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. 

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, watch...

Tayo was yanked from the van, the force nearly making him stumble. He staggered into the dimly lit courtyard. The faded blue, yellow and green paint on the wall confirmed they were at a police station.  As they were lined up against the wall, his gaze swept over the building and the officers, darting frantically, searching for an opportunity, a familiar face—anything.  I have to get out of here. I have to make a call. I have to reach out to Deji.  This was just a terrible mix-up and there was no way he was spending the night there.

The van lurched forward, Tayo's head slammed against the cold, corrugated metal side. The impact sent a fresh spike of nausea through his already spinning head.  He was crammed tight; his designers suit a mockery of luxury pressed against the rough clothes of the men who had been fighting—the area boys he’d dismissed as insignificant and had so desperately tried to avoid. Their earlier aggression had dissolved into a sullen, simmering silence, punctuated only by heavy breathing and occasional low curses. The cold, grimy reality of the police van felt like a cruel unfunny joke. The thick stench of unwashed bodies, stale sweat, a hint of fear, and the metallic tang of something he could not place its source.

Tayo hesitated on the threshold of the compact, makeshift business center. The air inside was hot, tainted with gasoline fumes. A handful of rough-looking men dominated the space and their chatter was loud and sharp almost laced with agressive energy. They paused, their eyes briefly flicking over his expensive dark blue designer suit before returning to their intense conversation. Area boys, he concluded, a disgusted frown creasing his brow. Since embracing fame, he had surgically extract ed himself from this strata of society ensuring he had no reason to cross paths with these kinds of people. They were beneath his status. "But this is different" , he rationalized internally, his gaze shifting to the dead iPhone in his hand,  "all I need is Just a five-minute charge, enough to buy units online for my prepaid meter." Keeping his head down, he stepped inside and placed his phone on the counter. The sense of prickling unease in his chest was immediate but ...

Nadia stared at her reflection, nodding in approval at the simple ankara-trim knee-length gown she had chosen for the night. Singing a low tune, a recent hit track under her breath, she headed for the dining area. Her apartment, an inheritance from her late uncle, was usually a haven of quiet comfort, but tonight, the silence was replaced by the measured flow of  Sade’s  music filtering in from the concealed stereo speakers. She had earlier dressed her table, not just with care, but with the quiet ceremony of expectation. Two plates—one, the chipped ceramic she’d kept from her mother, bearing the weight of history; the other, a smooth new piece bought just hours ago on her way back from delivering client orders. They stood guard around a small vase of artificial flowers with deep red petals, a desperate splash of color.  A casual glance at the wall clock—a noisy, brass-framed relic that marked time with a distinct, sometimes annoying, klak-kl...

Early the next morning, Tayo met up with his manager, Deji. After their usual strategic banter, they plunged into their daily grind of grueling content creation. By mid-afternoon, Tayo knew the day was already a win. Ken was giving his money’s worth in perfect shots, their locations were prime, the algorithms were spiking, and the "Tayo Brand", according to Deji, was becoming a force to be reckoned with. Tayo was tuned into his beast mode and was not ready to back down until he could smile all the way to the bank. 

Nadia approached, her smile wide, genuine and unpracticed. It was the smile of someone who was greeting an old friend she hadn't seen in a long time. "Something told me that was you standing on that balcony yesterday," she said, her voice carrying a friendly familiarity, bridging the gap fostered by the years.  "I wasn’t so sure. Tayo, you look different… and amazing." Amazing? Tayo felt the compliment like a soft punch in the guts.  He always aimed for spectacular, dashing. Deji was right; it was time to upgrade the whole package, he thought, even as his tired mind struggled to process her presence and the fact that she had seen him yesterday.

Tayo’s performance the second night was even more grueling. He had survived the staged jet shoot, a photoshoot near a swimming pool he couldn't use, and two separate choreographed "spontaneous" encounters.  Exhaustion was an understatement; he was simply numb. His body ached beneath the restrictive designer clothes, and his mind was a void from the effort of maintaining his flawless façade for twelve solid hours.

The moment Tayo stepped away from the balcony and retreated into the shadow of his high-rise apartment, Nadia slowly stood up, stretching her back with a soft groan. She made a mental note to buy a new chair as she gathered the scattered bolts of fabric and her sketchbook. It was only when she turned to enter her own room that the earlier interruption registered fully. She glanced up at the opposite balcony, which was now empty. That man.

Nnenna was beyond surprised. Kamal was a total gentleman and from all indications, a kind husband. She loved her friend dearly but, somehow, she found it difficult to believe her words. "Aisha. You know Kamal loves you. That man is ready to lay his life down for you. Did—did you catch him with someone else? "No. That’s the problem. It's either he's too good at covering his tracks or I'm just going insane! I feel so silly, Nnenna,” Aisha sighed, twisting her wedding band.  “Nnenna, he's slowly but surely slipping away from me. Kamal doesn't even talk to me anymore. We can go a whole day without saying a word to eachother. I just feel this deep sadness and...the worst part is, I don’t know how to fix this. I feel like I’m failing as a wife.”

The humid, sun-baked air of Abuja settled heavily on the three-bedroom apartment in Wuse II. Aisha was sprawled on a couch scrolling aimlessly through photos on her phone, a forced smile plastered on her face. Her husband, Kamal, an aspiring architect, sat hunched over his drafting table, the quiet tap of his laptop keyboard the only sound in the room. They were young and married for only two years. Their love was never in doubt. They had never fought and there was no issue of betrayal. Yet, recently, a cloud of sadness had drifted between them. There was this quiet, imposing loneliness Aisha could not explain. Even the lovemaking felt like performimg a duty with unfulfilled expectations.