It was late afternoon. At that time of the day, Tafawa Balewa Square was not yet as busy as it would be later in the evening, when the labor force from Victoria Island, would arrive to queue for the buses that would take them over the bridges, to the mainland. Now there was a long queue of big, empty buses, with only a few passengers seated. The drivers waited impatiently for more people to arrive so that they could be on their way. Hawkers, selling cold drinks, fruits, boiled groundnuts, and other typical Lagos traffic snacks, sat impatiently on the curbs, disgruntled with the slow afternoon sales and eagerly awaiting the thirsty, hungry crowd that would soon arrive.
On the other side of the road, in front of the old tennis club, Ada Arinze watched as two children in school uniforms walked along the sidewalk, holding hands. The bigger child, a girl about eight years old, wore a red pinafore, a pink check shirt, black rubber shoes, and a pair of white socks that reached up to her knees. The boy, much smaller, wore the same except that instead of the pinafore he was wearing red shorts.
Ada was already reaching for the camera hanging down from her neck. The movement, almost involuntary, happened whenever she sensed a good picture. Her slim, caramel skinned, medium height figure was casually dressed in blue jeans, black sneakers and a purple T-shirt, her thick cloud of tightly curled, springy hair, narrowly prevented from becoming a sky-high afro, by a wide purple headband. Continue reading