Nadia Traoré had cleaned many offices in Abidjan, but she had never seen a room like the one on the top floor of Quadio Tower.
The desk was dark wood, polished like glass. The windows looked down over the city as if the whole world belonged to whoever stood there. Behind the desk sat a large black Italian leather chair, the kind of chair that looked less like furniture and more like power.
But at three in the morning, Nadia did not see power.
She saw a place to rest.
Her hands were cracked from cleaning chemicals. Her feet burned inside her worn shoes. Her knees ached from standing all day. Since sunrise, she had worked at a small restaurant in Plateau, then cleaned offices in the afternoon, then reported for the night shift at one of the most prestigious towers in the city.
She had not eaten properly. She had barely slept in days.
Still, she pushed herself because every hour meant money, and every coin mattered. Her mother, Mama Mariam, was lying in Cocody University Hospital, waiting for an operation Nadia could not afford.
The doctors had told her clearly.
