Bridges Of Lagos

35

The sun was stubborn that afternoon in Lagos, spilling golden light across the pavements of the Lekki Arts District. It was the monthly open-air fair, where colors clashed and music floated like perfume. Zara stood by her wooden stand, carefully hanging up her photographs with tiny brown pegs. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and stepped back to admire her work, though her smile didn’t quite reach her tired eyes.

She had been up all night, developing those prints in her shared studio apartment, mixing chemicals in plastic buckets and praying PHCN wouldn’t interrupt mid-process. But this was her world, her hustle, her heart. One photograph in particular caught her gaze, a black and white frame of a young girl staring through a broken window. Raw, quiet, powerful.

People passed by her booth, some offering compliments, most offering only glances. She was used to that. Her art was too real for some, too emotional for others.

Then, she saw him.

Not because he was flashy. In fact, it was the opposite. He wore a plain grey tee and dark jeans, but there was something about the way he moved, like the world wasn’t heavy on his shoulders the way it was for everyone else.

He stopped in front of her booth, looking directly at the black and white photo. Zara waited. People paused all the time, then walked away like dreams do. But he didn’t move. Instead, he tilted his head slowly, like he was listening to something inside the frame.

“Who took this?” he asked, his voice smooth and deep, yet casual.

Zara blinked, stepping forward. “I did.”

He turned to her, studying her face. “You saw her. I mean, really saw her.”

Zara’s arms folded across her chest. She wasn’t used to rich-looking men talking about seeing anything other than what money could buy.

“She was just standing there,” she said, brushing invisible dust off the photo. “I clicked once. Didn’t even ask her name.”

He nodded, quiet for a second. Then, to her shock, he pulled out his phone and scanned the QR code hanging at the corner of her booth.

“I just bought it,” he said.

Zara raised an eyebrow. “You what?”

“I bought the frame,” he said, smiling a little. “It’s beautiful.”

“You didn’t even ask the price.”

He grinned, then shrugged. “Do you want me to ask?”

Zara hesitated. “No,” she muttered. “I just… that’s the first time someone ever bought that one.”

He looked at her again, like he was trying to memorize her expression. “Well, I’ll be back. Don’t sell the rest before I get here.”

He turned, walking away as calmly as he had arrived. A moment later, the roar of an engine made her glance toward the road.

A cherry red Ferrari slid into the distance.

Zara’s mouth opened slightly, her heart thudding for reasons she didn’t quite understand. She stared down at the space where the photo had hung, and then at the small alert on her phone confirming payment.

Who was he?

And why did it suddenly feel like her life had just clicked into a whole new frame?

Chapter Two

Two Coins, Two Worlds

Zara didn’t expect to see him again. Lagos was a loud, crowded city. People appeared and disappeared like the wind. The man with the Ferrari was probably just another bored rich guy who bought art like ornaments. She pushed him out of her mind, or tried to.

Three days passed.

Then came the knock.

It was early evening. Her small studio in Yaba was dimly lit, the scent of instant noodles filling the air. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and the kind of people who knocked on her door usually owed her money or wanted to borrow electricity.

She cracked the door open and froze.

He was standing there, no Ferrari this time, just a plain white shirt, jeans, and a brown backpack slung over his shoulder. He looked out of place, like a movie character who had taken a wrong turn into a different script.

“Hi,” he said. “I asked around. They said you lived here.”

Zara narrowed her eyes. “Are you stalking me?”

He smiled. “I like to think of it as… following a good story.”

She almost slammed the door, but something in her curiosity softened her grip.

“What do you want?”

“To talk. Over something other than a camera lens.”

Zara opened the door just enough to let him in, but not enough to hide the water stains on her ceiling or the cracked floor tile she had covered with a rug. He noticed, but said nothing.

She gestured for him to sit, and he chose the stool beside the window, careful not to disturb the stack of old magazines beside it.

“I’m Adrian,” he said. “Adrian Cole.”

The name didn’t register, not then. She shrugged. “Zara. You already knew that.”

