Everybody else was going somewhere too.

Ada was back on her side of the rooftop. By now, she had stopped pretending there were other sides.

The breeze was good.

There was no traffic on Ajose Adeogun. Cars moved freely below her, appearing from beneath buildings, passing through her view, then disappearing again.

Then Ada noticed a motorcycle.

A man was riding along the road.

Nothing unusual.

She looked away.

Then looked back.

Something was wrong.

He was facing the traffic.

Not riding along the edge of the road. Not tucked carefully against the pavement. Not trying to get around some obstruction.

The man was riding in the middle of Ajose Adeogun.

Towards the cars.

Ada watched.

A car approached.

The rider moved.

The car moved.

They passed each other.

Another car came.

Another adjustment.

They passed too.

Then everybody continued.

Ada frowned.

There was no traffic.

This somehow made it worse.

Had the road been blocked, she could have helped him.

Not physically.

With an explanation.

Maybe there was an accident farther down. Maybe he was avoiding something. Maybe Lagos had presented him with one of those situations in which the rules became suggestions and everybody simply did their best.

But Lagos, for once, had done nothing.

The road was open.

There were other roads.

Many other roads.

There were also two sides to this one.

Ada became interested.

She wanted to know what had happened that morning.

Had he woken up late?

Was somebody waiting for him?

Had he missed a turning?

Perhaps there was an emergency.

She watched another car move around him.

Perhaps not.

Now she wanted to go further back.

What series of events, choices, mornings and convictions had eventually produced this particular afternoon?

That was the other thing.

Whatever advantage he had hoped to gain did not appear particularly convenient.