The white van wasn't just a vehicle; it was a shot of adrenaline. Its very presence in the mission compound changed the weight of their labor. The frantic, emergency chaos of the earlier weeks began to become the form of a rational operation. The van had to be sorted out. It had to have a driver (Chiamaka, it turned out, had a terrifying but capable natural talent for guiding the boardwalks' edges). It had to have an organization for its cabinets and fridge. It created a roster, Anna mapping routes to different quadrants of Makoko on their increasingly complicated map.
They were evolving from an emergency response team to a. What? A service? An organization? The question hung in the hush during a rare period of stillness one evening. They sat on the mission's steps, drinking a pot of acri
