CHAPTER EIGHT
1148 Words
The morning sunlight filtered gently into the room, dappling the concrete floor and brushing softly against Grace’s cheek. She stirred, stretching lazily, the faint buzz of her phone barely registering at first. It wasn’t until the buzzing became relentless, vibrating against the wooden edge of the bed, that she blinked fully awake.
Her eyes landed on her phone, blinking wildly with notifications—t****k, i********:, w******p, even Twitter.
“Maddie,” she croaked, voice still thick with sleep. “Maddie, wake up.”
Maddie grumbled, turning over and pulling the wrapper over her head.
“No, no, babe, wake up now! We blew up!”
That did it.
Maddie shot up like she’d been electrocuted. “What? What do you mean we blew up?”
Grace tossed the phone to her. “Check TikTok.”
Maddie stared at the screen. Her jaw dropped.
“Five hundred thousand views?!” she squealed. “Is this even real?”
Grace was already scrolling. “Check the comments. People are tagging us— Look! Someone called it #HostelShuffle.”
Their video from the night before—just a goofy dance with friends—had ignited something online. People from other universities, influencers, even secondary school students were posting their own versions. Duets. Reactions. Lip-syncs.
“This person has one million followers!” Maddie gasped. “She did the dance too. She tagged us!”
Grace felt her heart race. Her mind was spinning, not just from the surprise but from the possibilities. They were no longer just two broke girls in a tiny hostel room. They had become something more—something seen.
“Look at this comment,” Maddie laughed. “‘Na these hostel girls go make me carry body go Unilag.’”
Another comment read: “This energy sweet pass some people wedding dance.”
One more popped up: “I swear if they no blow after this, we riot.”
Grace laughed, warmth blooming in her chest. “They’re rooting for us.”
“And this one said, ‘The one in the red scarf fine die. Who be her?’ Babe, that’s you o!”
Grace blushed, burying her face in the pillow. “Stop joor!”
“But really, we’re viral o. Ah! God!”
---
By midday, they were pacing their room, still in oversized tees and hair bonnets, phones glued to their hands as they refreshed their notifications.
A DM from a verified account slid in.
“Hi girls, loved your video. Let’s collaborate soon?”
Another one: “Are you open to going live together? I have a few content ideas.”
They screamed. Then laughed. Then screamed again.
Then the call came.
Mr. Ayo.
“Hello, girls,” his calm voice came through the speaker. “I saw your video. You’ve made us proud.”
“Thank you, sir,” Grace and Maddie chorused breathlessly.
“You’re trending nationwide. Have you set up your creator accounts properly?”
They looked at each other, blank.
“Sir, not yet,” Maddie said.
“Alright, I’ll walk you through it.”
He guided them step by step—setting up bios, linking their email, creating backup logins. Then he introduced them to the t****k Creator Fund, showing them how monetization worked.
“You’ve got something special. Stay focused. Post consistently. Keep the energy clean and fun. Don’t let anyone pull you off track.”
“Thank you so much, sir,” Grace said quietly. Her chest was full.
Mr. Ayo’s final words stuck in her mind like glue: “This is only the beginning.”
After the call, they both lay on the floor, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Is this how it starts?” Maddie whispered.
Grace nodded. “Feels like it.”
“What if it’s just a one-time thing though?”
Grace turned to her. “Then we enjoy it while it lasts. But I have a feeling... this isn’t luck. This is purpose.”
---
That evening, their room turned into a tiny celebration hub.
Maddie ordered puff puff from a vendor outside. Grace pooled her leftover cash for drinks. A few girls dropped by—ones who used to barely greet them before—offering congratulations and subtle smiles of admiration.
Someone brought suya. Someone else brought a speaker.
Soon, Ayra Starr’s voice filled the room again, this time met with deeper joy.
Maddie recorded another short clip of Grace dancing solo. “For our loyal fans,” she joked.
“You’ve turned into a star, you know,” Maddie said, sipping her drink.
Grace grinned. “So have you. We did this together.”
---
There was a knock.
Bami.
He stepped in, still in his usual casual style, holding a small nylon bag.
“I came to say congrats,” he said with an easy smile. “You’re all over my feed.”
Grace raised a brow. “No subtle insults today?”
He chuckled. “Not today. I’m proud of you. You’re doing something real.”
He handed her the bag. Inside was a small box of cupcakes.
Maddie whistled. “Ehn ehn, Bami’s doing soft gift delivery now?”
He shrugged. “Just wanted to celebrate with you two.”
Grace took the box, her smile gentle. “Thank you. Really.”
As he left, Maddie leaned in. “I like this version of him. Supportive and fine.”
Grace rolled her eyes. “Abeg, focus.”
---
Later that night, they sat in the glow of their ring light, reading more comments out loud.
“‘Dem girls get sauce abeg.’”
“‘I never see vibe reach like this since university dey exist.’”
“Someone said, ‘If they no put this dance inside Netflix series, dem no serious.’”
Grace laughed so hard she almost choked on her puff puff. “Nigerians will never be normal.”
“But they love us. They really love us.”
The comments felt like tiny love notes from strangers. It gave her a type of validation she didn’t even know she’d been craving.
Maddie was humming, dancing with her cup. Grace grabbed her phone and took a candid video. “More content,” she said with a wink.
They didn’t care about lighting, or camera angles, or filters. They were being themselves. And it was enough.
---
That night, the room was finally quiet again.
They lay on their beds, phones still buzzing, though now on silent mode.
Maddie turned to face Grace. “We really did this.”
Grace, staring at the ceiling, nodded. “And we’re just getting started.”
The laughter from earlier still hung in the air, wrapped around them like a promise. They weren’t famous yet. They weren’t rich yet. But they had something rare:
Hope, momentum, and a dream that was finally real enough to chase.
- Writer
