His phone buzzed again. Then again. And again. Like someone was urgently knocking on the door to his life, but he wasn’t ready to answer. He lay still on the mattress that had become an island in a sea of unanswered calls, missed prayers, and scattered clothes. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. He turned it face-up. Over 300 WhatsApp messages. Notifications from X, TikTok, Instagram. Headlines. Retweets. DMs. All screaming his name. But he didn’t care about the world. He was waiting for one name. Then it came. Joy. His hands trembled as he opened her message, heartbeat kicking his ribs like it wanted out. "I left my toothbrush at your place. You can get rid of it. I won’t be needing it anymore." That was it. No “I miss you.” No “Let’s talk.” Just three sentences that smelled like goodbye. He stared at the text like maybe, if he blinked hard enough, it would morph into something softer. It didn’t. His body folded forward. His chest quivered. But the tears didn’t come. Not because he was strong—but because he was numb. Then his eye caught the view count: 4.8 million views. His video had gone viral. National viral. And then… One message, barely noticeable, slithered in at the bottom of the chat list. Unknown number. "Watch your back. Na 9ja you dey." He screenshot it immediately. Pulse now sprinting. He turned the camera on, eyes still red. His lips were dry, cracked from dehydration and the beating from the police incident. “If anything happens to me… please, don’t let it be forgotten. I just got a text. I’m scared. Nigeria—our Nigeria—My Nigeria—doesn’t want us to speak. But I won’t shut up. If I go down, know who did it. I will die for my country but I won't die for this Nigeria!.” He hit upload. Then scrambled to get ready for work at the boutique. Not because he wanted to, but because hunger didn’t care about fame, and 4.8million views can't buy you lunch. (3:41 p.m.) He had just finished convincing a customer to buy a faded jean that fit two sizes too small, when his phone rang. 'Private Number.' He hesitated, wiped his hands on his trousers, and picked up out of fear. "Hello?" A woman’s voice came through. Calm. Sharp. Upper-class Yoruba laced into Queen’s English. “Good afternoon. Is this Charles?” “Yes. Who’s this?” “My name is Lady Mona Bimbo-Adeleke. Personal Assistant to Mr. Ahmed.” His stomach tightened. “We’ve been watching your story. Mr. Ahmed would like to meet with you. He’s arranging an exclusive interview for you at Blow.ng by 4 p.m. His driver will be outside in ten minutes. Do not be late.” Click. Ten minutes later, a black Rolls Royce parked outside the boutique like it didn’t care about potholes or police. (BLOW.NG HEADQUARTERS) It felt like entering another Nigeria. Marble floors. Perfumed air. Security men that smiled but had eyes like CCTV. He was led into the studio, where the host sat already mic’d up. Designer suit. Lagos accent. Across the room, he saw her. Lady Mona. She was even more intimidating in person—tall, poised, cheekbones that looked chiseled from judgment. She nodded. That was her hello. The interview began. HOST: “Charles. The country knows your face now. You’re trending. You’re the symbol of protest. How do you feel?” CHARLES: “Like a mirror. Because I’m just reflecting what millions of us feel.” HOST: “Which is?” “That Nigeria is raising children it can’t feed. Teaching rights it won’t respect. And breaking dreams it never let sleep.” The host paused. “You’re poetic.” Charles nodded slowly. “I love poetry. My favorite poet… Theebardman… he wrote something once. It’s chaotic, but real.” The host’s eyebrow lifted, smiling. “Theebardman is your favorite poet?” Charles chuckled. “Yes, he is.” Then he recited: “This broke broken Nigerian poet would not be broken If his mother wasn't careless, If his mother wasn't a broke broken broker Trading away all their sources of happiness, Buying greed out of greed While her currency is weak and her markets expensive.” The room went quiet. Even the lights seemed to dim. Then applause. Polite. Uneasy. The host leaned in. “So, if you had the chance to change Nigeria, what would you do first?” Charles took a deep breath. “I’d give everyone a chance to breathe. That’s all we want. Oxygen—not just for our lungs, but for our lives.” Then, he broke the script. “Joy… if you’re watching this—I messed up. I’ve been chasing peace in the world while ignoring the war in your heart. I was ungrateful… just like this country. But if there’s a second chance for us—I want it. I want us.” The host blinked. Confused. The cameraman scratched his head. After the show, Mr. Ahmed met him briefly in the hallway. His presence was gravity. “You’re a storm in a glass cup, Charles. Small, but dangerous.” He smiled. “I like you. You’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of that.” He shook Charles’s hand and walked off. Lady Mona approached next. “You disappointed him.” Charles’ eyes widened. “I thought he said he liked me.” “He did. But you spoke from your heart not your head. That wasn’t part of the plan.” She handed him a black card. Her number embossed in gold. “Call me. If you want to live long.” She smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes. “And Charles…” He turned. “ *Na 9ja you dey. Watch your back.”* > #2 Theebardman