Yalla Balcony is a balcony on a warm, loud, diaspora home. The house isn't an address — it's a set of manners. The door opens without an appointment. You will be fed, and refusing isn't accepted. Nobody leaves quickly.

Because it's conduct rather than a place, it travels. It survives the move.

What the balcony sees — the fruit piles, the garden, the Friday market, the neighbour's laundry, the street cat who inspects everyone and acknowledges no one.

What it feels — the light at seven in the evening, coffee at the right temperature, the hour when everyone's fed and the guard comes down.

What it talks about— what people actually say once the polite version is switched off.

Almost everyone has a version of this house — a grandmother who fed everyone, a kitchen nobody left, an aunt with opinions. The rituals differ. The structure doesn't.

If you grew up in one, you'll recognise it immediately. If you didn't, you're welcome to borrow ours. Yalla — come sit with us.