For many young creators, the internet isn’t just a pastime anymore; it’s a stage. It offers visibility, connection, and sometimes, the chance to turn talent into livelihood. From singing covers to dance challenges, the digital space has become the launchpad for a new generation of stars. But what happens when you step online? Everything shifts in ways you never planned.
In this story, we trace the journey of Agnes Bada, whose playful experiment with content cracked open doors she didn’t even know existed, changing how she saw herself and her future.
This is Agnes Bada’s story as told to Marv.
Growing up, music was the air I breathed. My siblings could sing, and we all did in one way or another. But I carried it differently with an intensity and a seriousness that showed it was more than just play.
By 2018, I had started recording covers and sharing them on Instagram, offering little pieces of myself to the world.
Comedy, on the other hand, wasn’t something that happened by chance. My brother had dabbled in it before, making Sidney Talker–style skits. Sometimes we’d sit together, tossing ideas back and forth. I didn’t know it then, but that experience left me with a quiet reserve of knowledge, something stored away, waiting for the right moment.
That moment came in 2020.
I had fallen sick, too weak to keep up my routine. Normally, I posted covers back-to-back: sometimes daily, sometimes with small breaks when school or other responsibilities got in the way. But during that stretch of illness, two or three weeks slipped by without a single post. The silence unsettled me. I felt restless, as if my relevance was slipping through my fingers.
Still weak but determined, I told myself, “I need to put something out.” Singing the way I usually did wasn’t possible, so I reached for something lighter. I set up my camera, balancing my phone on a stack of books and buckets. And instead of pushing my voice, I got playful with it.
I didn’t plan it. It was instinct. I leaned into the silliness and hit record. That video became my first comedy-music skit. Nervous about how it would be received, I told myself, “Let me post this where nobody will see it.” Instead of Instagram, I tried TikTok for the first time.
Within hours, it exploded. Overnight, I gained over 1,000 followers, more than I even had on Instagram at the time. Phone calls and DMs poured in from friends: “Have you seen this? Your video has blown up!” It was overwhelming.
The comments were filled with encouragement, yet inside, I struggled. Sharing that goofy side of myself with the public didn’t come easily.
So I stopped posting. I didn’t want to be seen as a clown. I wanted to be the “fine music babe,” not a comedian. But the video had already escaped me. People were reposting it on Facebook, on Instagram, everywhere. And with each share, more eyes turned toward me. A door had opened, one I hadn’t been planning to step through.
Until then, I was the girl who sang at events, keeping things low-key and living privately. But TikTok pulled me into the public eye. And even though I resisted, my parents, especially my mum, urged me on: “Keep posting. Don’t stop.”
So I kept going. The first viral video was followed by another that didn’t do as well, then another that caught fire again. Slowly, I began to post on Instagram too, encouraged by friends who believed in me more than I believed in myself. Their faith gave me the courage to embrace the side of me I had once hidden.
Of course, not every moment was smooth. When some videos didn’t hit the way the first did, doubt crept in. I felt the pressure of expectation, the fear that people might get tired. I asked myself constantly what was next and what fresh things I could add. In the end, I decided to keep moving, trusting that new ideas would come as they always did.
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The consistency paid off. My audience grew to over 300,000 followers. And with that came changes in real life. Strangers began to recognise me at the market or on the street. For someone introverted like me, it was unsettling. Sometimes I just wanted to shop in peace, but people approached with smiles and excitement. Slowly, I learned to accept it, even if deep down I preferred to go by unnoticed.
By early 2024, the shift became undeniable. Artists began reaching out, asking me to promote their songs. That was when I realised: this wasn’t just content anymore. It was work and a career. My brother stepped in like a manager, handling the business side, while I sought out mentors who taught me how not to be cheated. For the first time, I began to see myself as a brand, to recognise the value of my craft, and to accept just how much people truly loved what I did.
Then came collaborations. Content creators I had admired from a distance reached out. One of the biggest moments for me was when Josh2Funny got involved. People had been tagging him under my videos, insisting we had to work together. Eventually, he reposted one of my skits and then reached out.
Meeting him in person was surreal. We recorded together, and he handled everything — logistics, feeding, and accommodation. It was from that experience that I learned that I have value and I could stand in those rooms and belong. Since our first content together, we have made many more.
In the last year that I started to enjoy a lot of visibility, I have learned a lot about the business. But the one I wish I knew early was that I could be the one to initiate things. I thought you had to wait for people to find you.
