From A Producer To A Global Superstar

Chapter 464

The alarm did not wake her.

Faye had been awake for an hour already, lying on her back with her eyes open, watching the ceiling fan turn in slow circles that matched the rhythm of her thoughts. She had not slept deeply. Every time she started to drift, the same image appeared behind her eyelids: the bus ride to Ikorodu, the door closing, the word reschedule hanging in the air like smoke.

She sat up and looked at her phone. The screen showed three missed calls from her father and a text from her mother that she had not opened. She did not open them now. Instead, she scrolled to the message Sheun had sent after their call, the address and the time, and she read it again to make sure it was still there, that it had not disappeared overnight.

It was still there.

She got up and walked to the window. The city below was already moving, the early morning traffic building in steady layers of sound. Lagos did not wait for anyone. It opened its eyes and started running, and if you were not running with it, you were left behind as the traffic can be very bazaar if one doesn't wake early to get to their destination.

Faye turned away from the window and looked at the dress she had laid out the night before. Simple, dark, nothing that would draw attention. She had performed in bars long enough to know that when people listened to music, they should be looking at your face, not your clothes. She showered quickly, dressed, and stood in front of the small mirror above her dresser.

The woman looking back at her was tired. Not just physically. The kind of tired that came from carrying hope for too long, from setting deadlines and watching them pass, from building a life on a foundation that kept shifting. But there was something else in her eyes today. A thin, sharp edge that had not been there yesterday. The edge of someone who had already said goodbye to a dream and been pulled back from the ledge at the last second.

She picked up her bag, checked for her notebook, her lyrics, the small bottle of water she always carried to keep her throat clear. Then she walked out of the apartment and did not look back.

The bus ride took forty minutes. Faye sat near the window, her notebook open in her lap, her lips moving silently as she rehearsed the words she had written during the darkest night of her life. The song about leaving home. The song about proving yourself to a world that did not ask for your proof. She had performed it hundreds of times in half-empty bars for audiences that barely listened. Today, she would perform it in a room where people were actually waiting to hear her.

The thought made her stomach clench. She closed the notebook and pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the buildings change from familiar to unfamiliar, from her neighborhood to somewhere she did not know.

When the bus stopped at her destination, she stepped out into air that smelled different. Less congested, more open. She checked the address on her phone and started walking, her sandals making a soft rhythm against the pavement that matched the beating of her heart.

The building was modest, a small studio complex tucked between a church and a row of shops that were just opening for the day. A young man stood by the entrance, checking names on a list. He looked up as she approached.

"Faye?"

"Yes."

"You early." He checked his watch. "Session never start. But you fit wait inside."

She nodded and stepped through the door he held open.

The waiting room was larger than she expected, a long rectangular space with plastic chairs arranged in rows that faced a blank wall. A small fan turned in the corner, stirring the warm air without really cooling it. And it was already half full.

Faye stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the scene. There were maybe fifteen people already seated, men and women of different ages, different styles, different versions of the same hunger. Some held instrument cases. Others clutched phones, scrolling through lyrics or beats or distractions. A few sat with their eyes closed, mouths moving in silent rehearsal.

She walked to an empty chair near the back and sat down, placing her bag on her lap, keeping her notebook close. The woman beside her glanced over, assessed her with a quick sweep, then returned to her phone. The man on her other side was tapping his fingers against his knee in a complex rhythm, his eyes fixed on the middle distance.

Faye folded her hands together and waited. She did not speak to anyone. She had learned long ago that waiting rooms were not places for conversation. They were places for private wars.

---

Frosh walked out of his apartment with his notebook pressed against his chest and his sister's voice still in his ears.

"Would you come back?" she had asked, standing in the doorway of the room that was no longer theirs, surrounded by boxes that would travel to their aunt's shop later that morning.

"I will be back," he had promised, though he did not know if the promise was true.

The transport Sheun had arranged was a small car that met him at the corner, the driver silent and efficient, the air conditioning working with a low hum that made Frosh feel like he was in a different world from the one he had woken up in. He watched the city pass through the window, the familiar streets giving way to less familiar ones, the scenery shifting as they drove.

He thought about his sister, about the boxes, about the landlord's voice and the three days that remained. He thought about the last time he had made this journey, two weeks ago, when he had arrived with hope and been sent away with a word that meant nothing. He thought about what it would mean if today ended the same way, if reschedule turned out to be the same door closing with a different name.

The car pulled up to the building, and Frosh got out. He stood on the pavement for a moment, looking at the entrance, forcing himself to move forward one step at a time. The young man at the door checked his name.

"Frosh?"

"Yeah."

"You fit go inside. Wait your turn."

Frosh nodded and walked in.

The first thing he noticed was the number of people. The waiting room was fuller now than when Faye had arrived, the chairs filling steadily, the air thick with the particular tension that came from too many talented people sharing the same space. He scanned the room for a seat, his eyes moving across faces that carried the same anxiety he felt, the same desperate hope wrapped in thin layers of pride.

