Chapter 1:
The rain was relentless.
It beat on the window like a drum, loud enough to cover the sound of Tunde's heartbeat. It was the kind of rain that made the world feel smaller, like the sky itself was trying to squeeze every last drop of hope out of the city.
Inside a tiny room, the air was thick with the smell of old paper and stale coffee. The fan above the ceiling barely moved, and the lights were dim, like they were ashamed to be seen. Tunde sat at a worn-out table, his laptop open, his face lit by the pale glow of the screen.
But the screen was blank.
Not because there was nothing to write.
But because he had no strength left to write.
He stared at the cursor blinking back at him like a judge waiting to deliver a verdict.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The cursor didn't care about his dreams.
The cursor didn't care about his pain.
The cursor didn't care about the fact that he had once believed in himself so strongly he thought he could move mountains.
The cursor just blinked.
And Tunde felt like he was blinking too.
He blinked back tears he didn't want to show.
He blinked back memories he didn't want to remember.
He blinked back the truth he couldn't accept:
He had failed.
Not once.
Not twice.
But in a way that broke him.
Tunde had been a young entrepreneur with a dream so big it scared people. He had a small business, a small team, a small office. He had investors who believed in him. He had clients who praised him. He had a future that seemed bright.
Then the future collapsed.
It wasn't dramatic like in the movies. There was no big explosion, no sudden betrayal. It was worse than that.
It was slow.
It was silent.
It was the slow death of money.
His savings ran out.
Clients stopped calling.
His team left one by one.
And the office became empty.
Not because he wasn't talented.
But because he didn't have money to keep the lights on.
And in the world of business, talent without money is like a car without fuel.
You can push it, but you will never go far.
Now, he was back in this room. A room he had rented with his last money. A room he had chosen because it was cheap. A room he had chosen because it was quiet. A room that now felt like a prison.
He looked at the walls.
There were old posters he had stuck there when he was optimistic. Quotes about success. Quotes about persistence. Quotes about greatness.
They looked like lies now.
He opened his notebook.
The pages were filled with plans he had written when he still believed.
Plans for expansion.
Plans for investors.
Plans for growth.
Plans for a future that no longer existed.
He flipped through the pages, feeling the weight of each word.
And the weight of each failure.
His phone buzzed.
He didn't even want to look.
But he did.
It was a message from his friend, Seyi.
"Bro, you still writing?"
Tunde stared at the message.
He wanted to reply with anger.
He wanted to reply with sarcasm.
He wanted to reply with pride.
But he couldn't.
He replied with silence.
He stared at the phone again.
He looked at the screen like it was an enemy.
He didn't know what to do anymore.
He didn't know how to restart.
He didn't know how to rebuild.
He didn't know how to live again.
He typed a message back:
"What writing?"
He waited.
Seyi replied quickly.
"The kind that pays."
Tunde frowned.
He didn't understand.
Seyi called.
Tunde picked up.
"Bro, you still there?" Seyi asked.
Tunde sighed.
"I'm here."
Seyi laughed.
"You sound like a ghost."
Tunde didn't respond.
Seyi continued.
"I'm not calling to talk about your business. I'm calling to talk about your life."
Tunde's throat tightened.
He said nothing.
Seyi spoke again.
"Listen, man. I know you're down. I know you're tired. I know you feel like the world has ended. But I want you to hear me carefully."
Tunde leaned back in his chair.
He listened.
Seyi said:
"There's this platform called WebNovel. They pay authors for writing."
Tunde blinked.
He wasn't sure he heard correctly.
He repeated the words in his mind.
WebNovel. Pay. Authors. Writing.
"Is that… real?" Tunde asked.
Seyi replied:
"Yes. Real. They pay. Not just famous authors. Not just big writers. They pay anyone who can write a story that people love."
Tunde felt a strange emotion rise inside him.
It was not hope.
Not yet.
It was curiosity.
He said, "So you're telling me I can write and get paid?"
Seyi said, "Yes. But you have to write something real. Something people can feel. Something that touches them. Something that makes them keep reading."
Tunde looked at his blank screen again.
He thought about his failure.
He thought about the empty office.
He thought about the people who had laughed at him.
He thought about the day he had told his mother he was going to be successful.
He thought about the day he had promised himself he would never be broke again.
And he thought about the fact that all of those dreams were now dust.
He said, "I don't know how to write."
Seyi laughed.
"Bro, you're lying. You just don't want to admit you're scared."
Tunde felt anger rise inside him.
"Scared of what?" he asked.
Seyi said, "Scared of being rejected again."
Tunde went quiet.
He remembered the investors who had refused him.
He remembered the clients who had left.
He remembered the friends who had stopped calling.
He remembered the feeling of being worthless.
He remembered the feeling of being invisible.
He remembered the feeling of failure.
And he realized something.
He wasn't afraid of writing.
He was afraid of being rejected again.
Seyi said, "Look, you don't have to be perfect. You just have to start."
Tunde stared at the screen.
The cursor blinked.
He felt the silence in the room press against him.
He whispered to himself:
"Maybe this is my last chance."
He typed the words:
WebNovel
He searched.
He opened the site.
The landing page was clean, simple, and professional. It didn't feel like a scam. It felt like a real platform.
He scrolled.
He read stories.
He saw writers.
He saw people making money.
He saw comments from readers.
He saw proof.
And his heart began to beat again.
He opened a new document.
He stared at the blank page.
He didn't know where to start.
He thought about his life.
He thought about his pain.
He thought about his dreams.
He thought about his failure.
He thought about the way he had promised himself he would never be poor again.
He thought about the way his father had once told him:
> "Son, money is not the problem. The problem is not having a way to earn."
Tunde looked at the blank page.
He realized something.
He had been looking for a way to earn money.
But he had forgotten the most important thing:
He had a story.
He had a voice.
He had a message.
He had lived.
He had failed.
He had survived.
And that was something people could relate to.
He began to type.
Not a business plan.
Not a pitch.
Not a proposal.
He typed a story.
He wrote about his failure.
He wrote about the day his business collapsed.
He wrote about the day he lost everything.
He wrote about the feeling of waking up and realizing that your dreams are gone.
He wrote about the emptiness.
He wrote about the shame.
He wrote about the fear.
He wrote about the anger.
He wrote about the moment he wanted to give up.
He wrote about the moment he realized he still had something left:
His voice.
He wrote until his fingers hurt.
He wrote until his eyes burned.
He wrote until the rain stopped.
When he finally stopped, he looked at what he had written.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't polished.
It wasn't a masterpiece.
But it was real.
And it was his.
He stared at the screen.
A small smile formed on his lips.
He whispered:
"Maybe this is the last pitch."
The last pitch wasn't to investors.
It wasn't to clients.
It wasn't to anyone else.
It was to himself.
The pitch was:
I can still win.
He clicked "Publish."
And then he waited.