This has been an unplanned journey, but one that I’ve learned to embrace, from my first skit filmed on a sick day with a phone balanced on buckets, to collaborations with creators I grew up admiring, to building a community of hundreds of thousands of followers.
This is only the beginning and the time to get bullish.
The music industry is full of horror stories, but nothing prepares you for when the nightmare comes from the very people who once shook your hand as brothers.
At the heart of this story is Papi Gunzo, an artist and collaborator whose attempt to help spirals into a costly battle.
What began as an act of friendship and creativity and was supposed to be a rescue mission for a talented friend, an artist trapped in a suffocating management deal, quickly unravelled into a cautionary tale of control, betrayal, and the hidden traps that lie within the music industry’s machinery.
This is Papi Gunzo’s story as told to Marv.
I had an artist-friend, someone I worked closely with. She was signed to a big-name management company, the type that handled the top Afrobeats stars. But her career was suffocating. She recorded countless songs, some with me, some with others, yet none ever came out. She cried, begged, fought, pleaded, but nothing. Her label locked her music in a vault, and she was breaking down before our eyes.
Nothing worked. She came to cry to me and some of our other friends. It worried me and other friends she informed about it. So, instead of watching our friend waste away under a management deal, I came up with a plan. We’d release a joint project under my name, with me providing the production. On paper, the royalties and credit would be hers. My distributor would handle the release, and this way, her music could finally see daylight.
It was a great plan. We were all happy about it and got to work.
We made magic together — songs, a three-track EP we were incredibly proud of. We got it ready for release and informed her manager of our plans. He was happy to be part of the process. He even signed off on the splitsheet when I sent it, and a few months before the release of the EP, he gave us money to push the project, pledging full support. Everything seemed clear.
My distributor, after asking if I could vouch for my friend and assure them there wouldn’t be any issue, released the EP. I came through for my friend. I delivered on my word.
When the EP dropped, though, she wasn’t promoting it. I was concerned and reached out to her to ask why she was holding back. Our conversation ended with her agreeing to make content. And she did. She sent me the content. They were good. I was happy for her. But then I didn’t see them online.
She said her management took the posts down and stopped her from promoting the EP. She said she reposted the content again, but they pulled it down, saying she needed permission. Still, I told myself it wasn’t really my project and I moved on.
One morning, a year later, I woke up to a nightmare.
An email from my distributor’s lawyer said I was in breach of contract. Someone had flagged the songs on the EP for copyright infringement, and if I couldn’t counter it within 48 hours, my distribution deal and all the other conversations I had on the table would vanish.
I was furious, confused. I knew I hadn’t stolen anyone’s work. So, I dug. And what I uncovered stung the most: the person who flagged the EP and filed the takedown was none other than my friend’s manager: the same man who had given us money, arranged studio sessions, signed the splitsheet, and smiled in my face as a brother.
It’s messed up, and it really got to me because we have a personal relationship. He was supposed to be a brother to me. We didn’t have any beef or problems. In fact, just a week earlier, before the copyright infringement issue, he had invited me to his house, and we had even hung out together.
When I confronted her manager, his excuse was that he had “missed” the splitsheet. Out of anger, I stripped away all respect and asked him straight: “What the fuck is going on, man? You’ve invited me cheerfully to your house before. Why couldn’t you use the same energy and just tell me face-to-face that the project wouldn’t work?”
He said he was following orders. Then he apologised and had the audacity to give me a condition that if I wanted to keep those three songs (the EP), I should forfeit my production fees and only be paid for some seven other unreleased songs I had made with her. This would cost me about ₦2m, just to salvage three tracks that hadn’t even earned me £1. Imagine that!
I refused. Then, I swung into action and sent a request to my distributor, in all caps: “TAKE THAT SHIT DOWN.” I wanted the EP permanently taken down. After that, I gave the manager a condition too, that if within three months, they fail to clear the other seven songs she made with me, the management company would lose the rights forever.
My friend, on the other hand, was just as shocked. She couldn’t help me or pacify anyone on my behalf. She just kept crying and apologising to me. I had to calm her down and console her because it was her manager moving weirdly, not her.
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Eventually, I received my payment from the management company. But since that incident, the relationship with my distributor hasn’t been the same. Direct access and strength of promotion haven’t been the same. Before I could call or ask for a meeting on demand. I mail in the morning, and I get a reply a couple of hours later or at most, the next morning. Everything went well until after the issue. The first time I noticed, I sent an email, and for two weeks, there was no response. Later, I got hit with a “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see it. It’s so bad, all the songs that I have released since that incident haven’t got any support from them. Whenever I reach out to ask what’s going on, they’d say they missed my emails, they were on leave or holiday.
