The VIP lounge was a different world.
Outside, the air was hot and loud, but inside, the air conditioner hummed a cool, expensive song. The walls were lined with velvet, and the smell of rich leather and imported cigars filled the room. This was the place where "destinies" were made—or so Segun always said.
Tobi sat on a deep plush sofa, his denim jacket still damp with sweat. Opposite him sat two men. One was Chief, a large man with a gold watch that looked heavy enough to break a wrist. The other was Bolu, a sharp-looking talent scout with eyes like a hawk.
"You have a gift, Tobi," Chief said, his voice deep and smooth like expensive palm wine. "I've seen many singers in this university, but your voice... it has a certain 'pull.' I can see you on billboards in Obalende. I can see you winning awards in London."
Segun nudged Tobi's arm, his eyes wide with excitement. "Tell them, Tobi! Tell them you're ready to work!"
Tobi cleared his throat, but his voice felt dry. "Thank you, sir. I just... I want to make music that matters."
THE CATCH
Bolu leaned forward, sliding a thick folder across the glass table. "And it will matter. To the fans. To the charts. And to your bank account."
He tapped the paper inside. "We have the contract ready. Five million naira sign-on bonus. A car. An apartment in Lekki. But, Tobi, we are businessmen. We know what sells. Your 'style' needs a little cleaning."
Tobi frowned. "Cleaning? How?"
"The world doesn't want to hear about 'Grace' or 'The Cross,' Tobi," Chief said, leaning back. "That's for Sunday morning. We are in the business of Friday night. Your songs are too... spiritual. We need you to pivot. More 'vibe,' less 'gospel.' If you sign this, you agree to drop the 'church boy' image. No more campus fellowships. No more religious posts. Just the brand."
The room suddenly felt much colder than the AC.
"For what shall it profit a man..." The verse from his mother's note started playing in Tobi's head again, like a broken record.
THE WEIGHT OF THE PEN
"Five million?" Segun whispered, his voice shaking. "Tobi, do you know how many years of 'history' your father had to teach to see that kind of money? This is your family's salvation!"
Tobi looked at the pen. It was a heavy, silver fountain pen. It looked like a weapon.
He thought about his mother's prayers in their small house. He thought about the joy he felt when he sang in the choir—the way his heart felt light, not heavy like this. Then he looked at the contract. If he signed it, the hunger in his family would end. But he knew, with a terrifying certainty, that his voice would never belong to him again.
"Is there a problem?" Bolu asked, his eyes narrowing.
"I... I need to think," Tobi said, standing up abruptly.
Chief's smile didn't reach his eyes this time. "Opportunity doesn't wait for thinkers, Tobi. It waits for doers. Sign now, and the car is outside. Walk away, and we find someone else by tomorrow morning. There are a thousand singers in this University. Don't be a fool."
Tobi looked at the door. He could see Brother Jude and the fellowship members through the glass partition, still waiting by the exit, their heads bowed. They were praying.
He looked at the pen. He looked at the door.
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