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 an

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 l