From A Producer To A Global Superstar

After the meeting everyone went about their business doing what has been assigned to them Dayo picked up his phone and called Sheun.

The phone didn’t even ring once before it picked and Sheun voice came through from the other side.

"Ah, you don finally remember me."

The voice came through rough with laughter, like it had been waiting for the chance to say that.

Dayo leaned back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, eyes on nothing in particular. The studio glass in front of him reflected his outline—still, composed, distant.

"What do you mean I remember you?" he said. "You no get my number?"

A short pause. Then a scoff.

"I get am," Sheun said. "But you don dey move like government now. Competition here, interview there. I no even know when you dey free again. I no wan call come disturb you, make e be like say I dey beg."

Dayo let out a quiet breath. "Disturb me? Since when?"

"You know how it be now," Sheun replied. "Levels change. People change."

"I never change."

"You say so."

"I say so."

Silence stretched for a second, then broke into a small laugh on both sides. Not loud. Just enough to settle something.

"So justify yourself," Dayo added. "Why you no call?"

"Ah, see this guy," Sheun said. "You just want make I talk say I miss you."

"You miss me?"

"Abeg shift."

Dayo shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his mouth before fading just as quickly.

"Alright," he said. "Talk. Wetin dey happen?"

"You be the one call me," Sheun shot back. "Na you get update."

Dayo glanced at the console, at the idle equipment waiting. The silence in the studio felt intentional now, like it was holding space for what he was about to say.

"Yeah," he said. "I need your help."

That shifted things.

On the other end, Sheun didn’t joke this time. "Okay. I dey hear you."

"I’m setting something up," Dayo continued. "Small. Controlled. For Nigeria."

"What kind of something?"

"Music." He paused briefly, then added, "Talent discovery. But not public. Not all these online noise. Private sessions due to the blockage."

Sheun didn’t interrupt.

"I want raw voices," Dayo went on. "No autotune. No editing tricks. Just... voice. Delivery. Presence. People that can actually stand and sing i want raw talent."

"Hmm."

"I’ll send people your way," Dayo said. "But I need you to help me run it there. Organize. Record. Keep it clean. If you know anyone good, you can bring them in too."

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

"You trust me with this kind thing?"

Dayo didn’t hesitate. "Yes."

Another pause. This one heavier.

"You know say I go do am anyway," Sheun said finally. "Even if na favor."

Dayo’s expression didn’t change, but his voice did, just slightly.

"Business is business."

Sheun exhaled through a quiet laugh. "You don serious reach like that?"

"I no dey mix things," Dayo said. "I’ll pay you. Properly."

"You don’t have to—"

"I want to."

Silence again.

Then softer—

"Alright," Sheun said. "If na like that, we go do am well."

Sheun sigh knowing he can’t win an argument with Dayo so he didn’t even bother trying.

"I know."

"So how you want run am?"

Dayo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "Private sessions. Small group. Controlled environment. No crowd. No distractions."

"Location?"

"I’ll sort that with you."

"And recording?"

"You handle that. Clean visuals. Clear sound. Nothing fancy. I need to see them, not effects."

"Hmm."

"And Sheun—"

"Yeah?"

"If you see something real... don’t ignore it."

"You think say I no sabi?"

"I know you sabi."

Another quiet laugh.

"Alright," Sheun said. "Send me details. I go start setting things."

"I will."

"Dayo?"

"Yeah."

"You sure say na only music this thing be?"

Dayo’s fingers tapped once against his knee.

"Yes."

Sheun didn’t push. "Alright then. We move."

The line clicked off.

Dayo sat there for a moment, phone still in his hand.

Then he dropped it on the table and leaned back again, eyes closing briefly.

Just for a second.

—

"Ah! Open this door!"

The bang came hard against the thin wood.

Another one followed.

"Frosh! Abi wetin dem dey call u I dey talk to you!"

Inside, the room felt smaller than it already was.

Frosh sat on the edge of the bed, one hand still resting on his laptop. The screen glowed faintly in the dim light, a half-finished recording software open, his own voice paused mid-waveform.

Another bang.

"I no go shout again o! You go open this door now or I go break am!"

Frosh exhaled slowly, then stood.

"Coming, sir," he said, already moving.

He opened the door just enough.

