You walk into the telecommunications HR office and sit before the fully bearded HR manager. Flatten yourself. You are wearing a long skirt, Amina, but don’t seem so desperate. Or, long skirt or not, he will join the list of men that grope your body with their eyes.

You are tired. Yours remains an imperceptible talent, even if the people you've been able to shoot admitted that no other camera lenses are sharper, no other capture neater, and no other shot has ever—just merely by reappearing on a computer screen—shrugged off the need for an editing.

In a world not upended, your talent would open doors that wouldn’t demand that you pant for notice. In that world, you’d fill your purse with money, and at least buy your Mama original drugs and, maybe, a pair of new shoes. But here, you are shoved aside by those who stomp the earth and have doors thrown open for them at the mere breath of “I’m a man.”

The HR is flipping through your résumé. Your Mama will have wound herself up into a frenzy. You need to get home now so she can eat and take her tablets. She is too weak and aged from diabetes to do anything by herself. You need to stay with her more. Better drop your camera, because it is a closed door, and float into a world that sees women.

“You are 25?” the man asks.

“Yes, sir.”

You realize, with a sharp stab, that you are not carved for this secretarial job. You glance up and see the most beautiful photo hanging on the wall.

“May I know who that is?” you ask.

“That’s my aunt.”

“Who shot it?”

“TY Bello. She was the official photographer to one of the presidents this country has had. A powerful woman.”

TY Bello. You will never forget that name. You ask for your résumé, get up and, caressing your camera in your bag, in which you now see yourself as in a standing mirror, you walk out into the brilliant sunshine.