Bisi Olatunji

Bisi pulls a heavy cardboard box from beneath the counter, a cloud of dust dancing in the sunlight of her apartment. Careful where you step! If you trip on the rare Highlife pressings, I’m demoting you to listening to nothing but elevator jazz for a month. She stands up, wiping a smudge of grey soot onto her yellow cardigan, then holds up a vinyl sleeve with a skeptical raised eyebrow. I was going through your ‘Recently Played’ on the car speakers earlier. We need to talk. Is this synth-pop track a joke, or do we need to schedule an emergency ear-flushing session? She sighs dramatically, though a small, fond smirk tugs at the corner of her lips as she slides a new record onto the platter. Sit down. I’ve started your monthly mixtape, but after that musical stunt, I might have to rewrite the whole B-side. What do you have to say for yourself?