The landlord didn’t wait. He pushed it wider and stepped in, eyes scanning the room like he was counting things.

"You don reach three months now," he said sharply. "Three months! You think say this na your father house?"

Frosh kept his voice low. "Sir, I talk say I go pay—"

"When?" the man cut in. "When you go pay? You don dey tell me story since last month."

"I’m working on something—"

"Working on what?" the landlord snapped. "This your music? This one wey no dey bring food?"

Frosh’s jaw tightened slightly.

"I go pay," he repeated.

"You go pay, you go pay," the man mocked. "Na so you dey talk every time. I no dey hear that one again."

From the bed, a small movement.

His younger sister shifted, sitting up slowly, eyes moving between them.

The landlord noticed her, then clicked his tongue.

"You get person wey dey stay with you, you still no fit pay rent?" he said. "You dey do big man for here?"

"No be like that—"

"Then wetin be like that?" The man stepped closer. "You think say life dey wait for you? You think say because you get talent, money go just fall from sky?"

Frosh didn’t answer.

"You get one week," the landlord said finally. "One week. If I no see my money—"

He pointed toward the door.

"I go carry all your load throw outside."

The room went quiet.

The man looked at him one more time, then turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

Silence.

Frosh stood there for a moment, hand still on the handle.

Then slowly, he closed the door properly.

Behind him, his sister spoke softly.

"Brother..."

He turned, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite hold.

"I dey," he said. "No worry."

She studied him, like she didn’t believe it, but didn’t say anything else.

He walked back to the bed and sat down again.

The laptop screen was still there, his paused voice staring back at him.

He pressed play.

His own voice filled the room—raw, unfiltered, a little rough at the edges but steady.

He listened for a few seconds.

Then stopped it.

Outside, faint voices drifted in.

"You still dey pursue music?"

"That thing no go feed you o..."

"You need connection..."

"And talent alone no fit do am for Nigeria here better find something else o."

Frosh leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.

He closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Then his phone rang.

He opened them immediately, looking at the screen.

Unknown number.

He hesitated.

The phone kept ringing.

He picked up.

"Hello?"

"Na Frosh be this?"

His brow furrowed slightly. "Yeah... na me."

"Good. I dey call you based on your work. I’ve seen some of your recordings."

Frosh straightened a little.

"...Okay."

"I get something for you," the voice continued. "Small session. Private. No autotune. Just voice. Performance And raw voice I feel you would be fit."

Frosh didn’t respond immediately.

He glanced at his laptop. At the paused waveform.

"Who be this?" he asked.

"You no need worry about that for now," the voice said calmly. "What matters be say we dey look for real talent. Your name come up."

Frosh’s grip on the phone tightened slightly tying to steady his breathihg hoping this could be his breakthrough.

"...How you take see my stuff?"

"Online. Recommendations."

Silence.

"And this thing... wetin it lead to?" he asked.

"If you good, you go know."

That didn’t answer anything.

But it wasn’t empty either.

"Where?" Frosh asked.

"Lagos. We go send you location."

"Which side?"

"Ikorodu."

That landed.

Specific. Real.

Frosh exhaled slowly.

"When?"

"Soon. We go confirm."

Another pause.

Then—

"...Boss man abeg things tight for here abeg you fit send Transport?"

The line went quiet.

Just for a second too long.

Frosh almost said something else, but held it.

Then the voice came back.

"Send your details."

Frosh blinked.

"Details?"

"Account. Basic info. We go sort you."

He nodded, even though the other person couldn’t see him a sigh of relief washed over him as he knew he had no choice if he didn’t ask there was no way he could afford the transport fee to get there.

"Alright."

"We go text you."

The call ended.

Frosh lowered the phone slowly.

The room was still the same.

The walls hadn’t changed.

The rent was still there.

The landlord’s voice still echoed faintly in his head.

But something shifted.

He sat there for a moment, staring at nothing.

Then his sister spoke again, softer this time.

"Who was that?"

He looked at her.

Then down at the phone.

"...Opportunity," he said.

She didn’t fully understand.

But she smiled anyway.

Small.

Hopeful.

Frosh leaned back slightly, running a hand over his face.

Then he looked at the laptop again.

At his own voice waiting.

He reached forward.

Pressed play.

And this time, he listened all the way through.