She was already late when she left home. The traffic was only part of the story.
The lunch was at one.
She left the house at ten past one.
It was twenty to two when she reached the restaurant. Ngozi had finished her water and was reading the menu for the second time.
“Sorry,” she said, sitting down. “Traffic was terrible.”
“Ah, Lagos. Don’t worry, I only just sat down.”
“Lagos,” she agreed.
Ngozi pushed the menu across the table.
“What are you having?”
“The fish.”
“Me too.”
Ngozi had a traffic story of her own. A cement lorry on the Lekki-Epe expressway. Three hours. A priest who eventually got out of his car and walked.
“Where was he going?”
“Who knows? Maybe he had a wedding,” Ngozi said.
They laughed.
They talked about the new finance director and whether he would last the year. About the air conditioning on the third floor, which had been broken since March.
Nobody mentioned the time again.
The fish was very good.
The next morning, Sola was at the gate with the engine running.
“Good morning, ma. Gbenga says Admiralty is clear. Ozumba is slow, but it is moving.”
He said this every morning.
The news came from other drivers, collected at filling stations and gatehouses. Gbenga drove for a family in Ikoyi and heard everything by seven. Sola passed it on without comment.
He had driven her for six years. In that time he had been wrong about a road twice, and had mentioned both occasions.
She got into the back seat.
He drove out into the street.
She asked about his daughter.
“She is writing Chemistry on Tuesday, ma.”
“Is she ready?”
“She says yes. Her mother says no.”
“Who is right?”
“Her mother is usually right, ma.”
She looked out of the window.
She waited until they had passed the filling station.
“Sola.”
“Ma?”
“Yesterday. When we went to V.I.”
“Yes, ma.”
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“How were the roads?”
He thought about it.
“Falomo was bad, ma. It is always bad at that hour.”
“Where exactly?”
“Approaching the bridge. We stood about fifteen minutes, then it opened.”
A boy ran between the cars selling plantain chips. A woman in the next lane bought a packet without looking at him.
“Was it an accident?”
“I don’t think so, ma. Just volume.”
“Just volume.”
“Yes, ma.”
“Was it like that all day?”
“Only at that hour, ma. By three it had cleared.”
“Lunch hour.”
“Yes, ma.”
She took out the folder of figures for the ten o’clock meeting and held it on her lap without opening it.
“Would you say terrible?”
“Ma?”
“Or heavy. Would you say heavy?”
Sola considered this.
“Heavy, ma. Terrible for some people.”
“I said terrible.”
“Then terrible, ma.”
They turned onto the long road where the buildings began.
She put the folder back in her bag.
They reached the office a little before nine.
Sola stopped behind a white Prado with its hazard lights on.
She gathered her bag and her keys.
“Ma.”
She looked up.
“Gbenga was telling me about yesterday. A bus broke down on Ozumba.”
“What time?”
“Afternoon. Around one.”
“Was it blocking?”
“Half the road.”
She nodded.
Sola looked towards the entrance.
She thanked him and went in.
