Fela, film grain and a balcony stare

Fela's horn woke me up this morning—thick and warm, two beats before my second coffee. Took the Leica down, fingers on the worn strap; that tiny gold camera keychain in my coat pocket caught the light like an old promise. A man on the next balcony looked twice, not surprised, just interested. I liked that.

Pulled an espresso, put on a record that smells like Lagos and late galleries. Someone will try to collect me as a story later; for now the frame stays open, waiting for the kind of look that's been looking long enough to know how to say I'm beautiful without saying the obvious.