Nobody really knew Baba Idowu’s age, only that his clocks never lied. Tucked between a pharmacy and a betting shop, his little store was a world of its own. Clocks of every kind filled the space: some ticked in Yoruba, others whispered time without a sound.
I was twelve when I first wandered in, drawn by a noise I couldn’t place. Baba pressed a small, broken wristwatch into my hand. “This one,” he said, “stopped when the boy who wore it died. You can fix it if you ask the right questions.”
I never found those questions. And I have been asking ever since. Years later, when the shop burned to the ground, only one clock was found in the ashes. Still ticking, still right on time.