Eight Years Ago - Ogidi, Anambra, Nigeria
The sun poured its golden light over the hills of Anambra, casting a warm shimmer on the red earth that stretched beneath the feet of some of the most powerful names in the country and beyond. In the heart of Ogidi, a town known not only for its heritage but for birthing kings, scholars, and legends, a celebration of magnitude was underway.
The Ogidi Palace Courtyard, expansive and modern yet rooted in tradition, had been transformed into a marvel of opulence and cultural pride. Ornate red carpets were laid out beneath intricately carved canopies; gilded drapes fluttered in the breeze, framing the courtyard like a scene from a royal epic. The scent of jollof, suya, and freshly tapped palm wine lingered in the air, dancing around expensive perfumes flown in from Paris and Dubai.
It was a gathering of global magnitude a traditional celebration to honor the legacy of one of the most revered men in Eastern Nigeria. Guests had arrived from every corner of the world: dignitaries from Sweden, investors from England, media moguls from America, fashion tycoons from Korea, diplomats from India, and tech pioneers from Australia. This wasn't just a party-it was a convergence of wealth, heritage, and influence.
At a modestly tucked away round table near the main entrance, two children sat-Zikora and her twin brother, Zirachi Somadina. Both twelve, both dressed in the finest lace and velvet traditional attire her coral beads shining in the sunlight, his agbada perfectly tailored and matched with embroidered loafers.
Zirachi groaned dramatically for the fifth time.
"This is boring. How long are we going to sit here doing nothing?" he muttered under his breath.
Zikora, unfazed, had her nose buried deep in a hardcover book. Yes a book. At a lavish traditional party attended by billionaires and presidents, she was reading "Mythologies of Pre-Colonial Nigeria". Her posture was elegant, her face calm, yet her focus unshakable.
"You could try learning something instead of whining," she murmured, not lifting her eyes.
Zirachi rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.
"No one else is reading. You're ruining our rep."
Just then, a towering man in a black suit approached them. He was clearly security, probably ex-military by the way he walked and how people shifted for him.
"Your father requests your presence," he said, voice deep, formal, yet with a respectful bow.
Without a word, Zikora stood, closed her book carefully, and adjusted her scarf. Zirachi sighed and followed behind, slightly curious now.
They walked through a red carpeted path flanked by adorned guards and soft music from a live flute and talking drum ensemble, until they approached the royal pavilion.
Standing at the center was a figure that commanded silence.
Chief Obidike Somadina, the Ichie of Ogidi, was a man born of iron and intellect. His traditional robe was embroidered in pure gold thread, with a red cap that carried the weight of legacy. A royal elder, political consultant to several African presidents, and a man whose presence was revered even in private rooms in Aso Rock.
Beside him stood his wife, Dr. Amaka Somadina, a vision of regal elegance. Tall, poised, and articulate, she was an Ivy League educated economist whose thesis had once been published across Europe. Dressed in rich emerald lace, her head tie sculpted like a crown, she was the embodiment of African brilliance and power.
"Ah, my children," Chief Obidike said with a proud smile as they approached. "I want you to meet some very special guests."
Turning to the right were four figures that screamed old money and global grace.
Mr. Everhart Moon stood tall with silver streaked hair and a voice that could command a room. The British billionaire entrepreneur was known for his biotech empire and quiet philanthropic investments in Africa. Beside him stood his wife, Elena Moon, graceful, intelligent, and elegant in her deep navy Ankara blouse blended with silk-a woman of class and lineage, her ancestors once nobility in Britain.
And beside them... were their children.
Lucien Moon, sixteen at the time, stood with the aloof poise of someone trained never to break composure. Dressed in a dark suit with subtle embroidery, his sharp jawline and cold grey eyes gave little away. He didn't smile. He didn't blink much either. He just observed. Intimidatingly calm. Like he already knew everything about you.
Beside him stood a much more expressive girl Celeste Moon, twelve like Zikora and Zirachi. Her smile was bright, her hair braided into an intricate style, and she wore a flowy pink-and-indigo dress that made her look like a star in motion.
"This is Lucien and Celeste," Elena said gently, guiding them forward.
The four children stood awkwardly for a moment, staring, measuring each other up.
"Hi," Zikora said first, her voice shy but clear.
Celeste beamed and stepped forward.
"I love your beads! They're so pretty."
"Thank you," Zikora replied, her face softening into a smile.
Zirachi smirked and turned to Lucien.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
Lucien didn't respond immediately. He simply glanced at him, then looked back at Zikora.
Present Day - Washington D.C., USA
From the vibrant echoes of drums and laughter in Anambra, the memory fades like the trailing end of a dream-soft, golden, and warm.
Now, we are miles and worlds away.
