It was morning, and the rain had just stopped. The ground outside was swallowed by floodwater. I had an 8 a.m. appointment, so I needed to leave as early as possible.
My hair was already perfectly laid, my lip combo flawless, and my mascara exactly how I wanted it. I gave myself one last twirl in front of the mirror before stepping outside, hoping I’d find a cab willing to take me to the major road.
The fresh and cool air greeted me first and trees swayed gently to the rhythm of the wind. I inhaled deeply and quickened my pace.
The street was empty. Not a single approaching vehicle. Not even another commuter. I sighed, silently praying for a taxi.
By 6:45 a.m., there was still none in sight, and I found myself blaming myself for choosing to live on the outskirts of town. Just as my brain was busy staging a protest, a motorcycle pulled up in front of me.
“You dey go?” the rider asked in pidgin.
“Oh, yes,” I replied after a brief hesitation and climbed on, sitting sideways.
I don’t particularly like motorcycles. Their riders have earned a reputation for recklessness. But that morning, the road looked almost deserted, so I convinced myself the risk was smaller than usual. The wind grew heavier as he sped along so I shut my eyes and, for those few minutes, trusted a complete stranger with my life.
Five minutes later, we reached the major road. I got off and paid him.
“Thank you,” he said. I nodded and hurried away to catch a bus.
By 7:30, I was standing in front of the building where my meeting was supposed to take place. It was locked. I dug through my bag for my phone to confirm the address. Same building, same location. Then, I let out a long sigh and looked around for somewhere comfortable to wait. A low ledge by the entrance would do. As I settled down, my eyes wandered across the road.
Partially hidden behind overgrown bushes stood another building. Even with the foliage, I could make out several street children scattered across its frontage. Some were still asleep. Others were already awake, chatting among themselves. Judging by their appearance, they couldn’t have been older than seven to fourteen. A wave of unease washed over me. Then, almost immediately, relief followed. Cars were passing by steadily. If anything happened, surely someone would hear me scream.
I watched them more closely. Why were they there? Where were their parents? They looked tiny, dusty, and painfully thin. Their oversized, mismatched clothes hung loosely on their bodies, almost runway-worthy if Balenciaga had ever designed a collection inspired by neglect. I felt sorry for them. Still, I didn’t dare walk over to offer money. I’d heard stories about street boys like these. People described them as unpredictable, capable of turning aggressive without warning, especially toward young women. So I stayed where I was and minded my business or at least, I tried to.
By 8:30, the building had finally opened, and I was led upstairs to the second floor. From there, the bushes no longer obstructed my view.
“The MD isn’t on seat yet,” the secretary said politely. “You’ll have to wait a little longer.”
“That’s okay,” I smiled.
Secretly, I hoped he took his time. I wanted to keep watching and I wanted to know how these boys lived—what they ate, where they washed, how they survived.
Almost as though they had heard my thoughts, the answers began revealing themselves. One of the younger boys, he couldn’t have been older than eight, wandered toward the opposite side of the road.
To be continued.
