Cluck. Cluck Cluck. Hooves on the medina. Cling, clash clash. Coffee on the table. Rays of sun coming through the djbellah crowd, like a meteorite finding a surface to shine against. And this was the day I met Christina, native Londoner with African zest, who doesn’t drink a sip of coffee, but loads of tea. And this day and many more days to come: avocado juice.
Her hair, waved like an ocean. Her glasses, perched above definitive nostrils, felt like her soul: vintage, reimagined from decades past. And her accent pierced a medina of talking tongues: distinct, otherworldly, heavy: hers.