[STORY] I thought you moved to Canada or something!

Two Saturdays ago, I was booked for a destination pre-wedding shoot at Tarkwa Bay — the kind of gig every photographer and videographer dreams about.

The bride, Ada, had said she wanted “something cinematic, like a Studio Ghibli movie meets Lagos sunset aesthetic.”

I smiled. Challenge accepted.

The day started early. My backpack was loaded —

Canon R6, 50mm f/1.2 lens, gimbal, drone for aerial videography, and enough batteries to power a small wedding.

I even brought my vintage film camera, just in case the moment asked for grain and nostalgia.

When we got to Tarkwa Bay, the light was perfect — the golden hour glow spilling across the water like melted gold.

I set up my tripod and told Ada and her fiancé, “Okay, let’s tell your love story visually. No stiff poses, just live in the moment.”

They laughed, danced barefoot on the sand, and whispered secrets I wasn’t meant to hear. Every frame felt like a dream. This was photography at its purest — storytelling in motion.

Halfway through the shoot, I noticed someone standing by a coconut tree — a guy in a black hoodie holding an old Sony camcorder. He looked oddly familiar.

I brushed it off. Lagos beaches always have random vloggers doing cinematic videography for TikTok.

But then he waved.

“Dimeji?” he shouted.

I froze.

That voice. That name.

No one called me that anymore — not since university.

He ran up, camera swinging by his neck. “Guy, na you be this? Dimeji the ‘photo-god’? I thought you moved to Canada or something!”

It was Tobi, my old best friend — the one I hadn’t spoken to in four years since that one fateful wedding gig.

You see, back then, we were both doing photography and videography. I was the photographer; he handled the cinematic video direction.

But during a big wedding job, his SD card corrupted — all the video files gone. I got blamed because I’d formatted one of the drives by mistake.

That single misunderstanding killed our friendship and our small creative brand.

And here he was, standing in front of me, holding a camera again.

Ada interrupted awkwardly. “Uh… can we continue the shoot?”

Tobi smiled and said, “Need a second shooter? I’m just doing some behind-the-scenes videography for a travel vlog.”

I hesitated. The professional in me screamed no. But the artist in me whispered maybe this is fate.

So I nodded. “Yeah, sure. Let’s create something beautiful.”

We worked side by side like old times — him capturing slow-motion videography, me snapping portrait shots with cinematic lighting.

The chemistry came back naturally. No ego, no grudges — just art.

At one point, Ada turned to her fiancé and whispered, “You guys shoot like twins.”

I laughed. “We used to be brothers in creativity.”

Tobi looked at me and smiled. “Maybe we still are.”

As the sun began to set, I sent my drone soaring for that signature golden-hour aerial shot. Tobi filmed me from behind, his voice narrating softly:

“Sometimes, the lens captures not just the image, but what we lost along the way.”

The line hit me harder than expected.

Maybe this was our way of healing.

When we wrapped up, Ada said, “Thank you both. This felt like a movie.”

I replied, “That’s what visual storytelling does — it freezes emotion.”

She laughed. “Can’t wait to see the final edit!”

Back home that night, I transferred the footage. Everything was perfect — except one thing.

There was a file I didn’t remember recording. It was labeled “The Last Frame.”

Curious, I clicked.

It was a video montage of old clips — Tobi and I in our early days, shooting on dusty streets, arguing, laughing, chasing sunsets with borrowed cameras.

Then the footage faded into a clip from today — me smiling behind the camera at Tarkwa Bay.

At the end, a title card appeared:

“For Dimeji — my brother, my first creative partner. Let’s never lose focus again.”

I blinked, stunned. That wasn’t in my shot list. He must’ve edited and transferred it to my memory card before leaving.

I texted him instantly:

“Bro… how did you get those old clips?”

He replied:

“I kept them. I always knew we’d need them one day. And today felt right.”

I smiled, sat back, and whispered to myself,

“This… this is what photography really is — capturing time, healing hearts, and telling stories no words ever could.”

That day changed how I viewed photography and videography.

It’s not just about camera settings or cinematic transitions — it’s about connection, emotion, and storytelling.

If you’re starting your photography journey, remember: the most powerful shot isn’t always the one with perfect bokeh or lighting setup.

Sometimes, it’s the one that tells your truth — the one that finds you when you least expect it.