The long weekend stretched before me, a welcome gift courtesy of the end-of-Ramadan celebrations in April 2023. I had dedicated the past few days to immersing myself in the wonders of Cameroon’s Northern Region, a landscape that sings a different song than the lush south. I’d navigated the striking passages of the Kola Gorge and wandered the vibrant streets of Garoua, each experience layering upon the last.

But Sunday was reserved for a specific destination, a name that echoed with the promise of vastness: Lagdo Lake. The idea of this immense reservoir, a man-made sea held back by a dam, was an irresistible pull. The journey itself was meant to be a simple transit, a roughly two-hour drive from the city to the water’s edge. Yet, as any traveler knows, the destination is often just the final punctuation of a story written on the road. And the road to Lagdo had its own story to tell.

As my vehicle carved its path, I found myself falling completely in love with the Sahelian landscape unfolding around me. It was a world away from the dense, humid forests I knew. Here, the sun reigned supreme, casting a brilliant, unapologetic light over everything.

The air was dry, and the trails were a mix of fine sand and rugged, rocky earth. It’s a harsh environment, one that demands resilience, and you could see it mirrored in the vegetation. The trees, though plentiful, were not the sprawling giants of the south but hardy, clever specialists, their green leaves a testament to life’s tenacity in the face of heat and dryness. There’s a raw, honest beauty to it all, a sense of space and endurance that quiets the mind.

My purpose was to see the famous reservoir, but the journey to Lagdo was becoming a destination in itself. I was so engrossed in the scenery, in the feeling of moving through this ancient land, that the hours seemed to melt away under the African sun.

Every adventurer, no matter how focused, is still human. A long drive on dusty roads under a bright sun eventually calls for a brief “technical break.” It’s a mundane reality of travel, a simple pause in the forward momentum. But I have a rule I rarely break: wherever I go while exploring, my camera goes with me. It’s become an extension of my sight, a partner in my curiosity.

As I stepped out onto the quiet trail, the engine’s hum replaced by a soft breeze, I scanned the horizon, as I always do. And that’s when I saw it. It wasn’t a dramatic vista or a rare animal, but something far more subtle and, in its own way, more profound. Further down the road, emerging from the heat haze, was an alignment of motorcycles. They were heading in my direction, their single headlights creating a rhythmic pattern against the earthen backdrop. It was a perfect, fleeting composition waiting to be captured.

The scene was more than just visually interesting; it was a window into another rhythm of life. This wasn’t the hurried, impatient traffic of a city. This was the steady, unhurried pulse of a small Sahelian village. In that moment, the world seemed to slow down. The riders moved with a purpose that felt tied to the land itself, not to the ticking of a clock. Their journey was part of the fabric of daily existence here, as natural as the hardy trees and the sandy soil.

As I raised my camera, I knew I was capturing more than just a few people on motorcycles. I was documenting a moment of pure, undiluted life on the road to Lagdo. This photograph would not be about the grand scale of the Lagdo dam, but about the human scale of the journey. It was a quiet testament to the everyday stories that unfold on the paths less traveled, the moments that exist between the famous landmarks. It was a reminder that the heart of a place is so often found not in its monuments, but in the unguarded, authentic flow of its daily life.

Looking back, that brief, unplanned stop on the way to the great lake encapsulates everything I seek to convey through my work. I went looking for the grand vista of Lagdo, and I found it. But the image that stays with me, the story that feels most true, is of those riders on that dusty track. It proves the tagline that guides my entire project, “In Every Journey, A Story Worth Telling”.

Often, the story isn’t about reaching the destination, but about the grace notes you find along the way. The road to Lagdo gave me a photograph, but it also gave me a beautiful reminder that the most profound adventures are often the ones you never planned for.