Musa's life rarely surprised him. Mornings were predictable: pushing his uncle's wooden cart through the cracked streets of Serrekunda, arranging earphones and phone chargers on a cloth that had faded from blue to stubborn grey. Afternoons were for haggling with customers who believed every price was an insult. Nights were for helping his cousin Lamin repair broken screens under a dim bulb.
That morning, though, the light decided to surprise him.
It poured golden between two concrete blocks, washing dust into honey. A group of boys chased a football stitched more with hope than leather. Their laughter was reckless, the kind that told poverty to wait outside until the game was finished. Musa lifted his phone—a secondhand Android that apologized every time it took a picture—and pressed the shutter before the moment vanished.
The photo was imperfect. The ball blurred. The horizon tilted. But the joy was there, raw and unashamed.
He posted it to his small page, captioning: "Mornings have their own miracles. #EverydayGambia". With only 211 followers—mostly family and customers—he didn't expect much.
By noon, the post had six likes. By evening, it had six hundred.
And by night, Musa's name had entered a world he had never touched.
---
Clara Bennett was bored.
Boardrooms had a way of turning even millions into monotony. She sat at a table in Paris, the city lights twinkling against glass walls, while her mother discussed expansion plans with men who measured respect in numbers followed by too many zeroes. Clara tapped her phone under the table, her smile polite but absent.
She scrolled through travel blogs, charity pages, art collectives—anything that reminded her the world wasn't only polished floors and chilled champagne. That's when she saw it.
A photograph: boys playing football on a Gambian street, their laughter captured in motion, the rising sun blessing them like a coach. It wasn't glossy. It wasn't staged. It was… truth.
Clara's chest tightened. She clicked the username: @MusaFrame.
His page was small, almost hidden in the noise of the internet. Imperfect pictures: a fish vendor's hands glittering with scales, an old man praying behind a taxi, a girl tying her shoelace while her mother waited. No filters, no polish—just honesty.
She smiled, something genuine enough that her mother's business partner noticed. "Clara, you seem entertained. New investment?"
"Not yet," she replied smoothly, but her thoughts were already elsewhere.
On impulse, Clara shared the photo to her verified account, adding:
"Beauty is everywhere. Thank you @MusaFrame for reminding us."
By the time the boardroom applause ended, the photo had 50,000 views.
---
Musa nearly dropped his phone into the basin when the notification appeared.
@ClaraBennettOfficial mentioned you in a post.
He blinked. Surely it was a mistake. Clara Bennett was not just any woman; she was the Clara—daughter and only heir of Margaret Bennett, a billionaire who controlled a fashion-tech empire with branches from London to Dubai. Everyone knew Clara: her photographs on red carpets, her speeches at charity galas, her features in Forbes about being "the heiress who might one day lead."
And she had shared his picture.
Lamin leaned over his shoulder and whistled. "Brother, your luck has just bought a GPS."
Musa's heart hammered. Followers multiplied by the second. Comments poured in, many in languages he couldn't read. Strangers calling his work "art." Some asking if he sold prints. One woman writing, "This reminds me of my childhood. Thank you."
He typed a reply—"Grateful you saw what I saw"—then deleted it. What did one say to someone whose shoes were worth more than his entire cart?
He put the phone down, but it buzzed again. A direct message.
From Clara Bennett.
---
> Clara: Did you really take that with your phone?
Musa: Yes.
Clara: On your account you said "old Android." You weren't joking?
Musa: I wasn't.
Clara: Then your eye is worth more than a thousand cameras.
Musa stared. He had never been called valuable before, not like that.
> Musa: I just post what I see.
Clara: Keep seeing. Do you have more?
Musa: Like children? Or like light?
Clara: Like truth.
He scrolled through his gallery, nervous. He sent her three photos: Lamin inspecting a broken screen under the sun, a market woman laughing while balancing oranges, and a little boy drinking water straight from a tap.
> Clara: These are stunning. Have you thought of turning this into a series? #EverydayGambia, maybe?
Musa: I… can try.
Clara: Don't try. Commit. Consistency is a currency the world respects. Can you post daily?
Musa: 7am. Before the market forgets me.
Clara: Perfect. I'll be watching.
Musa set the phone down, hands shaking. The cracked jar on the shelf suddenly felt like it held a different kind of treasure.
---
The next morning, Musa woke before dawn. He arranged earphones carefully, then waited for the moment light and life shook hands. When it came—a girl carrying her baby brother while buying bread—he clicked. Posted at 6:59.
At 7:02, Clara shared it. Again.
By noon, Musa's followers had doubled. By evening, a stranger had messaged asking if he could shoot an event. Musa laughed it off—who would hire a man with a phone older than his shoes?—but deep down, something stirred.
---
In Paris, Clara refreshed his feed. The honesty in his photographs made the polished smiles of her world feel like masks. She thought of her mother's constant words: "Remember, Clara, one day this empire will be yours. Choose wisely. Marry wisely. Never step down the ladder."
And here was Musa, a man at the bottom of every ladder she had been told never to climb.
Her phone buzzed. A message from her mother.
> Margaret Bennett: Board dinner at 8. Wear the Dior. I want you seated next to the Hollister heir.
Clara stared at Musa's photo again. The little girl with the bread, smiling despite the weight of her brother. Honest joy. Unbought. Unstaged.
She typed before she could stop herself.
> Clara: Musa, have you ever done paid photography?
His reply came, cautious:
> Musa: Paid? No.
Her lips curved.
> Clara: You will. Saturday. I'm hosting an event. I'll send details.
---
Musa nearly dropped his tea. "Paid?!" he echoed.
Lamin grinned. "Brother, start counting blessings. But also—ask how much!"
Musa laughed shakily, his heart refusing to calm. He had never been paid for seeing. For surviving, yes. For carrying, yes. But for seeing? Never.
---
That night, as the market folded itself into shadows, Musa checked his phone one last time. A new message glowed.
But it wasn't from Clara.
> @RealKarafa: Stay away from her. You don't know who you're dealing with.
Musa frowned. The profile picture showed a man leaning on an expensive car, sunglasses hiding his eyes. His bio screamed wealth. And Clara followed him.
Another message followed.
> @RealKarafa: She is the heir to everything. You? You're nothing. Don't embarrass yourself.
Musa's chest tightened. His finger hovered over "block." Instead, he typed:
> Musa: Who are you?
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Then the reply:
> @RealKarafa: I'm the man her mother actually wants for her. And I don't lose.
Musa sat back, staring at the cracked jar on his shelf, at the earphones still waiting to be sold tomorrow, at the truth he had captured and the storm it had invited.
For the first time, his quiet life felt like a fuse had been lit.
— End of Chapter 1 —