By the time the danfo driver finally poured fuel from an old keg, half the passengers had already jumped out in frustration.
Ifeoma checked her phone. "9:07 a.m."
Chai. She was almost an hour late.
As she stepped off the bus, the guy in the shirt and tie followed her.
"You heading toward Ikeja too?" he asked.
She nodded, cautious. "Why?"
"I'm late for a meeting. We could share a keke if you're okay with that."
She hesitated for a second, then shrugged. "No time. Let's go."
Minutes later, both of them were in a rickety keke, wind blowing chaos through her braids.
He kept stealing glances at her.
"You do makeup, right?" he asked.
"How you take know?"
He smiled. "That bag screams 'makeup artist'. Plus, you smell like cocoa butter and foundation."
She laughed — real, unexpected. "You sabi guess well."
"I'm Jide," he said, holding out a hand.
"Ifeoma."
Their hands met — warm, brief.
As they neared Allen Junction, she turned to him. "Thanks for the keke idea. You smart… for banker-looking person."
He laughed. "Thanks. You fierce… for a makeup artist."
They exchanged numbers just before the keke stopped.
"See you around, Ifeoma."
She smiled. "We go see."