ZIZI

Smoke, Secrets, and Screenshot Energy

By morning, Abuja was loud again. Horns, hawkers, and gospel music blaring from someone’s shop like the city was trying to out-sing its own chaos. I opened my curtains, and sunlight poured into the room like golden drama. Abuja had that energy that made you feel rich even when your bank account was crying.

Except today, I wasn’t feeling rich. I was feeling restless.

My phone hadn’t stopped vibrating since 6 a.m. Notifications, tags, mentions, DMs everything hitting me like rain on a zinc roof. The crazy part? I should’ve been happy. Viral fame was supposed to feel like victory. But my chest was tight, and my thoughts were heavy.

The only message I wanted to see wasn’t there.

No “good morning” from K.

No “you killed it online again.”

Nothing.

I scrolled through our last chat. The night before, he’d sent that cryptic text: “You’re about to learn how fast fame burns.”

Then he vanished.

I threw my phone on the bed and muttered, “Men and mystery, God abeg.”

Just then, Imani burst into the room like the drama she was. “Zizi Owu! Abuja’s hottest topic! Why didn’t you tell me your life turned into a Netflix show overnight?”

I groaned. “Imani, it’s too early for your noise.”

“Noise? Babe, Twitter is literally breathing your name. You’re trending again, and it’s not even for your dance video. Someone posted a photo of you leaving Transcorp Hilton last night with a certain fine boy in a hoodie.”

I blinked. “Wait… K?”

“Exactly. Who’s he? Why does he look like he stepped out of a London music video? And why are y’all looking at each other like characters in a w*****d novel?”

I covered my face with my pillow. “Imani, please.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’m not judging. I’m just saying, that man screams trouble with a passport.”

I wanted to laugh too, but deep down, something about K’s energy still lingered. The way he talked, the way he stared like he already knew the ending of my story. It was both magnetic and unsettling.

I decided to escape the noise and clear my head. Café Bloom, my favorite spot in Wuse 2, was calling. The café was my calm. Soft music, lavender lattes, and quiet people pretending to work but secretly gossiping.

When I got there, I felt eyes following me the way attention follows a trending hashtag. Phones turned. Whispers floated.

“That’s her, the Rema girl.”

“She’s even finer in real life.”

“Omo, London accent no be beans.”

I smiled politely, pretending to be chill even though my heart was racing. I ordered my usual, iced caramel latte with almond milk, and tried to disappear into the corner seat.

I had barely taken a sip when a notification popped up: Twitter: You’re in 5,203 new tweets.

“What again?” I whispered.

When I opened it, my entire stomach flipped.

A screenshot.

Of my contract with K.

It was everywhere. My full name. The Transcorp Hilton logo. The caption:

“Another influencer selling her soul for clout. Abuja girls no dey tire?”

The comments were vicious.

“She probably slept her way into fame.”

“Abuja girls and fake soft life.”

“E be like say na sugar contract.”

My throat went dry. “No, no, no…” I whispered, scrolling in disbelief.

Right then, Imani called.

“Babe! I just saw the post! Who leaked that?!”

“I don’t know!” I said, voice shaking. “Imani, it’s my actual contract. Only me and K have it.”

“Then you need to call him. Now.”

Before I could even dial, a shadow fell across my table. I looked up.

And there he was.

K.

Tall. Calm. Dressed in all black, like a secret that walked out of a dream.

“Zizi,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “We need to talk.”

I froze. “How did you find me?”

He shrugged. “You tagged the café in your i********: story 30 minutes ago.”

Right. Rookie mistake.

Imani’s voice echoed through the phone speaker. “Tell him I’m tracking your location! If he tries anything, I’ll scream on Twitter!”

K smiled faintly. “She’s protective. I like her.”

I hung up before Imani could add more fire.

He sat down across from me. “I assume you’ve seen the leak.”

I nodded, gripping my drink like it could protect me. “You told me only you had access to that file.”

“I did,” he said, his eyes unreadable. “And I still do.”

“Then explain how it’s trending!” I snapped.

He leaned back, studying me. “Zizi, you’re not the only one with enemies. Fame is never just about being seen, it’s about being watched. Someone doesn’t want you to rise.”

I frowned. “You talk like this happens often.”

“It does,” he said. “But you’re stronger than you think.”

For a second, silence settled between us. A tense, electric kind of silence. His gaze softened, and I swear I could hear my own heartbeat.

“Look,” he said, leaning forward, “you have two choices. Hide until it blows over, or take control of the story. Let me help you spin this into something bigger, something that benefits you.”

“Spin it?” I asked, eyes narrowing. “Like a PR move?”

“Exactly. We can make it seem like this was intentional. A brand tease. People love drama. Let’s feed it to them, but on your terms.”

I wanted to argue, but the idea was dangerously smart.

Still, I didn’t trust him completely.

Something about how easily he appeared, how perfectly he always had the answers… it didn’t sit right.

Then he said something that sent a chill down my spine.