The screen fades in on the tranquil luxury of Washington D.C., where wealth wears a quieter, more polished face. White blossoms sway beneath wrought iron balconies, and the early morning sun glints off glass towers and stately brownstones. The air is serene, untouched by chaos, humming with the gentle rhythm of a new day.
We move upward, past city streets and traffic below, up into the quiet sophistication of a penthouse apartment nestled in one of the city's most coveted neighborhoods. The camera glides into a bedroom-an elegant sanctuary that feels like the living pages of a storybook.
It's minimalist, but not cold.
Ivory shelves lined with collector's edition novels and translated manga from Japan. Framed posters of classic literature and delicate anime sketches. A vinyl player rests beside a small tower of books, journals, and a candle with the scent of spiced vanilla and old paper. Everything is organized-beautifully curated chaos, soft and feminine, practical and poetic. A framed photo sits quietly by the desk: Zikora, smiling in a school uniform.
The curtains flutter slightly from the soft hum of the air conditioner.
12:30 P.M
The silence is broken.
A rose gold alarm clock buzzes, its digital numbers flashing. A perfectly manicured hand slides out from under a silk comforter, slapping the snooze button with a tired grunt.
"Ughhhhhh..."
A sleepy voice, smooth but raspy from sleep, sighs in frustration.
The camera pans slowly to reveal Zikora Somadina, now 20, seated in bed. A pastel pink eye mask, embroidered with tiny crescent moons, rests lopsided on her forehead. Her dark curls spill across her shoulders in soft disarray. She blinks slowly, eyes adjusting to the morning light slipping between the curtains.
With the slow, reluctant grace as someone who read all night, she pulls the mask off and tosses it onto the nightstand. Stretching both arms over her head, she lets out a soft yawn.
Her voice murmurs into the quiet, half to herself.
"ugh, my eye hurts..."
She flops back down on the bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling then sits back up, rubbing her eyes.
A soft ding chimed from her phone, snapping through the stillness of the morning like a polite but persistent knock. Zikora blinked and reached lazily for it, dragging the device from the side table. Her screen lit up with a voice note from none other than Layla Myers, her best friend since freshman year. With a sigh, Zikora flopped back onto the bed, held the phone to her ear, and tapped play.
Layla's voice filled the room with its usual excited sparkle.
"Babyyyyy, you better not still be in bed. Don't forget you're picking me up my car is literally still coughing oil and regrets. Anyway, remember our little plan today?" A pause, followed by a teasing giggle. "Double date, babe. Me and Noah, you and his bestie. Don't kill me, okay? You promised. And we're gonna go to the boutique so we can pick out an outfit for the date. I'm already imagining how cute we're gonna look. K, love ya!"
Zikora groaned and let her head fall back against the pillow.
"I can't believe I agreed to this nonsense," she muttered, voice muffled with sleepy frustration. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling as a memory crept in one she hadn't forgotten, no matter how much she tried.
Flashback - Two days Ago
The café buzzed with background chatter and the mellow hum of acoustic jazz. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, bouncing off the honey colored wood tables. Zikora stirred her iced matcha as Layla leaned in across the table with the look of someone about to ask for a favor she knew would be denied.
"Ziko," Layla started, twirling a straw in her drink, "would you do me a favor?"
Zikora narrowed her eyes. "What kind?"
"Like a really small one. Blink-of-an-eye type."
Zikora stared. "Spit it out."
Layla grinned. "Would you go on a double date with me and Noah?"
Zikora stopped stirring and raised an eyebrow. "Excuse you? What would I be doing there?"
Layla rolled her eyes dramatically. "Noah said his bestie's been single for years, and I was like wait I have a bestie who's been single for ages. Like seriously, girl, I've never even seen you flirt."
"Because I don't do setups." Zikora leaned back, unimpressed. "I've seen enough awkward Netflix dates to know where this goes."
"Pleeease." Layla grabbed her hand like a rom-com sidekick. "Just one date. One hour. I will literally do anything. I'll get you a new car or one of the most expensive dresses. Remember the Chanel lipstick you loved? I'll give it to you, I swear."
Zikora hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek.
"It's not even a real date," Layla added quickly. "More like a hangout. Who knows? You might even like him."
Present
Zikora tossed the covers aside, resigned.
"Why do I let her talk me into these things?" she asked herself under her breath as she swung her legs off the bed and padded across the floor to her wardrobe.
Her room soft and serene looked like a Pinterest board brought to life. Muted pastels hugged the walls, shelves lined with neatly stacked novels, manga, and a small but proud collection of vintage comic books. A glossy anime figurine posed beside a velvet tray of earrings, and a framed poster of "Spirited Away" shimmered faintly in the early light.
After her usual skincare routine, she picked out a sage green cropped sweater and high waisted jeans, slipped on her sneakers, and brushed through her curls. One final look in the mirror, a sigh, and she grabbed her keys.