I still have access to my backend and can release music under them whenever I want, but there won’t be any form of support from them. There’s no point releasing with my distributor anymore if they won’t offer any support and access.
I might as well pay DistroKid and keep the 30% that would have gone to them. I have repeatedly tried to explain my story and show that I can be trustworthy and be a reliable business partner, but they aren’t hearing me out. The Head of Distribution just stopped replying altogether. I’m moving on.
All this, because I tried to help a friend stuck in a bad management deal. Looking back, I regret ever putting that project out.
I could have been sued for copyright infringement. But the documented splitsheet and the paper trail I kept were my saving grace. It protected me from losing everything. But the damage was done.
Right now, all I’m focused on is getting bags, finding creative ways to release my music. I have some serious Afrobeats and Hip-Hop bangers lined up — I’m open to a platform that’s ready to distribute them properly.
When the world first began watching Rodney on TikTok, he was a different person.
Born in Anambra and raised in Abuja, he was a student and a dancer with dreams of becoming a star. But life, as he quickly learned, isn’t as easy to choreograph. While his passion for dance propelled him to viral fame, it also plunged him into a whirlwind of overnight celebrity, financial exploitation, and hard-earned lessons in trust and resilience.
This is the story of Rodney’s evolution — from a shy, aspiring student to a digital superstar with over 7.3 million followers — and his fight to keep his voice and credibility intact.
This is Rodney’s story as told to Marv.
The first time I realised my life was changing was back in 2021. I was walking through my neighbourhood on my way to buy bread for my family when, out of nowhere, a group of children recognised me.
“Rodney! Rodney! Ehh. He’s the one! Rodney!” they shouted. I froze, caught off guard, as their voices echoed down the street.
I was in old, faded clothes and slippers, completely unprepared for that kind of attention. They wanted pictures, and I had no choice but to pose. That moment, as overwhelming as it was, planted a seed: people were noticing me, not just online, but in real life. It was exhilarating, but it also made me start paying attention to how I looked when going out, even if it was just to school.
Before TikTok, my life had been… just there. I was studying International Relations, coasting through classes I didn’t fully understand. Dance was mostly a hobby. I started back in secondary school and eventually joined a group called Dark Illusion, which, looking back, is a crazy name, but I thought it was cool at the time.
My friends always hailed me as a good dancer, and while I didn’t overthink it, I did have this Step Up-inspired fantasy where I’d show up at university, show off my dance skills, and somehow become famous.
But when I got to uni, I quickly realised how delusional I’d been. Adulthood hit me hard, and I had to hustle just to survive.
I kept dancing, but mostly as a way to pay small bills. I’d earn maybe ₦3,000 for a performance at a departmental pageant, a fresher’s party or some faculty event — just enough to cover some basic expenses.
I danced through 100 and 200 level, until COVID hit in the second semester of my 200 level, bringing everything to a standstill.
During the lockdown, I was stuck at my parents’ house on the outskirts of Abuja. With no events or parties happening, my focus shifted. Instead of performing live, I started pouring my energy into social media, posting more dance videos on Instagram and TikTok.
By the time I was returning to school, I already had some online recognition — around 300 thousand followers on Instagram and TikTok, though the latter had the biggest following. Back then, TikTok was still new, creators were few, and having a following made people assume you were a big deal.
But for me, it still felt small. I was posting out of boredom, mostly repurposing the same dance content I’d been sharing on Instagram. The growth was slow at first. My TikTok views were low compared to my following, and that’s when I realised that being on the app wasn’t enough. I needed to hop on trends and make quality content.
Then one skit changed everything. It was a funny take on African parents who don’t show romance despite having up to 10 children. It exploded to around 100,000 views. I was shocked and excited.
Before TikTok, I didn’t see myself as a funny person beyond my friend group. We’d troll and joke about situations, but it was all casual. TikTok gave me the confidence to really try comedy.
So, I started mixing in skits with my dance videos, and the audience responded more to the skits. So, I let my dance evolve and mix with comedy. I was still dancing, just in a goofy, funny way that fit my audience and even allowed me to reach more people.
But shooting videos back then was rough for a while. We didn’t have Jamboxes, so the sound came straight from the phone as we recorded. I even had to borrow a friend’s phone just to make content.
Data was another struggle. I relied on night plans to upload videos and check engagement. Slowly, the effort started to pay off — I was gaining traction, making a bit of money online, and settling bills myself.
