Amina’s Truth

Amina stared at the latest comment under her investigative piece: “Brilliant reporting, but so cold. Do you feel anything?” She should have brushed it off. Her editor at The Daily Lagos called her their “fact machine” – the reporter who never let emotions cloud the truth. But that comment annoyed her.

Her article on Lagos‘ housing crisis was pure facts: statistics, policies, and hard data. Her colleagues covered the human stories – families evicted, children sleeping under bridges – while she focused on the numbers behind those tragedies. Who cared if people called her cold? Someone had to report without sentiment in a world drowning in opinions.

Sitting at her usual spot in Java Junction Café, Amina adjusted her noise-canceling headphones. They were off – she only wore them for the illusion of silence. Just as she began revising her article, a sharp feedback sound shattered her concentration. She flinched, her shoulders tensing.

“Sorry, folks! Sound check wahala,” a voice called out.

Amina looked up, irritated, and saw him. The musician on stage adjusted his microphone, moving with fluid grace. His locs were tied back, revealing focused eyes that scanned the room before landing on her. He smiled warmly. Embarrassed, she quickly looked away, fixing her gaze back on the screen. Facts. Numbers. Truth. That’s all that mattered.

Then he started playing. A soft melody flowed from his keyboard, wrapping around her walls, seeping through the cracks. Amina tried to focus, scrolling through housing statistics, but the music persisted, tugging at something buried deep.

Three hours passed, and she was still stuck at the same paragraph. “What’s wrong with me?” she muttered, slamming her laptop shut.

“Bad day?” His voice was smooth, with a hint of teasing. Amina looked up, startled. He was at her table, holding a cup of coffee. Up close, his eyes were even warmer.

“It’s just… work,” she stammered, hating how flustered she sounded. “I’m a journalist.”

His eyes lit up. “I know. Amina Abdullahi, The Daily Lagos. I read your housing report. Cold, but powerful.”

“Cold?” she echoed, a defensive edge creeping in.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, sitting across from her without invitation. “Your facts are solid. But facts alone can be hollow. Every statistic is someone’s story. Every data point, someone’s life.”

Amina opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She had never thought about it that way.

“I’m Dayo,” he said, extending his hand. “I play here every Friday. Come again next week. Maybe my music will help you find the stories between the numbers.”

The next Friday, Amina found herself at Java Junction again, telling herself she was only there to work. But when Dayo started playing, she closed her laptop. This time, she let the music reach her. She noticed how his fingers danced over the keys, how the melodies told stories without words. How he played like he was pouring his heart out.

By the end of his set, she was scribbling furiously in her notebook – not statistics, but words that flowed with emotion, words that painted pictures.

The truth lives between the numbers, in the spaces data can’t measure. In the voices we don’t hear, in the stories we don’t tell.

When Dayo approached her table, she didn’t look away. She smiled, letting the warmth thaw her defenses just a little.

“You were right,” she admitted. “I’ve been writing about buildings and money. But it’s really about people.”

Dayo grinned, his eyes sparkling. “I knew you’d get there.”

The next Monday, her editor called her into his office. He was holding her latest piece: “Beyond the Statistics: Lagos’ Housing Crisis Through Its Victims’ Eyes.” His face was a mix of surprise and admiration.

“Amina, this… this is your best work yet.”

She walked out of the office feeling light, as if a weight she didn’t even know she carried had lifted. She realized she was humming one of Dayo’s melodies.

For the first time in a long time, the truth felt alive.