The Lemonade Restaurant was alive with its usual Friday night rhythm. The air buzzed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of music that drifted from the speakers tucked into the corners of the ceiling. Outside, the Nairobi streets pulsed with movement—cars honking, pedestrians weaving through traffic, and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby boda boda rider cracking a joke with his passenger.
Inside, Zed leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his drink sweating in the heat. He wore his signature half-smile, the kind that made people wonder if he was amused or just quietly judging the world. His eyes scanned the room lazily, occasionally flicking toward the street through the open façade of the restaurant.
Across from him, Brian sat hunched over a glossy magazine, flipping pages with the kind of disinterest that only made his curiosity more obvious. He wasn't reading—he was watching. Every few seconds, his eyes darted above the pages, scanning the street for something—or someone—worth noticing.
Joey, the loudmouth of the group, leaned in with a dramatic sigh. He was the kind of guy who spoke like he was on stage, always performing, always reaching for the punchline.
"Nowadays there are no girls, mehn," he declared, shaking his head like a disappointed prophet.
Zed didn't look up. He just smirked and took another sip of his drink.
"The real ones aren't born yet," he replied, voice low and smooth.
Brian snorted behind his magazine. "You two sound like rejected poets."
Joey grinned. "We're just telling the truth. Nairobi's dry, bro."
Then she passed.
It was subtle at first—a shift in the air, a ripple in the rhythm of the evening. She walked past the restaurant's open entrance, her steps measured, her posture elegant. Her hair caught the light just right, and her eyes—though she didn't look directly at them—held a sadness that made the world slow down.
Joey jolted upright, nearly knocking over his drink.
"Zed! Didn't you see that?"
Zed blinked, pulled from his haze. "What?"
Joey pointed dramatically toward the street. "The real ones who haven't been born just passed."
Zed followed his gaze and saw her—Joey. Not the loudmouth at his table, but the girl with the quiet fire. She was already a few steps ahead, her figure framed by the glow of the streetlights. She wore a simple dress, nothing flashy, but it moved with her like it belonged to the wind.
They burst into laughter, loud and unfiltered. Brian rolled his eyes, flipping another page. Wayne entered the restaurant like a storm in human form—arms wide, grin wider, voice booming.
"Hello, my G's!" he announced, as if the entire restaurant had been waiting for him.
The boys responded in unison, distracted.
"Fi…ne."
But their eyes were glued to the girl. Joey had glanced back, just for a moment, curious. It was enough to send the table into chaos.
Joey—the loudmouth—stood up, nearly tripping over his chair.
"Yo, we need a plan. She looked back. That's a sign."
Brian lowered his magazine. "A sign of what? That she's wondering why a bunch of clowns are staring at her?"
Wayne laughed, slapping Brian on the back. "You're just mad you didn't see her first."
The boys scrambled, each trying to act cool, each failing in their own spectacular way. Joey adjusted his shirt, Brian fixed his hair, Wayne tried to remember a pickup line he'd once used successfully in 2019.
But Zed didn't move.
He watched her, eyes narrowed, heart pounding like a drum. There was something about her—something that made the noise around him fade. She wasn't just beautiful. She was composed, like she carried stories in her silence. And that sadness in her eyes? It wasn't weakness. It was depth.
He stood up slowly, ignoring the chaos behind him. His steps were deliberate, his posture relaxed but alert. As he approached her, the boys behind him erupted into an argument.
"Zed's going?" Joey hissed. "He didn't even ask permission!"
"Ask permission?" Brian scoffed. "What is this, kindergarten?"
Wayne leaned in. "I had a line ready, man. I was gonna say, 'Are you a poem? Because you rhyme with my soul.'"
Joey gagged. "That's why you're single."
But Zed didn't hear any of it. He was already there, standing in front of her. She turned slightly, surprised but not startled. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the world paused again.
"Hi," he said, voice calm.
She tilted her head. "Hi."
"I'm Zed," he said. "And I think you just made my friends lose their minds."
She smiled, just a little. "Is that a good thing?"
"Depends," he said. "If it means I get to talk to you while they argue over who saw you first, then yeah. It's a very good thing."
She laughed softly, and Zed felt something shift inside him. It wasn't just attraction. It was recognition—like he'd been waiting for this moment without knowing it.
Behind them, the boys continued their debate, oblivious to the quiet spark unfolding just a few feet away.