ONE MISTAKE AWAY PART ONE

ONE MISTAKE AWAY PART ONE

The late afternoon sun hung low over the crowded rooftops of Ikeja, Lagos, casting a warm orange glow through the half-open blinds of their modest three-bedroom flat. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, clicking every few seconds in the humid air. Zion sat hunched on the old brown couch, laptop balanced on his knees, headphones clamped tight over his ears. Premiere Pro was open, the timeline filled with fresh clips he had shot the previous weekend: chaotic morning traffic at Oshodi, a street vendor roasting boli and groundnuts by the roadside, golden-hour shots of the Third Mainland Bridge, and random people going about their day. His YouTube channel, “celedit”, had just crossed 1,400 active subscribers — not massive, but steady growth from consistent Lagos street vlogs and short montages. Every new like or comment felt like a small win in the noisy city. Editing was his escape. No family noise, no drama — just him controlling the cuts, the colors, the story.The front door clicked open. Then came the laughter — light, feminine, carrying that familiar mix of Pidgin and Yoruba lilt.“She don land o!” his mother announced from the narrow hallway, her voice bright but edged with that usual “abeg make una behave” tone. Mama Zion worked as a senior admin officer at a bank in Victoria Island. She left the house by 6:15 a.m. most mornings, battling traffic, and returned drained by 8 or 9 p.m., sometimes later if NEPA took the light and she had to wait for the generator.Zion yanked off his headphones. His stomach tightened. Naomi.His half-sister. Same absent father, different mothers. She was coming to stay for the full two months while her own mum went for mandatory training in Abuja. The last time they had proper contact was Christmas last year, and it ended badly — she accused him of being selfish for refusing to help edit her final-year project video; he called her a bossy “Madam Know-It-All.” Since then, it had been awkward “hi” messages and radio silence.He didn’t want her here. The flat already felt cramped with just him and Mama.Naomi stepped into the living room, dragging a medium-sized suitcase behind her and a backpack slung over one shoulder. The heat outside had made her simple white tank top cling to her full, round breasts, the thin straps digging slightly into her smooth caramel skin. Her denim shorts rode high on her thick, soft thighs, and her fresh braids fell just past her shoulders, smelling of coconut oil and shea butter. She looked around the