Chapter 3: The Proposition

The street was unforgiving. Mustafa sought other auditions, but they all felt like echoes of the Star Life rejection. "You are not good enough." His pride was shredded; the big stage dreams now felt like naive fantasy. The Mustafa who believed he was destined for greatness now saw himself as a failure.

For three frustrating weeks, the only demands he heard were for money: "We can help you sign, Mustafa, but you need to give us at least 500k for registration." That, and the ceaseless reminders from the hospital about his mother’s overdue payments.

His only constants were his mother thankfully, 'now stabilized and resting' and his six o'clock street performances singing for the area people, who loved his voice and danced along.

Then his phone rang. The same strange number from the day of the audition. He answered with a weary "Hello."

Silence, then a clearing of the throat. “Mustafa.”

He froze, recognizing the slick, commanding voice of the man who had offered him a life of compromise.

“Don’t hang up,” the man continued, his tone smooth, almost possessive. “I know you’ve been struggling. I can’t even work without thinking about you. I tried to forget you, but it didn't work. Mention any amount. I just need you to like me back.”

Mustafa’s heart pounded not from fear, but from a terrifying weariness. “Sir,” he began, his voice shaking with the last shred of respect, “I am sorry, but I do not need anything from you. Please don’t contact me again.”

“One billion,” the man stated, cutting him off. “I will give you One Billion Naira. I’m sure your mother needs it more.”

A billion. That would solve everything. He could pay the debt, fund the surgery, and secure their future. He was so low, so desperate, that he actually hesitated. He hung up abruptly, mind reeling. Why am I even thinking about this?

Lost in a fog of despair, he stumbled. He looked up, and gasped. A lady stood before him, holding his guitar. It was Zara Okonkwo.

"Hello, Mustafa," she said, offering a hand, a genuine, albeit nervous, smile replacing the apathy he remembered. "I'm sure we didn't end on a good note, but it’s good to see you again. I want to help you. No, I want to work with you as your manager."

He was speechless. He took her hand, the recognition in his eyes mixed with profound confusion. What is happening today? He didn't understand her motives, but something in her eyes, in her newfound earnestness, made him trust her. Maybe it will get better.

For the next two months, their unlikely partnership was defined by rejection. Zara refused to leverage her father’s name, insisting they do this on their own terms. She was a lot nicer, lighter, and surprisingly reassuring.

Mustafa was still without a permanent deal, but there was one small miracle: his mother had been discharged after an anonymous donation covered her initial treatment. He had prayed, and God had answered.

"Today, we are at Gideon's Entertainment," Zara announced two months and two days after they met.

A Nigerian London owned company, Gideon's needed an emergency replacement act for the upcoming AMVCA Awards Night, their scheduled performer was caught in a drug scandal. A friend of Zara’s had connected them. They were about to negotiate a deal with a multi-billion entertainment company.