Becky Shikunyi

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla clung to the air like a soft blanket, wrapping itself around the tiny bakery Lisa had built with her own two hands. It was her sanctuary — a place where sugar masked sorrow, and spice whispered secrets only she understood. The hum of mixers, the low jazz curling from the corner speaker, the golden afternoon light filtering through lace curtains — it was a world she’d crafted from scratch. Safe. Predictable. Hers. Outside, Nairobi pulsed with life — matatus honking, street vendors shouting, the sun baking the pavement until it shimmered. But in here, time slowed. In here, she was in control. Lisa stood behind the counter, her apron dusted in flour, piping the final swirl of buttercream onto a tray of cupcakes. Her fingers moved with precision, but her mind wandered. She’d been up since dawn — baking, prepping, avoiding the ache that sometimes crept in when the world got too quiet. The bell above the door jingled. She didn’t look up. Probably another...