On Record
1908 Words
The parking lot was already in motion when we arrived. Cameras. Crew. Controlled chaos. Exactly how it was supposed to be.
We had just left the small press stop at Gold Entertainment’s lobby before heading to TLS for the interview that came together too quickly to feel accidental.
I stepped out of the car, adjusting the oversized shirt hanging loose over my shoulders. The top buttons were undone, revealing the white camisole underneath. Jeans. Sneakers. Simple. Intentional.
“Rolling in three,” someone called.
I exhaled once. Then I walked.
The cameras followed from the moment my feet hit the pavement. It was all part of the script—arrival shot, casual entry, “caught off guard” energy. I’d already been inside once for makeup and sound check. This was just performance.
But I knew how to perform.
“Muna!”
I turned slightly. Gloria. Of course.
She was walking toward me like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. Cameras still rolling. Her smile was wide. Polished. Fake.
“Muna, congratulations!” she said, pulling me into a hug before I could step back.
I smiled just as brightly. “Thank you.” It didn’t reach my eyes.
Her grip lingered a second too long before she pulled away, still smiling for the cameras.
“You deserve it,” she added.
“I know,” I replied lightly.
Something flickered in her expression—but it was gone before anyone else could notice.
“See you inside,” she said.
“Sure,” I said.
We both knew that wasn’t a promise.
The studio lights were warmer. Controlled. Contained. Safe.
“She’s here!” Ronke called out before I fully stepped in.
She crossed the space quickly, pulling me into a quick hug, followed by light pecks on both cheeks.
“Welcome, welcome. We’ve been waiting for this one.”
“Thanks for having me,” I said, smiling.
“Please, sit.”
I settled into the couch opposite her, crossing one leg over the other as the crew adjusted final camera angles.
Ronke turned toward the main camera, her smile shifting into broadcast mode.
“Welcome back to Hangout with Ronke.”
She leaned in slightly, voice bright but controlled.
“Today, we’ve got someone you’ve all been talking about. From winning Best New Artist at the just concluded Vanguard Music Awards to a Best Lead Actress nomination at the ACAA this month… she’s been everywhere—and somehow still feels like she’s just getting started.”
“She’s crossed from screen to studio, from Nollywood sets to international conversations, and somehow made it all look… easy.”
A faint clap came from the crew off-camera—quick, professional, almost accidental.
Ronke didn’t pause.
“Please welcome—Munachi Clara Nwosu.”
I smiled, lifting a hand in a small wave.
“Welcome again,” Ronke continued. “Best New Artist at the Vanguard Music Awards. That’s huge. And a nomination for Best Lead Actress at the ACA Awards at just twenty. How does that feel?”
“Overwhelming,” I said honestly. “In the best way. I’m grateful—for the support, the love… my team. I couldn’t have done it alone.”
“Of course,” she said. “Now, acting first, then music. Walk me through that.”
I let out a small breath.
“I think the better question is—why not music?” I said. “Music was always there first. Acting just… happened along the way.”
She leaned in slightly, interested.
“I got into acting trying to find my way into music. One role turned into another. Then New Beginnings happened three years ago, and everything changed.”
She nodded immediately. “We all remember that.”
“I didn’t want to lose music in all of that,” I continued. “So I went back to it. Writing again. Recording again. Just… figuring out my sound.”
“And now here you are.”
“And now here I am,” I echoed.
Ronke smiled. “You know what they say—first love doesn’t leave you.”
I smiled faintly.
“No, it doesn’t.”
She tilted her head slightly. “So what’s been keeping you grounded through all of this?”
For a second, I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t have one. But because I had too many and they all led back to the same place.
Don’t let it overwhelm you.
His voice. Calm. Firm. Uncompromising.
Flashback
I was thirteen the first time I forgot my lines. Not on stage. Not in front of a crowd. Just in the sitting room, script in hand, pacing too fast, thinking too much.
“I can’t do this,” I said, dropping onto the chair.
Tomade didn’t respond immediately. He was seated across from me, one leg crossed over the other, watching. Waiting.
“You’re not even trying,” he said finally.
I frowned. “I am.”
“No. You’re panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re rushing. That’s worse.”
I exhaled sharply, leaning back. “It’s not that easy.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
That irritated me more than it should have.
I sat up again, gripping the script tighter. “Then what am I doing wrong?”
He nodded toward the pages in my hand. “Start again.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It is if you do it properly.”
