Chapter 3 The Man in the Classroom Window

The sun was already high by the time Adanna and Mama Rose reached the school. The streets of Ibadan buzzed with life-vendors calling out to morning customers, taxis honking at pedestrians, and the occasional rooster that had missed its cue for dawn. Dust clung to the air, kicked up by passing okadas, and the scent of akara and groundnut oil lingered in the breeze. The school itself wasn't anything fancy-paint peeled off the low cement buildings, revealing stubborn layers of old colors beneath. The playground was mostly sand, with one wooden swing that squeaked when the wind moved it.

But there was something lively about the place, something that didn't need polish to feel alive. A chalkboard sign out front read in white letters: "Learning is for the bold heart." Adanna smiled at it. Mama Rose walked ahead, her steps brisk, her wrapper flapping with every stride. The bold blue and yellow ankara fluttered like a flag, making her look like a general returning to her camp. Adanna followed quietly, camera bag slung over her shoulder, adjusting to the rhythm of home. Inside the staff office, it was cooler-barely. A ceiling fan spun in half-hearted circles overhead, stirring papers and the smell of biro ink and disinfectant. "Felix!" Mama Rose called out, hands on her waist. "Come and greet me o!" A man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair emerged from behind a desk, his smile wide and immediate. "Mama Rose! Ah, this woman never grows old," he said, laughing as he pulled her into a hug full of warmth and history. Then his eyes landed on Adanna, curious and welcoming. "And this must be the granddaughter from London?" Adanna smiled, stepping forward. "Yes, sir. Adanna." "Ah, Igbo name," he said, shaking her hand firmly. "But Mama Rose is Yoruba?" "She's my mum's mother," Adanna replied, used to the momentary confusion. "I'm Igbo through my dad, but I grew up with both cultures. My parents met in university-OAU. I was born here in Ibadan." "Ahhh!" Felix exclaimed, as though a puzzle had been solved. "No wonder you carry Yoruba attitude with Igbo confidence." They all laughed, including Mama Rose. "She speaks both languages," Mama Rose added proudly. "More Yoruba than Igbo sef-but don't tell her father that o." Adanna chuckled. "Too late. He already suspects." Felix gestured toward the corridor. "Come, let me show you the art room. That's the space we want to convert for photography classes." They walked through a short hallway lined with open classroom doors. The walls bore peeling posters of alphabets and multiplication tables, and the air was filled with the unmistakable sound of children-shouting, laughing, reciting. One bold girl poked her head out of a classroom and said, "Aunty, your hair is fine o!" Adanna burst into a grin. "Thank you, sweetie!" The girl giggled and ducked back in. Felix pushed open a wooden door at the end of the corridor. The room was square, a little musty, and lit by sunlight slanting through louvre windows. The walls were stained and cracked in places, but full of potential. Crayon sketches still clung to one corkboard-bananas with eyes, lions with red tongues, stick families holding hands. "We haven't had an art teacher in almost two years," Felix said with a sigh. "But if you're interested in volunteering twice a week, we'll clear the space. You'd be helping these kids see the world differently." Adanna's mouth parted to respond, but her eyes caught movement through the opposite window. A man stood in the next classroom, tall and lean, writing something on the board with his left hand. His back was to her, but there was a calm, deliberate grace in his posture. He turned briefly, and their eyes met through the glass. It was only a second. But something in his gaze made her breath pause. "Who's that?" she asked, as casually as she could manage. Felix followed her gaze. "Oh-Tobi. One of our best teachers. Literature and music. Very private. Keeps to himself. But the students love him." Adanna nodded, looking away. She didn't say more. But for a moment longer, she kept watching him- as if she were seeing not just a stranger, but a question she might want to answer.