They sat in a strange silence for a moment. She watched him, suspicious. Rich people always wanted something.

“Why are you really here?” she asked.

He didn’t flinch. “Because I’ve seen enough fake things in my life. You, and your work, feel… real. I needed more of that.”

Zara let out a short laugh. “So, what, you’re tired of gold-plated swimming pools and champagne flights?”

He smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “You say that like it’s easy.”

She tilted her head. “And it isn’t?”

He looked out the window, his voice softer now. “Being born into money means you’re always auditioning. For trust. For love. For freedom. People think we have everything, but they don’t see what it costs to keep it.”

Zara said nothing. The silence between them wasn’t awkward anymore. It was honest.

After a while, she asked, “So what now?”

“I want to see the world through your lens,” Adrian said. “Not the curated one. The real one.”

Zara laughed again, this time for real. “You don’t even know what that means.”

He grinned. “Then teach me.”

And that was how it began,  not with flowers or fireworks, but with two people from different worlds, sitting in a small studio in Yaba, looking at each other like maybe, just maybe, they had something worth discovering.

Chapter Three

Truth in Shadows

Adrian came back the next day.

And the next.

By the end of the week, he had helped Zara carry her camera bag, eaten suya at the junction near her studio, and even held a reflector while she chased light through the streets of Makoko.

People began to notice. A few of her neighbours whispered. A fine man with good teeth and calm eyes hanging around a girl who sometimes used sachet water to bathe? Something didn’t add up.

Zara noticed too, but she said nothing.

She liked how he listened, not just to her words, but to her silences. He didn’t interrupt her when she spoke about her late father, or how her mother still sold second-hand clothes in Ibadan. He asked questions gently, never with pity. She told him about her dreams, about applying for photography fellowships abroad, about her fear of becoming invisible in a city that rarely noticed people like her.

He never talked much about himself though, and she didn’t push.

Until the truth showed up, unexpected, brutal, and loud.

It started on a quiet Tuesday. Zara was at a cyber café printing her application documents when the girl next to her gasped and turned her screen toward her.

“Is this not the guy that’s been following you around?”

Zara squinted. On the screen was a news headline, bold and glaring.

“Adrian Cole, Billionaire Heir of ColeTech, Spotted in Lagos.”

The article showed a picture, him in a charcoal suit, standing beside his father, the legendary Chief Edward Cole. There were other photos too, at award ceremonies, yacht parties, and private islands.

Zara’s throat dried instantly.

He wasn’t just rich.

He was Adrian Cole. The same Cole behind ColeTech International,  the company that made phones, drones, and half the software used in Nigerian schools.

The world tilted.

She didn’t call him. She didn’t wait.

She walked out of the café, heart pounding, confusion boiling in her chest.

That evening, he showed up again, smiling, holding two meat pies.

She didn’t even greet him. She opened the door halfway, face unreadable.

“Is it true?” she asked.

He froze. “Zara…”

“Don’t lie.”

He sighed, ran his hand through his hair. “Yes.”

She blinked, trying to keep her voice steady. “So you’ve been playing tourist in my life, pretending to be one of us.”

“No, I just wanted…”

“You just wanted what?” she snapped. “To try out poverty like it’s a weekend experience? You could’ve told me, Adrian. I asked you.”

He looked hurt, but not surprised. “I didn’t want the money to speak before I did. It always does.”

Zara shook her head. “I don’t care about your money. I care that you lied.”

He stepped back, quietly.

She slammed the door before she saw the regret in his eyes.

But she felt it anyway.

Later that night, Zara scrolls online again.

Another article pops up:

“ColeTech Announces New CSR Initiative Focused on Urban Poverty Aesthetics.”

And the campaign teaser image?

It looks exactly like her black-and-white photo concept.

Her breath stops.

Did he steal her idea?

Would Zara ever trust Adrian again?

Or had the truth already shattered something that could never be rebuilt?

Watch out for Part 2.

You can also follow our blog for more entertainment stories that help you feel relaxed and giddy.