The humid air of Lagos wrapped around Claire like a heavy blanket the moment she stepped off the plane. It was thick, alive, and completely different from the crisp, polished atmosphere she had left behind in America. The scent of roasted plantain, exhaust fumes, and the distant ocean hit her all at once. For the first time in days, she felt something other than crushing heartbreak — a strange, grounding sense of anonymity.
She had chosen Lagos on impulse. A distant cousin she had only met once as a child had offered her a place to stay after a tearful late-night call. No questions. No judgment. Just family.
A young woman named Adaora waited for her at arrivals, holding a small handwritten sign that simply said “Claire.” She pulled Claire into a warm, tight hug the moment she approached.
