In the bustling streets of Lagos, where traffic hums like a persistent heartbeat and markets burst with colors rivaling the tropical sunsets, Amara felt an inexplicable flutter. She'd noticed small, thoughtful gestures lately – a book by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie left on her desk with a passage underlined about finding one's voice, a coffee order matching her favorite blend of cocoa-infused Arabic sent anonymously to her Ikoyi office, a single òpóòpó flower on her doorstep with no note, its sweet scent lingering like a whisper. Who was leaving these tokens of affection?