Chapter 1: The Unraveling

"Omoh today no just wan dey alright, God Abeg!"

Mustafa muttered the prayer, a low, desperate grumble as he pushed through the back door of the Star Life Entertainment studio. His shirt was clinging to his back with sweat, his worn sneakers stained with dust from the bus park, and his heart was a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. The day had been a relentless series of unfortunate events, yet here he was, miraculously making it just in time for the open audition.

Backstage was a controlled chaos of aspirations. Hundreds of hopefuls filled the air with nervous energy, some rehearsing verses in hushed tones, others silently praying, and a few just staring into the middle distance, overcome by anxiety. Star Life, one of Lagos’s biggest entertainment powerhouses, was looking to sign five new artists. For anyone in that room, it was a lifeline.

He found his name on the projected list, number sixteen. The current participant, number ten, was just shuffling out of the audition hall, shoulders slumped, his face a portrait of defeat. Mustafa offered a silent, whispered good luck to Ikenna, a friendly face he’d met earlier, as number eleven disappeared through the door. His own heart began to pound a dizzying rhythm.

"I like you, Mustafa. You need me to grow famous. I can give you anything you want, money, fame, you name it. I will pay for your mother’s hospital bills. But you have to accept me. No one would even know".

The man’s words, spoken weeks ago in a smoky backroom, were an incessant, poisonous chime in his mind. For a fleeting, dark second, Mustafa had entertained the thought: Mama would be fine, and I could finally live better. But his mother’s voice, clear and unwavering even from her hospital bed, was his true anchor: “When you achieve success with regrets, it is not success, my child. Always remember that.”

He shook the bad thoughts away. He had to keep pushing. He had already risked the doctor's anger by leaving the hospital. The staggering hospital bill over 300,000 Naira was a crushing weight, but he refused to compromise his soul to lift it.

“How far, man?” Ikenna emerged from the room, looking relatively unscathed. The next person in line, number twelve, hurried inside.

Ikenna, tall and effortlessly cool, laughed. “The judges are ice cold, my brother. If I hadn’t maintained my steeze, I would’ve crumbled right there.” The fact he could joke suggested he’d survived the first cut.

The short, plump contestant number fifteen was called, and Mustafa stood, rubbing his palms together. Five minutes passed, then the announcer whispered to him backstage, “Contestant number Sixteen, you are up.”

As he took a deep, bracing breath, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. I thought I gave it up, he thought, bewildered. A strange number flashed on the screen. Who could be calling now, of all times? What if it’s Mama? Shaking off the anxiety, he switched the phone off.

“Contestant Number 16, you are up!”

He stepped onto the stage, momentarily stunned. He hadn't expected the large crowd; he thought this was only for the judges. Steeling his nerves, he faced the hundreds of faces and began to sing "My Life is a Miracle," the song he’d written for his mother before her illness.

He poured every ounce of fear, gratitude, and hope into the melody. As he reached the crescendo, tears welled in his eyes, his voice cracking with genuine emotion. The resulting applause was deafening, the crowd on its feet, some wiping their own eyes. He felt like a star already.

Then came the verdict.

Four judges sat before him: Ramsey Adams, the African music legend; Simi, a Nigerian favorite; Johnny Drille, whose familiar voice offered early encouragement. And then there was the fourth: Zara Okonkwo. Her name was emblazoned on a plaque, a clear sign she was the daughter of Chief Andrews Okonkwo, the rumored power behind Star Life. She looked young, barely twenty-five with a pretty face, oval shaped to perfection, lips shining red, as though she's trying to make a statement, and she is.

For a second tho, He couldn't take his eyes off her, and her clothes, they screamed ‘Crazy Billionaire'.

"Your voice is great," Zara announced, her expression unreadable. "And you sing well. But I don't think you are what we are looking for here."

Mustafa’s nervous system seized up. Simi and Ramsey Adams followed with polite, lukewarm compliments "you are good, but we need more than good". Zara’s words had set the tone, sinking the ship before it could sail. Though one judge mentioned they might reach out by email, Mustafa knew the truth.

He hadn't qualified. Once again, he was back on the streets, the one option he had vowed to avoid now staring

him in the face.