“You think this is your first scandal, Zizi? It’s not. It’s just your first public one.”

My lips parted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smiled faintly. “Nothing. Not yet.”

And with that, he stood up, dropped his card on the table, and walked out, leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and confusion.

When I turned the card over, I saw it.

A logo I hadn’t noticed before.

Not a company. Not a brand.

Just a gold letter K embossed in the center.

Underneath it, a handwritten message:

“The spotlight is never free.”

I sat there for a long time, staring at it.

Because in that moment, I realized this wasn’t just clout.

This was something bigger.

Something dangerous.

————

Whether I liked it or not,

I was already in too deep… because if fame had a smell, tonight it would be burnt Wi-Fi and perfume.

My phone was dying, but the notifications refused to stop.

Every blog in Nigeria, the UK, even Shade Room knockoffs in the US, all of them were talking about me.

#ZiziExposed

#ContractGate

#SoftLifeScam

The trending tags glowed on my screen like little flames.

Someone had leaked my contract with K’s company, the one I stupidly signed at Transcorp Hilton. The internet was now convinced that my “viral moment” wasn’t real. That I’d paid to trend.

“Fake influencer energy,” one comment read.

“She’s just another Abuja babe buying clout.”

Another said, “Even her accent sounds sponsored.”

I slammed my phone on the bed, heart pounding like an overstressed generator.

This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything.

Imani stormed into my apartment without knocking, silk bonnet, Crocs, and all.

“Zizi, your face is on every blog!” she yelled.

“I know!”

“Babe, they said the contract was staged, that K bought views for you!”

My throat went dry. “But it’s not true. You know I didn’t.”

“I know,” she cut in softly, sitting beside me. “But the internet doesn’t.”

I wanted to cry, scream, vanish. Instead, I opened my phone again. Big mistake.

There it was. A new video. Edited.

It showed me laughing at a café, saying, “Of course I’m the reason my video blew up. Nobody can touch my energy.”

The clip was real, but twisted. They’d cut it from a vlog where I’d been joking.

Now, it looked like arrogance.

The comments were merciless.

“She’s so full of herself.”

“Cardi B wannabe.”

“Rema should sue her for dancing off-beat.”

I let out a dry laugh. The kind that doesn’t sound like humor anymore.

“Who’s doing this, Imani?”

She sighed. “Either someone close to you… or someone who wants to own your fame.”

And that’s when I realized K hadn’t called. Not once.

By the next morning, half my brand emails had been “postponed.” The other half ghosted me entirely. I scrolled through my DMs and saw one unread message.

From K.

Finally.

Don’t panic. Meet me tonight. Same hotel. 9 PM.

My fingers hovered over the screen. I should’ve blocked him. I should’ve told Imani. But curiosity, that same poison that got Eve in trouble, whispered, go.

By 8:45 PM, I was in a car headed for Transcorp. The driver was silent. The city lights blurred through the tinted windows, Abuja glowing like an illusion, soft, expensive, deceptive.

When I walked in, the lobby felt heavier than usual. K was sitting in a corner booth, hoodie down, eyes unreadable.

“Zizi,” he said quietly, motioning for me to sit.

I folded my arms. “You leaked the contract, didn’t you?”

His jaw tightened. “If I wanted to ruin you, I wouldn’t ask you here.”

“Then who did?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

He slid a folder across the table, screenshots, timestamps, IP logs.

My brain spun as I read the highlighted section.

Uploader: Unknown. Device linked to… Imani Adebayo.

I froze. “No. That’s impossible.”

“She had access to the contract from your email. Same laptop, same metadata.”

My chest tightened. “K, Imani wouldn’t.”

“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe someone used her account.”

For the first time, his voice softened.

“You need to decide who you can trust, Zizi. Because the game just got dirty.”

Before I could reply, his phone buzzed. His expression shifted instantly.

“What is it?” I asked.

He turned the screen toward me.

Another leak. This time, a video.

Someone had recorded our first meeting at Transcorp Hilton, clear as day. Me, signing papers. Him, smiling. The caption?

‘Receipts: The deal behind Zizi’s viral fame.’

I felt my stomach drop.

“Someone’s following us,” I whispered.

K nodded slowly. “And they’re close enough to know your every move.”

He stood up. “We can fix this. But you need to lay low. Don’t post. Don’t trust anyone.”

As I left the hotel, my reflection caught in the glass doors again, the same girl who came in weeks ago chasing fame. But now, she looked different. Harder. Sharper.

Fame had stopped being a dream. It was survival now.

Back in my apartment, I called Imani. Straight to voicemail.

I texted. No reply.

At midnight, I got another message. Unknown number.

You think K’s the villain? Think again. Check who’s been filming you.

I looked up.

My phone camera light flickered, for a split second, on its own.

And that’s when it hit me.

This wasn’t just about clout anymore.

This was about control.

The kind that doesn’t trend. The kind that destroys.

And somehow, I was already in too deep.