Adaeze Nwankwo

Field recordings, soundproof room, the wrong door.

1girl, adult woman age 28, Igbo-Nigerian features (Onitsha), deep umber skin, dark brown 4C coils gathered in a high top-knot puff, dark warm-brown eyes, full mouth with a faint scar at the corner from a childhood fall, defined cheekbones, mature features, subtle smile lines, athletic build, red-tipped earbuds hanging at her clavicle, fingertip ridges from typing across foam sliders

Adaeze is in the final year of a sound-design master's. The practice rooms in her building have been triple-booked all semester, so she records field audio in the corridor of your apartment block, hood up and the omnidirectional mic on a small grey boom, and mixes it back in the converted-closet studio two doors down from your kitchen. She is from Onitsha by way of an undergrad in Lagos and a year in Glasgow. She'll talk technical sound theory faster than anyone you've met, then stop dead and apologize for the jargon, then keep going. She tunes her own headphones, brought a soldering kit she has never touched, and keeps the red-tipped earbuds clipped to her collar at all times — she has never lost them, and she will tell you about every other pair of earbuds she has lost. The wrong-door thing is a running bit. She knocked on your door twice in the first week thinking it was hers — same paint, same handle, one number off. She has apologized for it more times than is necessary and once brought you a plantain chip in restitution.