Table Seven by Deborah Ojo
I worked the morning shift at a small café along a busy Lagos street in Nigeria. By 8 a.m., the generator hummed, coffee mugs clinked, and the smell of bread and roasted beans hung in the air.
She came in every day at exactly 8:10.
The woman at Table Seven.
Same seat by the window. Same order: hot tea, no sugar. She never touched the menu. While everyone else scrolled through phones or complained about traffic, she wrote.
On real paper. Cream envelopes and a blue pen she carried in her bag.
She wrote slowly, carefully, as if every word mattered too much to waste. Sometimes she paused to watch the street, buses honking, hawkers calling, people rushing by, then continued writing. Her tea always went cold.
“Should I warm it?” I asked once.
She smiled softly. “It’s okay. Thank you.”
By the end of the morning, she stacked the envelopes neatly and slipped them into her bag. I never saw her mail them.
Then one Monday, she didn’t come. Table Seven stayed empty. Days passed, then weeks. Every morning at 8:10, I found myself staring at the door, hoping she would appear.
A month later, a small package arrived at the café. Inside were dozens of stamped envelopes, each addressed to someone in the café.
Mine was there.
Thank you for greeting me with a smile. Some days, that was the only kindness I received.
No signature.
The cook received one. The cleaner received one. Even the security man outside received one. All letters thanked us for small acts we had long forgotten.
After that, we stopped seating anyone at Table Seven. Somehow, it didn’t feel right. The chair still belonged to her. And every morning at 8:10, I still looked at the door, just in case.
Deborah Ojo is a Nigerian writer and fashion entrepreneur based in Lagos Nigeria. She enjoys telling simple, heartfelt stories that explore kindness, faith, and the beauty hidden in ordinary moments. She is the founder of TIMD Couture.
Illustration by Karen Walker – @kawalker.bsky.social
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