I stared at him. He didn’t soften. Didn’t explain further.
Just watched. Waiting.
Something in me shifted. I stood up again, slower this time. Took a breath. Then another and started.
When I finished, the room was quiet.
He gave a small nod. “Better.”
That was it. No praise. No applause. Just better.
And somehow, that meant more.
Back to Present
“I’d say discipline,” I said finally.
Ronke leaned forward. “Discipline?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Having people around you who don’t let you get comfortable. Who remind you that there’s always more to do.”
I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.
Ronke smiled. “I like that.”
She studied me for a second longer than usual.
“You’ve mentioned discipline,” she said. “Structure. People around you who keep you grounded.”
I nodded slightly.
“Let’s go a bit deeper,” she continued. “How do you handle control in your career?”
That one landed differently. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just precise.
I held her gaze for a second before answering.
“It depends on what kind of control,” I said.
A small smile from her. “Right.”
I exhaled softly.
“I think every artist has layers of it,” I continued. “The industry, expectations, timing… even the way people perceive you before you speak.”
“But I don’t fight it blindly,” I added. “I just make sure I still recognise myself inside it.”
That earned a subtle nod from her.
She shifted slightly. “Now, your song Chill—the one that won you Best New Artist. There’s a lot of emotion in it. Where did that come from?”
“Honesty,” I said simply. “I told myself from the start—I wasn’t going to sound like anyone else. I write my own songs. I sing them my way.”
“Originality.”
“Exactly.”
Ronke laughed lightly. “Now… let’s talk about The Remover.”
I already knew where this was going.
“The kiss scenes,” she said, smiling knowingly. “Your first on-screen kiss. How was that?”
I smiled, controlled. “It’s part of the job.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” I nodded.
She laughed. “Alright. But there have been rumours—body doubles, editing…”
I shrugged slightly. “If it looked real, then we did our job.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
She tilted her head slightly, smile still in place—but sharper now.
“People aren’t just talking about the kiss scenes anymore,” she said. “It’s you and Davis. The chemistry in The Remover… fans are fully convinced there’s something real there.”
A light laugh from somewhere off-camera.
“How do you even get into that headspace so easily?” she continued. “Because it’s not just this project. Even your earlier roles—people always say you disappear into them. Where does that come from?”
I smiled faintly, letting the question sit for a second before I answered.
“I think people confuse performance with the person behind it,” I said.
She leaned back slightly—less broadcast, more intent.
“When I’m on set, I’m not thinking about myself,” I continued. “I’m thinking about the character. Their history. Their reactions. That’s all it is. As for the rest…” I shrugged lightly. “The audience will always build their own stories. That’s part of it.”
I met her eyes again, steady.
“I just don’t step into them.”
“Final question,” Ronke said, smiling slightly. “Your background. Fans are curious.”
I let out a small breath. That question always came dressed as something simple. It never was.
“My dad was Nigerian,” I said. “I lost him when I was twelve.”
Her expression softened immediately. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
I tucked a curl behind my ear, more out of habit than anything. “My mum’s British. She works with the EU—she’s been based in Brussels for years.”
“So you grew up between both worlds?”
“Not really,” I said. “After my dad passed, I moved in with my grandmother here. Lagos became… home.”
Ronke nodded slowly, taking that in. “And your mum?”
“We keep in touch,” I said. “She’s remarried now. Busy. But we try.”
“And your brother?”
A small smile came easier this time. “He’s my favourite person. We visit when we can.”
Ronke tilted her head, studying me for a second. “You carry both sides of you very visibly—the features, the presence. Has that ever shaped your experience in the industry?”
I smiled faintly. I’d heard that question in different forms my entire life.
“People notice what they want to notice,” I said. “The curls, the skin, the accent when it slips out. But I decide what they remember.”
A soft ripple of laughter moved through the studio.
“But I’ve learned not to let that define the work,” I added. “It’s part of me—not all of me.”
Ronke smiled, her eyes lingering for a second. “By the way—I love your natural curls.”
I smiled back. “Thank you.”
“They suit you,” she added lightly, before shifting back into host mode
The interview wrapped shortly after.
“Thank you for joining us,” Ronke said, smiling warmly.
“Thank you for having me.”
The cameras cut.
And just like that—it was over.
But I couldn’t tell if it was the interview that stayed with me — or the things I didn’t say.
- Writer
