THE ILLUSION OF PERFECTION 14

Steam still rose from Deji’s skin as he stepped from the mahogany-rimmed jacuzzi. He caught his reflection in the steamed-up mirror and flexed. Briefly working a plush towel over his frame with lazy, practiced movements, he tossed it toward a laundry basket in the corner, narrowly missing the rim. Snagging a fresh one, he knotted it low on his hips and strode into the bedroom.

The room was bathed in the cool, electronic glow of his open laptop as he approached his custom design desk with a sleek glass surface. The laptop screen was blinking, with notifications popping like gunfire. A closer look confirmed his suspicion—the upload was complete and the web was already ablaze, a chaotic rhythm of likes, stars, and comments surging in like unhinged tidal waves.

Deji let out a sharp, jagged laugh. Unable to subdue his desire to celebrate, he reached for the wine bottle sweating on the glass table, tilting it until his glass nearly overflowed with the liquid gold. He swirled the drink, watching the light catch the amber depths.

---

The gamble of integrating professional high-end models into the shoot had nearly bled his account dry but as he watched the algorithms spike into the red, he was glad he'd taken that decision. However, deep down, he knew the models were just the garnish. The real feast was Tayo.

He took a slow, celebratory sip of the wine and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, his bare feet silenced by the padded rugs gracing the floor of his room. Below, the pristine streets of his new highbrow neighborhood lay silent under the midnight moon—no shouting vendors, no mad rush of keke Napep drivers, just the hush of wealth.

Twelve months ago, this life was a mere fantasy. Deji had been nothing more than a "neighborhood delight," a local celebrity who cracked jokes at junctions and couldn't afford a decent meal. He was broke, jobless, dodging creditors and shadows, borrowing data to upload content and praying for retweets.

Then Tayo walked in.

The boy was a breathing, walking paycheck. A fresh graduate with a "Nollywood fine boy" face, untapped talent and a physique that Deji secretly envied. Tayo had come with big dreams, looking for a benefactor, but Deji, sharp-eyed, Lagos-bred and streetwise, saw a golden goose instead.

"I’ll be your manager," Deji had told him, flipping the script, his voice honeyed with fake authority. "I sabi this industry. I know how to play the game better than the sharks. I’ll make you a star."

Naive and desperate to escape the soul-crushing grind of job applications and a regular nine-to-five, Tayo had nodded too quickly.

The contract was a simple masterpiece of cold-blooded exploitation—a monthly retainer "management fee" for Deji, plus a forty-percent cut of all earnings and full control of Tayo's public image. In return he would sell the 'Tayo Brand' to the world.

Tayo had initially hesitated—unsure of the terms, but Deji’s tongue was silver. And soon, the contract was signed and sealed.

Deji would like to call himself a mentor, but honesty came easier with a glass of expensive wine in hand. Tayo wasn't a student; he was a pawn. Taking him under his wings hadn't been an act of charity; it was divine intervention for Deji and easily the smartest move of his life. 

Within six months, his fortunes changed. The curtains got heavier, the wine finer, his bed sank softer with the weight of passing models, and the stench of poverty faded, replaced by lingering expensive cologne. 

But Tayo’s monthly retainer was just the tip of the iceberg. It was small change against the towering debt choking him, so Deji had to improvise.

CONTINUE