THE ILLUSION OF PERFECTION 15

Draining his glass, Deji returned to the bottle for the final dregs. He crossed to the full-length mirror and paused, studying himself. 

The hustler staring back was formed by the rough streets of Lagos; sharpened by hunger, educated by desperation. 

He had mastered the art of "squeeze" making it essier for him to: link Tayo with predatory lenders who skimmed extra and kicked back a percentage as his cut; pad budgets with "contingencies" and "props" that cost next to nothing; hire cheap labor like Ken, the photographer he had plucked from under a bridge where he was hustling for passport gigs. Deji was the architect of the "hidden cost."

To him, it wasn't cruelty. It was survival. Professional masonry. Each lie, each trick was a stone in his empire that was still rising from it's foundation. And with Tayo's fame finally within reach, it was a win-win.

He let the towel drop at his feet, his keen eyes darkening with something that felt like contempt as he appraised his reflection. Setting the empty glass on the dresser, he strolled into the walk-in closet, slid a silk robe over his shoulders and cinched the belt as his scowl deepened.

The silence bothered him. It was too quiet. On a night like this, his phone should have been vibrating non-stop with Tayo’s frantic and excited check-ins.

"Where this guy dey?” Deji muttered to the empty room. "Abi he don carry woman forget the brand?"

He chuckled, the sound echoing off the rows of designer suits and gleaming shoes, then he raised his voice, the command crisp, cutting through the silence:

"Siri, dial Tayo!"

 A cool mechanical female voice cut in: “The number you’ve dialled is switched off...”

Hissing with disgust, Deji walked over to the desk, grabbed his phone and tried again. Switched off. His hand froze mid-air, his thoughts racing as unease crept in. He slowly lowered the phone, the light of the screen reflecting in his narrowing eyes. 

Tayo's phone off? Impossible. To Tayo, fame was oxygen. He lived for the rush of notifications and view counts. For him to vanish while the numbers were exploding was like a diver refusing to breathe. 

"Boy where you dey?" He muttered under his breath, "No be now we go begin dey play ghost."

Behind him, the laptop pulsed with more comments, female fans begging for another piece of the star Deji had created and the algorithms danced like spirits in a shrine. It was everything Deji had engineered yet the victory tasted sour. Irritation sparked. 

He cracked open another bottle and slowly refilled his glass. Swirling the liquid in a mini whirlpool, he paced the room, replaying the days event in his head: the shoot, the edits, the upload. Tayo had promised to check in, to be ready for the next wave. Instead, there was nothing but an unnerving silence. 

Deji's jaw tightened. He hadn't clawed his way out of the gutter just to let one pawn slip off the board. Tayo’s sudden silence wasn't just suspicious but a structural crack in the empire he'd built. In this industry, fame was fire — it needed constant fuel.

Snatching his phone again, his thumb flew across the screen as he scrolled through his contacts—hustlers, fixers, street boys paid to keep eyes on Tayo. 

If Tayo had vanished, Deji would smoke him out.

CONTINUE