ZIZI

Viral Fame, Silent Flames

For three straight days, my phone never stopped ringing. Brands, podcasts, stylists, even a random energy-drink company from Lagos. I’d crossed that invisible line between “relatable girl” and “public property.”

My mum kept calling from London, proud but confused.

“Zizi, are you now a celebrity influencer?”

I laughed it off. “Mummy, it’s just a phase.”

But deep down I knew this wasn’t just a phase. This was the beginning of something too loud to ignore.

K handled everything like a strategist with no pulse. He sent contracts at 2 a.m., fixed meetings before I’d even opened my eyes, and always signed off with, Trust the process.

One afternoon, he picked me up for a brand meeting at Jabi Lake Mall. He drove a black Range Rover that smelled of oud and quiet power. The ride was silent except for Rema’s “Charm” humming softly through the speakers. I could feel him watching me when the chorus hit.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just still getting used to all this.”

He smiled, not friendly, not cold; something in-between. “Fame’s loud. Learn to listen through the noise.”

At the meeting, everyone wanted a piece of me.

“Zizi, can we get a photo?”

“Zizi, can we do a collab?”

“Zizi, you’re glowing! What foundation?”

I smiled, posed, performed. But every flash felt like lightning… bright, sudden, dangerous.

Later that night, I sat alone at Café Bloom, watching my own reflection in the window. The comments under my latest video were different now: half love, half venom.

“She’s changed.”

“She’s faking the accent.”

“She’s dating her manager.”

I scrolled, numb. Then K appeared, placing a cup of coffee in front of me. “Don’t feed the trolls.”

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “They’re not talking about you.”

He leaned closer, eyes calm but unreadable. “They will. Eventually. Everyone gets their turn.”

There was a pause… long enough for me to feel the air shift.

“Why are you helping me?” I asked finally.

He looked out the window. “Maybe I like building things that can burn the world down.”

“Or maybe you just like control.”

His lips curved slightly. “Maybe both.”

We stayed like that for a moment… two people sitting in the same silence but hearing completely different songs.

When I got home, the power was out. Typical Abuja night. My phone lit up with one new notification:

K sent you a file.

I opened it.

It wasn’t a contract.

It was a photo, a screenshot of my very first t****k, the one from years ago that only had twelve views. Under it, he’d typed:

I saw you before anyone else did.

My heart skipped.

Was it sweet? Creepy? Both?

Before I could decide, my phone rang. Unknown number. British code.

A familiar female voice whispered, “Zizi, it’s not safe. Whatever you signed with him… you need to read the fine print.”

Then the line went dead.

I stared into the darkness, the generator humming back to life outside.

Fame was supposed to feel like light.. but right then, all I saw were shadows.

————

Sleep? Yeah, that didn’t happen.

I lay in bed, eyes wide open, the voice from that unknown number echoing in my head:

“You need to read the fine print.”

By morning, my brain was fried. I made coffee, scrolled through messages, ignored the hate comments, and tried to act like nothing was off. But deep down, I knew something had shifted.

By noon, K texted.

K: “You up?”

Me: “Barely.”

K: “I’m sending a car. Meeting at 2. Dress sharp.”

That was it. No emojis. No explanations. Just orders.

The car arrived… tinted, sleek, silent driver. Abuja heat blazing like sin, but the AC inside was arctic. We pulled up at this minimalist glass building in Maitama. The kind of place that looked like it charged for air.

Inside, I met people who felt too polished to be real. PR managers, digital execs, stylists, one British guy who kept saying “content is currency” like it was scripture.

K walked in halfway through the briefing, dark shades, phone in hand, expression unreadable.

When his eyes met mine, something clicked. Not attraction exactly, but electricity. Dangerous, unspoken, magnetic.

“Zizi,” he said softly after the meeting, “step into my office.”

His “office” was a private suite upstairs… floor-to-ceiling windows, whiskey shelf, city view. I stood there, pretending I wasn’t intimidated, while he scrolled on his phone.

“So,” he said finally, “how’s fame treating you?”

“Loud,” I said. “And confusing.”

He smirked. “That’s how you know it’s working.”

Then he slid a document across the table.

A new contract. Different company name. No logo.

“Sign this,” he said. “It secures your image rights for upcoming projects.”

My pulse jumped. “Upcoming what?”

He shrugged. “Brand expansions, maybe a docuseries. You’ll thank me later.”

But that voice from last night wouldn’t stop ringing in my ears.

Read the fine print.

So I did.

Clause 7 — Creative Ownership: “All visual likeness and personal branding of the signee shall remain under agency control during contractual term and renewal period.”

I looked up. “So… basically, you own me?”

He smiled faintly. “Don’t be dramatic. Think of it as partnership.”

“Where I lose my name?”

“Where you make it bigger.”

He said it so calmly it almost made sense. Almost.

I didn’t sign. Not yet.

Instead, I asked, “Who told you about my first video? The one from years ago?”

He froze. Just for a second. Then laughed. “I told you… I notice things.”

When I left the building, the sun was harsh, blinding even. My head spun. Something about K didn’t add up. Too smooth. Too connected. Too… deliberate.

That night, I called Imani.

“Babes, something’s off,” I said.

She yawned. “It’s just stress. You’re overthinking again.”

“No, I mean it. He knows things he shouldn’t. Old videos, my timestamps, my…”

“Zizi, relax. Not everyone’s trying to scam you. Maybe he’s just into you.”

I sighed. “If that’s his flirting style, it’s giving Netflix thriller.”

But even as I said it, part of me wondered if she was right.

Because sometimes, when K looked at me, it didn’t feel like manipulation.

It felt like recognition. Like he saw something in me the world hadn’t yet caught up to.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was standing in a story someone else had already written and I was just catching up to my lines.

Before bed, I checked my phone again. One unread message.

No name. No number. Just words.

“He’s not who he says he is. Check London archives.”

My breath caught. London?

And then I remembered the second house. The one Dad kept locked after that one summer. The one he said was “off-limits.”

Suddenly, everything that felt random started to feel connected.