In the bustling streets of Surulere, where the zinc roofs touched each other and the noise of generators never ceased, there lived a young boy named Balogun.
Balogun had a voice like honey mixed with warm water, but his pockets were full of holes. He sang in the local barbershops and on street corners, tapping a plastic keg for a beat. He was talented, yes, but talent in Lagos is like sand at the beach—plenty, but not enough to build a castle.
Then came Oga Wole.
Oga Wole was the "Chairman" of the music scene. He was smooth, always dressed in white kaftans, and famous for always wearing a slanted hat to cover his receding hairline. He was not just a singer; he was a maker of men.
One humid evening, Oga Wole heard Balogun singing to a girl selling roasted corn. Wole stopped his tinted G-Wagon. He wound down the glass.
"Young man," Wole said, adjusting his hat. "You have the sound, but you smell like gutter water. Come with me. I will polish you until you shine."
Balogun followed him.
For five years, Oga Wole was Balogun's father, brother, and bank. When Balogun didn't have clothes for a video shoot, Wole gave him the shirt off his back—literally. When Balogun was too shy to look the crowd in the eye, Wole taught him how to wear dark glasses to hide his fear. When the radio stations refused to play Balogun's songs, Wole sat in their offices for hours, bribing DJs with envelopes of cash and sweet talk.
"You are a Star, Balogun," Wole would say. "I am just the ladder. Climb on me."
And climb Balogun did. He climbed so high that he left Surulere behind. He left Lagos behind. He started singing in London, in New York, in places where they didn't know the price of a bus ticket from Ojuelegba. He became the biggest artist the country had ever seen.
The money came. The private jets came. And with them, the amnesia came.
One day, Balogun sat for an interview on a giant international stage. The interviewer, a woman with a sharp nose and a British accent, asked him: "Balogun, your rise is incredible. Who showed you the way? Who gave you the blueprint to conquer the world?"
The crowd watched. Back home in Lagos, Oga Wole sat in his parlor, smiling, waiting for his name to be mentioned. He didn't want money; he just wanted the nod.
Balogun leaned back in his chair, took a sip of expensive water, and laughed. "Blueprint?" Balogun scoffed. "There was no blueprint. I had no teacher. I saw the jungle, and I cut the path myself. Nobody helped me. I am a self-made man."
The silence in Oga Wole's parlor was louder than a scream.
The internet caught fire. The people of the street, who remember everything, began to murmur. "Did he forget the G-Wagon?" "Did he forget the slanted hat?"
A week later, Balogun returned to Lagos for a concert. The stadium was packed. He came out to sing his biggest hit. He opened his mouth, but the microphone screeched. He tried again, but the crowd wasn't singing along with the usual fire. They were watching him with cold eyes.
From the VIP section, Oga Wole watched quietly. He didn't fight. He didn't go online to rant. He simply took off his famous hat, dusted it, and put it back on.
Balogun looked at the crowd, confused. He had the money, he had the fame, but he had lost the "blessing."
As the elders say in Nigeria: "The river that forgets its source will soon dry up."
Balogun was still a rich bird, flying high in the sky. But he looked down and realized that while he had wings, he had no place left to land, for he had burned the tree that once held his nest.
The Moral:
Success intoxicates, but gratitude is the only antidote. A "self-made" man is usually just a man with a short memory.
©️ Albosed Gifted Studios