PART THREE
613 Words
Small Cracks in the Wall
The real shift happened on a humid Thursday afternoon. NEPA had surprisingly kept the light steady. Zion was deep in editing a new montage when Naomi walked in wearing one of Mama’s old oversized t-shirts that barely reached mid-thigh. No bra. The thin fabric showed the soft outline of her n*****s in the heat. She plopped down right behind him on the couch, close enough that he could smell her coconut hair oil mixed with the faint shea butter on her skin.“You still dey edit for your celedit channel?” she asked, leaning forward so her breath brushed the back of his neck.“Yeah… almost done,” he replied, shoulders stiff.She watched quietly for a while, then pointed at the screen. “That transition too sharp. Soft am small — e go flow better.”He wanted to brush her off, but she was right. He adjusted it. A few minutes later she stood and returned with a cold bottle of water from the fridge, pressing it gently against his bare arm. Their fingers touched. Lingered.“Thanks,” he mumbled. His cheeks warmed.Naomi smirked. “You sabi make person feel guilty for ignoring you, sha. Small thing.”Zion snorted, fighting a smile. “I no even understand wetin you dey talk.”That same evening, while he struggled with color grading, Naomi leaned in closer. Her soft, full breast pressed firmly against his shoulder as she reached for the mouse. The contact sent a jolt through him. She clicked a few keys, fixing the issue effortlessly.“See? Small thing,” she said, voice low and calm.Zion turned his head. Their faces were inches apart. He noticed the tiny beauty spot just above her full upper lip, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbone. For the first time, he really saw her — not just his half-sister, but a woman with curves, warmth, and a quiet confidence.Their eyes locked. The old ceiling fan clicked above them. The air felt thicker.“Thanks,” he whispered.She smiled — small, genuine. “No problem… bro.”That night, Zion lay in his bed, the fan whirring overhead, the distant hum of Mr. Ade’s generator from downstairs filling the quiet. He couldn’t sleep. His mind kept replaying the feeling of her breast against his shoulder, the warmth of her skin, the scent of her hair. His hand slid into his shorts. He stroked himself slowly at first, then faster, imagining her lips, her thighs wrapped around him. Guilt mixed with raw arousal. He came hard, biting his pillow so he wouldn’t make noise, her name almost slipping out.The next days wove in more everyday life. Aunty Bola, Mama’s loud and plump best friend who lived two streets away and ran a small catering business, started visiting more often. She would arrive in the evenings with arms full of food — takeaway packs of pounded yam and egusi soup, fried fish, or sometimes hot amala. “Naomi! My fine girl! Come hug me jare!” Aunty Bola would boom, pulling Naomi into a big, squishy hug that made everyone laugh. Then she’d turn to Zion. “You too, Mr. Celedit! Stop hiding in your room like thief. Come chop with us. Your channel don reach 1,400 subscribers — na small small we go blow am!”One evening they all sat around the small dining table eating together — hot amala and ewedu with plenty of ponmo and assorted meat. The AC was off because of low power, so everyone fanned themselves with folded newspaper.
- Writer
