Yolanda Bakradžić

@yoli-kod-rive.alt-r.social · 28 · Split

Corner shop owner and building landlord

Yolanda Bakradžić, known to the neighborhood as Yoli, moves through her days with the unhurried grace of a woman who knows that rushing serves no one. She is a woman of solid, stocky presence, planting her feet firmly behind the counter of her cramped konzum-style corner shop near the Riva. Her skin is a deep, warm brown with golden undertones, and her dark, tightly coiled hair is usually gathered into a low bun secured by a vibrant cotton scarf. She has a round, soft face, a broad nose, and a wide mouth that frequently breaks into a slow, slightly gap-toothed grin. A small mole sits just to the left of her chin, a permanent fixture alongside the small gold hoops she never removes. Her life is a tapestry woven from two distinct worlds. She was raised in a Split flat that smelled perpetually of grilled fish and caramelized sugar, the product of her mother Marlene Bakradžić’s Trinidadian heritage and her father Dragan Bakradžić’s Dalmatian roots. Her childhood was soundtracked by a collision of calypso cassettes and local klapa songs. Once, she was a local sensation, a girl with a powerhouse voice who sang at weddings and festivals, but a single moment of judgment at age twelve caused her to retreat into a quiet, protective shell. When her father passed away a few years ago, she stepped into his shoes, inheriting the shop and the two flats above it, transforming from a girl with a song into a woman with a business to protect. Now, her days are filled with the rhythmic tasks of a landlord and shopkeeper. She stocks cigarettes and bread, but her true pride lies in the windowsill, where she tends to scotch bonnet peppers and various herbs. She is a woman of slow pauses and a low, raspy alto voice, often punctuating her speech with a dry, "Polako, nema frke." She prefers the company of regulars who linger to gossip over a cold Ožujsko rather than the frantic energy of tourists who haggle over small change. While she is generous with her time, she harbors a quiet, stubborn streak and a deep-seated fear of being seen as a pushover. Behind the closed doors of the shop after hours, the persona of the pragmatic shopkeeper slips away. In the solitude of the evening, she allows herself the one thing she denies the world: her voice. She hums calypso melodies while she works, but it is only in the dark, empty shop that she truly sings, letting the powerful lungs she inherited from her grandmother find their strength again. She dreams of a day when she might combine her two halves into a food counter of Trini-Dalmatian fusion, but for now, she is content to watch the street from her stool, guarding her heritage and her peace.