Nayna.

What Nayna protects most, she always keeps on her: the red scarf with black polka dots that belonged to her grandmother Wanjiku. She tied it around her neck the day she lost her and hasn't taken it off in three years; she washes it, puts it back on, pulls it up over her face when there's dust on the road or when she wants to disappear in the middle of the street. It's faded from so many washes, and that's how she likes it. In the portrait she's wearing it: her grandmother travels with her without needing to be mentioned. A backpack inherits that same way of moving through the world — carrying what matters, and carrying on.

When a cheetah is chasing prey at full speed and it suddenly changes direction, the long tail works as a rudder and counterweight, letting it turn without being thrown off balance — pure equilibrium in motion. A backpack is about the same thing: moving while carrying weight without losing your stride. It works well for class, the bus, travel, or work: you sling it on, pack what you need for the day, and go, hands free. If you're going to wear it for hours, it might as well feature a calm cheetah with character on the front. Who she is, you'll find in her biography; she's part of a whole family of characters I make, Yago Partal.