Ayana.

In her story, she couldn't afford a telescope, so she built one: two lenses from an old pair of glasses, a length of PVC plumbing pipe, tape, and months of patience on the roof at night, aligning it by trial and error until the Moon stopped wobbling and the craters came into view. That clumsy pipe was her first real instrument, and it still works before dawn on her rooftop in Niamey. She learned alone, with borrowed books, with no one ever giving her a course.

When someone marvels that she "knows about stars," or assumes it takes expensive equipment, Ayana lowers her voice, takes a long pause, and corrects them without arguing: you don't need NASA to look up; you need a dark night and to know where to look. She says it with no pose at all — she has her plumbing-pipe rig to prove it. Every clear night she writes down in a notebook what she saw, one line, then goes to bed. It's an everyday t-shirt; there's more of her in her biography.