The first time Lamide heard the Lagos lagoon breathe, she imagined it was whispering a name she had spent three years avoiding. “Felix,” it sighed, or maybe she only heard what she wished. The wind tasted of salt, diesel, and roasted corn from the road. Fishermen hauled their nets in slow, heavy arcs, their bodies bending as if bowing to an invisible god. Above them, birds circled and cried over the day’s last light. It was the kind of evening that remembered what you forgot. Lamide sat on the stone edge near the ferry terminal, knees tucked to her chest. Her phone vibrated for the third time that hour. She ignored it. Daddy would call again, then send a voice note that sounded like a lecture wrapped in prayer. She didn’t want prayers. She wanted direction. She wanted Felix.