CHAPTER 20 – The Anthem Idea
A week passed. Dayo signed a non-disclosure agreement with Urich — both agreeing that as long as Vivian kept quiet, he would too.
Not long after, he returned to the U.S. and activated the card:
Effect: Accelerate your singing ability
Duration: 30 days
The effect kicked in almost instantly — sharpening his vocal control, expanding his range, and deepening his emotional delivery. During this month, Dayo threw himself into rigorous vocal training, continued mentoring Wayne, and fully immersed himself in producing Lois's upcoming tracks.
He was also adjusting well to this new world — its news, culture, and trends. He made a habit of watching global news and entertainment updates daily, knowing that the next big opportunity could appear anywhere.
One evening, while watching a segment on upcoming international events, his eyes lit up.
The World Cup — the biggest sporting event on the planet. Billions of eyes. One global stage.
An idea struck like lightning.
If there was ever a moment to create something unforgettable — something that could electrify stadiums and hearts across continents — it was now.
Then it hit him: "Hall of Fame" by The Script featuring will.i.am.
The perfect anthem — motivational, grand, aspirational. Every word laced with ambition and grit. "Standing in the Hall of Fame, and the world's gonna know your name."
But as Dayo replayed it in his mind with a producer's ear, he felt something missing. It had energy, yes — but it lacked emotional warmth. The hard-hitting male delivery worked, but it was one-dimensional.
He imagined weaving in a female voice — something softer but equally powerful. A voice that could reflect the emotional side of victory: the struggle, the hope, the pride. Not just balance, but humanize the song. Make it universal.
With the idea mapped out, he knew he needed eyes watching while making his move. He called Wayne, Valery, and the PR team to share his plan.
***
Elsewhere…
"Vivian, what the f***! How could this happen, and you didn't give me a heads-up?!" Paul shouted, visibly furious.
"What are you talking about, Paul?" Vivian frowned.
"Your boyfriend, that's who I'm talking about!" He screamed at her showing her the video of Dayo singing.
Her heart skipped as she watched the video. Why would he lie to me? She had always believed she could control Dayo. But now, realizing he had kept such a secret, she felt a flicker of unease.
"I'm sorry, Paul. This is news to me, too. I've been busy with signing events and shows for the album sales."
Paul exhaled sharply. "Alright. I don't know why you didn't know, but I'm not digging further. Just don't mention anything about the incident — we signed a non-disclosure with him."
Hearing that, Vivian smiled brightly. She didn't ask for more. The news wouldn't go public — a relief, especially now. Her album had just sold 58,972 copies in its first week — a massive number for a rookie. The industry was shocked, and sales were still climbing. She wasn't about to let anything derail her momentum.
"Alright, Paul. Thanks for your hard work. I'm going to rehearse for my upcoming shows."
"Fine. Just make sure you tell me before you do anything."
***
Later that night…
Dayo sat alone in the dimly lit mini studio in his room, the quiet hum of equipment around him. His phone was propped up, camera recording. He'd told Wayne, Valery, and the PR team about his plan: a live-recorded creative session that could go viral — one that could catch the attention of the World Cup committee and, maybe, the perfect female vocalist.
He rolled up his sleeves, cracked his knuckles, and stared at the blank digital canvas on his screen.
"Hall of Fame."
He didn't want to remake it. He wanted to remodel it — turn it into something monumental.
He started with a piano progression, echoing the original chords but adding more depth, layering atmospheric synth pads to give it a cinematic edge. Then came the percussive rhythm — stadium claps, bass-heavy kicks, and snappy snares that echoed like the heartbeat of a final match.
Next, the bassline — steady, commanding, grounding the track in grit.
He layered African percussion, faint crowd chants, and sweeping strings for lift. The momentum built like a player sprinting toward a goal, each step bringing them closer to glory.
Then, Dayo pulled the mic stand closer, took a deep breath, and tapped the beat pad.
The track rolled in.
"Yeah, you can be the greatest…"
His voice came steady and clear — not shouting, not whispering. Controlled. Resolved. Like a player stepping onto the pitch for the first time, eyes fixed on victory.
"You can be the best…"
He let his tone climb, adding subtle harmonies beneath the lead — enough to make it feel larger than life. A touch of rasp in his voice gave the impression of someone who had walked a long, hard road and refused to stop.
By the pre-chorus: "You could run the mile, you could walk straight through hell with a smile…"
His delivery shifted — more grit, more fire. His fist clenched. Eyes closed. He wasn't just singing about greatness — he was claiming it.
But then… he stepped back from the mic.
"This is where you come in," he said, looking into the camera.
He imagined a powerful female voice taking the next part, someone who could inject soul into the lines, and then soar through the chorus.
"Open call," he announced, breathing slightly heavier.
"To every female artist out there — if you can match this energy, if you've got the voice to make the world stand still — send me your take on this track. This is not just my moment. It's our moment. World Cup. Global stage. Let's make history."
He let the beat ride out — cinematic, grand, layered with the sound of a roaring stadium fading into the distance.
He stopped the recording, smiling in satisfaction.
Then a voice cut through the room.
"Oh. My. God."