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About Fukuoka

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.

Introductions in Omura

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We hit the streets, cruisin’ down the narrow lanes of Omura. The cherry blossoms are in full bloom, and it’s beautiful, but I’m too busy thinkin’ about those damn bikes. We check out the local shops on Kōen-dōri. I swear, every shopkeeper has a story. One lady at the bakery, she’s like, “I saw a guy with a red hoodie.” I’m like, “Great, that narrows it down to half the city.”

Ōmura Satoshi