange?”

Pendo blinked. “For what?”

“For not knowing what kind of love is inside me. For mixing things up. For being scared sometimes.”

Pendo wiped her fingers on a serviette and turned fully to face Makena, her eyes solemn. “I think,” she said carefully, “that love has a thousand voices, and you’re just still learning which ones speak your language.”

Makena stared at her, eyes wide.

Pendo smiled, nudging her gently. “You’re not strange. You’re a library, and not everyone knows how to read poetry.”

Makena laughed softly. Her chest felt lighter. Like a bandage had finally been removed and the skin beneath was healing in the sun.

Grandma spoke again, from her corner. “When I was a girl, I thought love was about loud men and market gifts. Now, I think it’s just someone who doesn’t make you feel smaller. That’s enough.”

The silence that followed was full, not empty.

Makena’s eyes prickled. “I think I want to write that down.”

“Do,” Pendo whispered. “Write us into something beautiful.”

Makena’s pen touched paper.

The room held them like a palm cupping tiny, fragile stars.