Still, growth was slower than I would have liked, mostly due to my camera quality. It matters more than people think. So, I saved up from the content and brand advertising gigs I got and borrowed a little from friends to get an iPhone 6.
The difference was almost immediate.
The first month using it, one of my videos blew up, hitting a million views in a week. Followers started growing exponentially, sometimes 100k a week, other times 100k in a day.
That’s when I knew this was not just fun anymore. This was now a business.
My popularity in school also exploded. Soon, I couldn’t walk around campus without someone secretly recording me to post on TikTok or freshers going crazy.
So, I started showing up only when I had strict lectures or exams. Thankfully, my classmates already knew me, so I could navigate without too much fuss. My friend group remained small and loyal, unaffected by my growing popularity. Others became acquaintances, riding the wave of my fame, but willing to help when needed.
Despite all that, I started questioning if I still needed school at all. But I had to push through. My parents never allowed me to rest, and that constant pressure, combined with my own determination, meant I couldn’t stop. I didn’t take breaks in the traditional sense, though I wasn’t present for all my lectures, especially in 400 level, where it was mostly project work.
The thought of quitting school never left my head, but I chose to see it through to the end. I got my degree.
Around this time, I began charging more for gigs. I furnished my space, bought better equipment and improved my content quality. My parents, especially my dad, were sceptical at first. But over time, he saw the money coming in, heard people talking about me, and even started watching my videos.
He eventually gave me his blessing, with one condition: that I chase my dream without compromising my morals. That blessing lit a fire in me. I went harder with my content, posting more, taking on bigger opportunities and getting recognition.
That was when I met my supposed manager. At first, he was just a loyal client who brought multiple gigs. Eventually, he positioned himself as someone who could help me grow.
When we met for the first time in Lagos in 2021, the only time we ever met, he claimed to have industry connections. At first, he seemed helpful. He secured a couple of gigs, and I thought, maybe this will be my big break.
He was a free agent with no structure, so he started manipulating payments. If a brand paid him ₦2,000 naira for my service, he would tell me I only earned ₦100. And it was from that same ₦100, he would collect his 30% manager fee.
He was a manipulative gaslighter who pretended to care about my career while exploiting me. He presented himself almost as a big brother, giving me a false sense of security. There was one brand that supposedly hadn’t paid, yet I found out months later that they had. I had to reach out to them directly, only to be shown receipts. Over time, I realised I’d lost tens of millions of naira to his schemes.
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During this period, I tried to branch into music. My first song, “Wisdom Drill,” started as a parody video, but fans loved it, so I put it on streaming platforms. In early 2023, I considered releasing another track. My manager convinced me to host a listening party, promising it would boost streams.
I was hesitant about the cost, but he assured me it would be worth it. I ended up spending nearly ten million naira on the event. People showed up, but the experience exposed how disorganised everything was, and how badly I needed a proper team.
By first the quarter of 2023, I was broke, struggling to survive on the little I had left. I even had to reach out to brands myself, realising that he had been sabotaging my career. The revelation was devastating, but it pushed me to reclaim control. I confronted him, threatened to call him out publicly, and the next day, he blocked me. When I tried to travel to Lagos to see him, I found out that he had even left the country, leaving me completely on my own. Last time I heard about him, he was in China.
His actions didn’t just rob me financially, they threatened my credibility. Brands began reaching out with legal threats, and his explanations were vague, often non-existent. I had no choice but to clean up the mess he created. It was exhausting and infuriating. Yet, it also forced me to recognise my value and the importance of taking control of my career.
Recovering from that betrayal meant starting fresh. I posted online to declare that I was no longer affiliated with him. Transparency became my guiding principle. I joined a new team that was honest, professional, and structured, giving me the support I needed to rebuild. That fresh start helped me regain credibility, attract brands again, and focus on my craft without interference.
Looking back, the journey taught me resilience. It taught me to trust my instincts, to value my work, and to understand that even in moments of overwhelming visibility, control over your own career is paramount.
By the time I had my father’s blessing and started creating with confidence, I realised something crucial: the money, the followers, and the fame were just tools. The real victory was taking charge, refusing to be manipulated, and ensuring my creativity and hustle were respected and protected.
Loye’s story begins in Kaduna, in a home where faith is stitched into daily life. But even that kind of grounding cannot shield him from the blows life deals. After his sister died, his life was disrupted, and he had to leave Kaduna.
