The literary festival in Lagos was alive with energy and color. Tents and stages dotted the open grounds near the waterfront, authors signed books, panels discussed storytelling and resilience, and the air hummed with conversations in English, Yoruba, and Pidgin. Claire moved through the crowd with quiet confidence, Alex Jr.’s small hand in hers. At five years old, he was fascinated by everything — the colorful book covers, the storytellers performing under the trees, the sweet aroma of roasted plantain and suya from nearby vendors.
“Mummy, can we get ice cream after your talk?” he asked, looking up at her with those bright emerald eyes that always made her heart ache.
Claire smiled down at him, squeezing his hand. “Of course, my love. After Mummy finishes speaking, we’ll get the biggest