There was one empty chair. Next to a woman in dark clothing who sat with her hands folded and her eyes fixed on the floor.

Frosh walked over and sat down. The chair creaked slightly under his weight. He settled his notebook on his lap and exhaled slowly, trying to slow his heartbeat.

"You nervous?"

The voice came from beside him. Soft, unexpected.

Frosh turned. The woman was looking at him now, her eyes dark and observant, her expression not quite a smile but not hostile either. Just open. Curious.

"Little bit," he admitted.

She nodded. "Me too."

Frosh looked at her more carefully. She was put together in a way that suggested thought, every piece of her appearance deliberate and clean. But there was something underneath the neatness that he recognized immediately. The same thing he saw in his own mirror when he was honest with himself. Exhaustion. The kind that came from fighting too long with too little.

"First time?" he asked.

"For this session? Yes." She paused. "But I came to one before. Two weeks ago. They sent me away."

Frosh blinked. "Two weeks ago?"

"They said the team wasn't ready. Told me to reschedule."

Frosh felt something shift in his chest. "That happened to me too."

Her eyes widened slightly. "You came two weeks ago?"

"I came. They turned me away at the door. Said the people they were expecting weren't available. Told me they would call back."

"They called you?"

"They called yesterday." Frosh looked down at his hands, at the roughness of his fingers, at the evidence of work that had never paid off. "I thought it was over. I thought they found someone better."

"Me too," she said quietly. "I thought reschedule was just another way of saying no i already lost hope."

Frosh looked up at her, and in that moment, the recognition between them became solid. They were not the same. Their stories were different, their paths had carried them through different failures. But they had both stood in doorways that closed. They had both learned to hear rejection in polite language. And they had both been pulled back from the edge by a phone call they did not expect.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Faye."

"Frosh."

She looked at the notebook on his lap, then at her own bag where the corner of her own notebook peeked out. "You write?"

"Always. Before I sing. After. When I can't sleep." He tapped the cover. "You?"

"Same. It's the only place the words stay honest."

They sat in silence for a moment, the noise of the room moving around them, other artists shifting in their seats, doors opening and closing in the distance. The fan continued its slow rotation. The air grew warmer.

"Why are you here?" Frosh asked. It was not a casual question. He asked it like he was asking about something essential.

Faye was quiet for a moment. Then she answered with the kind of honesty that only came from having nothing left to protect. "I gave myself a deadline. Today was supposed to be the day I quit. I was going to call my father and tell him I was done, that he was right, that I needed his help." She looked at Frosh, and her eyes were steady. "Then they called. And now I'm here instead."

Frosh absorbed this. "I dey owe my landlord three months rent. I get three days before he throw me and my sister out." He said it flatly, without drama, just facts. "This session... if it no work, I no know where we go sleep next week."

Faye nodded slowly, and there was no pity in her expression. Just understanding. "Then we both have to make it work."

"Yeah," Frosh said. "We both have to."

The door at the front of the room opened, and a man walked in. Tall, built like someone who carried weight without complaint, with a calm authority that made the room go quiet before he even spoke.

"Good afternoon," he said, and his voice carried easily across the space. "My name is Sheun. I run these sessions for JD Records."

Every eye in the room fixed on him. The shifting stopped. The whispers died.

"Some of you came two weeks ago and got turned away," Sheun continued, his gaze moving across the faces in the room. "That was our fault. The team we needed wasn't available. That no suppose happen like that. We're sorry."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"Today, we start fresh. No delays. No excuses. What we want is simple. We want real. No autotune. No backing tracks. No tricks. Just you, your voice, and whatever you brought with you." His eyes moved across the room, stopping briefly on faces, assessing. "We're not looking for industry packaging. We're looking for people who can stand in a room and make everyone else forget where they are. If that's you, then when we call your name, come ready."

"Also I would tell you something this opportunity can and would change your life regardless this is a huge project and for those that qualify would be moving to the next level in your music career so take this opportunity like a do or die be ready."

He turned and walked back through the door he had entered from, leaving silence behind him.

The silence held for several seconds, thick with the weight of what had just been said.

May of them found it wierd that a new label would say something like this but they all came here for an opportunity so they might as well fight tooth and nail for it.

Then the room exhaled, and the private wars resumed in every chair. Fingers tapped faster. Mouths moved silently. Eyes closed and opened with renewed focus.

Frosh looked at Faye. She was looking back at him, and in her expression, he saw the same thing he felt. The sharpening. The preparation. The moment when hope stopped being a distant concept and became something immediate and dangerous.

"You ready?" she asked softly.

"I don know," Frosh said honestly. "But I dey here. That count for something."

"It counts for everything," Faye said.

And they both sat back in their chairs, holding their notebooks, waiting for their names to be called, two people who had lost almost everything and were now holding onto the last thread with both hands.