In his AsToldTo with Zikoko, Loye peels back the layers of his journey: the struggle with religion, the near-breaking points, the grief and hunger, the brushes with fate that tested him and how he’s slowly rebuilding his faith.
This is Loye’s story as told to Marv.
The day my sister died was the day I began to lose my faith. We lived in Kaduna. Our mother was a prophetess at the Christ Apostolic Church. In church, she told people about their future. Everything she said came to pass. Children feared her. Cheating husbands feared her. Everyone who had sinned in the week feared her because on Sunday, she could reveal their deepest sins. Yet my sister died from a spiritual attack, and my mother could not stop it.
On Sundays, we woke up at 3 a.m., the air heavy with beans and pepper. Steam covered the kitchen. My mother was making moi-moi, which we helped her pack to sell in church.
We wore our best clothes, my combat trousers dusted from under the bed where they had been all week. My mother led the way. Sundays were good—not just because we went to church, but because our mother walked with us. The boys who hung in the corner and tormented my life didn’t attempt to tease me, not when my mother was with us, not when it was safe.
At church, we stood beside our mother as she emptied her cooler of moi-moi.
I was born inside the walls of CAC. As far back as memory reaches, my life was measured in prayers. My mother had us fast for twelve hours twice a week, our small bodies aching with hunger, our lips moving over scripture. Every day meant Bible reading, and every season meant climbing mountains to pray louder, higher, and closer to heaven. Sundays were their own pilgrimage.
I remember one night on the mountain, the air sharp and cold, my body trembling as I wrapped my arms around myself. She told us, “The more uncomfortable you are in the presence of God, the more serious He knows you are about your prayer.” I sat there, teeth chattering, trying to make sense of it, but it never really clicked. It still doesn’t.
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When we grew older, my sister moved to Ilorin to live with a relative. But when she returned to Kaduna in 2017, something strange began to happen. My mother said it was a “spiritual attack.”
One morning, my sister woke to her back itching. Initially, it was nothing dramatic, just an irritation she couldn’t ignore. But the itch refused to fade. Day after day, she scratched until her skin gave way to sores.
What started as restless discomfort became raw, open wounds. Her back was covered with bruises and injuries she couldn’t explain. She hadn’t fought anyone, hadn’t fallen, hadn’t been dragged across the ground. The marks appeared as though her own body had turned against her.
The bruise got worse. Our fasting didn’t save her. After a while, my sister died.
It broke something in me. My sister had always worn her faith like an armour. God was the anchor in our home. But as I watched things unravel, that certainty slipped from me.
I kept asking myself how tragedy could strike a family that prayed morning and night, a family with a mother who prophesied, who wore devotion like a second skin.
Days later, I was walking on the streets and couldn’t breathe. I was gasping for air, and somehow I knew that I needed to leave Kaduna to breathe better. In December, I left. I never returned to Kaduna or my mother’s church.
In 2020, I got into YabaTech, and things started to change. I had only just begun to make music. It was nothing too serious. I was just hoping I would blow. Beats were not hard to find. In Yaba, a music studio was easier to find. So, I recorded a few songs that I performed in school during social events; Miss YabaTech, Departmental Night, etc.
Once, I was performing. Then, I heard it out of nowhere: a nudge, a voice whispering, “Step outside.” I couldn’t explain it, but I obeyed. I turned to my friends, urging them to follow, but they only laughed, waving me off. So I walked out alone, the noise of the event fading behind me.
Minutes later, the sound of a gunshot pierced the night. Panic erupted. By the time the dust settled, someone lay dead in the exact spot I had been standing. I just stood there, my chest tight.
My time in YabaTech was tough. I was dead poor, with no money and no place to sleep. Survival felt like a daily negotiation. I went five months with no home, no place to sleep. The school grounds became my bedroom: cold benches, empty classrooms, any corner I could claim for the night.
On some nights, desperation pushed me to sneak into a female friend’s hostel, just to have a roof over my head until morning. My entire wardrobe was four outfits. I’d swap clothes with a friend to keep up appearances, to pretend life wasn’t swallowing me whole.
It was a hard, grinding time, but music kept me breathing through it all.
As word began to spread around campus that I was a musician, I started getting called to small shows, events that barely paid but kept me visible.
Then one night, a group of guys approached me. They wanted me to perform—not at a concert, not at a campus hangout, but at an orgy party, tucked away in a Didi Hotel in Lekki. It was wild, absurd, and completely unexpected, yet it cracked open the path that would change everything for me.
