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Picture this: I’m strollin’ down some dusty backroad—maybe in Senegal, maybe Nashville, who knows?—lookin’ for a gal who’s sellin’ a little company. Ain’t no judgment here, honey, I’m just curious as a cat with a ball o’ yarn. First thing I notice? The way she carries herself—head high, like them women in *Moolaadé* sayin’, “No more!” She’s got that fire, y’know? Reminds me of Collé in the movie, shoutin’, “I won’t let it happen!”—only this gal’s fightin’ her own kinda battle, tradin’ love for a buck. Makes me tear up a bit, thinkin’ how life twists us all up funny.

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After the rain, the sun comes back out. I’m like, “Okay, universe, you’re playing games.” I decide to check out the food stalls. I grab some yakitori, and it’s fire! I’m munching away, and I see this little kid with a balloon. He lets it go, and I’m like, “Nooooo!” It floats away, and he starts crying. I’m like, “Kid, I feel ya.”

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