THE DISTANCE OF WATER

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 that was only the sound of water slipping against stone, heavy and patient. Lagos had a way of letting you believe your memories were prophecies. The evening had dressed itself gently. The sky leaned into shades of burnt orange and tired blue, as though it too had survived a long day. The wind tasted of salt, diesel, and roasted corn drifting from a roadside cart. Somewhere behind Lamide, a generator coughed itself awake, the mechanical heartbeat of a city that never fully rested. Fishermen hauled their nets from the lagoon in slow, deliberate arcs. Their bodies bent and straightened with ritual devotion, as if they were bowing to something unseen but deeply respected. Birds circled above them, crying sharply, impatient for leftovers or revelation. The water swallowed everything without comment. It was the kind of evening that remembered what you forgot. Lamide sat on the stone edge near the ferry terminal, knees drawn to her chest, denim skirt creased and dusted with sand. Her reflection wavered on the lagoon’s surface fragmented, unfamiliar. She wondered when she had started looking like someone paused mid-becoming. Her phone vibrated. Once. She ignored it. It vibrated again. Then a third time, insistent, almost offended. Daddy. She didn’t need to check to know. He had a rhythm: call, then call again, then send a voice note cushioned in scripture and concern. My daughter, remember God is not the author of confusion… She loved her father. Truly. But love did not mean obedience came easily. And tonight, she did not want prayers. She wanted direction. Something solid. Something human. She wanted Felix. Wanting, however, had never been enough. Felix was in Canada. Saskatchewan, of all places,a name that sounded like a punishment. A country of winters so severe they made silence feel loud. A place where daylight behaved badly, disappearing too early or overstaying its welcome. The ferry horn blared, sharp and sudden, dragging her back from memory. People moved around her with purpose, commuters, traders, lovers holding hands like the city might steal one of them if they let go. Lagos was generous like that: it gave you everything at once and demanded you choose what to keep. She stood, brushed sand from her skirt, and adjusted her tote bag. The Bolt driver was already waiting across the road, hazard lights blinking in mild irritation. Her phone buzzed again. She glanced down, half-expecting her father’s name. Instead: Unknown Number: Are you free? Her breath caught,not dramatically, not the way it happened in films, but enough that she had to stop walking. Enough that her body recognized something before her mind could. Unknown number. Simple words. Neutral punctuation. She stared at the screen, waiting for clarity to arrive. It didn’t. Another vibration. Unknown Number: This is Felix. The city blurred. For a moment, Lamide felt fourteen again—unprepared for how violently memory could return. Her heart slammed once, hard and loud, as if trying to escape her chest. She pressed her palm against it, grounding herself against the stone certainty of her body. Felix. The name did not sting the way she had feared. It didn’t even hurt. It felt… familiar. Like a song you hadn’t heard in years but still knew where to hum. She typed. Deleted. Typed again. Paused. Then, with the kind of courage that arrived only when fear was already present: Lamide: I’m free. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Hesitation dressed in digital costume. Felix: I’m in Lagos. Can we meet? Lamide closed her eyes. Behind her, the lagoon sighed again, heavier this time, as though acknowledging an old secret finally spoken aloud. Lagos, faithful keeper of ghosts, had reached into its back pocket and pulled one out. Time, it seemed, had decided to fold in on itself. She opened her eyes, exhaled, and typed: Lamide: Where?