I swore I would make it there. I scraped and saved all week, collecting small change from doing my classmates’ assignments, tucking away every naira to get to where I’d need to perform. By the weekend, I had just enough, and with a friend by my side, I headed for the event.
The club was thick with heat and noise when we arrived. Music throbbed through the speakers, men spraying cash like confetti, women dancing, hips rolling in the neon haze. I waited, clutching my chance, but they kept pushing me aside. “Later,” they said. Always later. Hours passed. By the time they finally called my name, the frenzy had died down. The crowd had thinned to maybe twenty people, their eyes glassy, their energy drained.
Still, I sang. I let the notes rise and fall, wringing every ounce of strength out of my voice, filling the hollow room as if hundreds of people were listening. I sang to the lights, to the smoke curling in the air, to the tired bodies slouched in their seats. And when the last note left my mouth, there was nothing. No clapping of hands. No showering of cash. Only silence; it was heavy and echoed. And I could almost feel the sharp sting of hope draining from me, like sand slipping through open fingers.
Outside the club, it was dark. Discouragement sat on my shoulders like a burden, and I wondered if the singing had been for nothing. Then, out of the blue, a small group of girls walked up to me. They clapped, smiling, their voices soft but certain: they’d heard me, and it mattered. That little spark lit something again.
Not long after, a guy strolled over. “Omo, I get one gig for una with Infinix. I want you guys to come do a freestyle jingle. Don’t worry, I’ll cover transport. I’ll even pay you something small,” he said to my friend and me.
It wasn’t much, but it was a door. And that night, it was the very first one that opened.
Then came another twist. The guy’s girlfriend pulled me aside, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. She said there were some men tucked away in the corner, throwing advances at women, and maybe if I sang for them, I could make a little money. I hesitated, nerves tying knots in my chest, but I went.
At first, my voice wavered, soft and unsure, but the music carried me. Soon, I was singing like I belonged there. One of the men, lounging with his friends, stopped mid-laughter. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest, and said, “This guy good oh. Come, let me see you. Let’s talk.”
We stepped aside, away from the noise, and he looked at me with a quiet seriousness. “My girlfriend just lost her sister,” he said. “I want you to sing for her, lift her spirit. You’ve got a voice that can do that.”
He took my phone number before I slipped back to my seat, and I kept singing, trying to hold on to the night. When I finally wrapped up, his manager appeared, phone in hand, saying he’d been asked to collect my account details. I typed it in, half in disbelief, half in hope.
That same evening, as if fate was lining things up, I met a girl who invited me to her birthday party. She sent me ₦5,000 afterwards. Small money, but it felt like something real. From there, it was back to my friend’s hostel for the night, pulling myself together to head for the freestyle jingle gig at Infinix.
The next day, we made it to the event, did our thing, then circled back again to my friend’s hostel to change.
When we got back, I dialled the man who had asked for my account details, the same one who wanted me to sing for his grieving girlfriend. He said he’d already sent the money. Heart racing, I rushed to the nearest ATM, punched in my card, and waited. Nothing. No alert. No balance change.
Confused, I called him back. “Sir, please, what name did you see when you made the transfer?” He paused, then replied, “Kabir Ali, or something like that.” My stomach sank. “No, sir. My name is Daniel,” I told him.
He didn’t argue. He just said, “No problem,” and within minutes, another transfer hit—this time, it was real. Then he added, “Come by tomorrow.”
One thing led to another, and soon I found myself standing before his grieving girlfriend, singing softly, trying to wrap my voice around her pain. Midway through, she picked up a call. I kept going, unaware of who was on the other end until she tilted the phone slightly — it was M.I. Abaga listening. He paused their conversation just to ask, “Who’s that singing?”
Through the phone, he asked for my number, said he’d reach out. In that moment, my voice had travelled farther than I ever imagined, carrying me into a future I hadn’t even dared to dream.
Two months slipped by, and the campus was already quiet with vacation. I had almost convinced myself M.I. had moved on, that his promise was one of those fleeting words people say in passing. Then, out of nowhere, my phone rang. It was my friend, a fellow student who doubled as my manager back then. Breathless, he said, “M.I.’s been trying to reach you.”
I froze. All that time, I thought I’d been forgotten; he had actually been making plans and setting things in motion. While I was doubting, he was preparing to meet me.
The moment I got the call, I left Epe, where I’d been squatting at a friend’s place for the holiday, and set out for the meeting spot. The journey felt endless, every bump in the road carrying the weight of what might come. By the time I arrived, my heart sank — M.I. was already at the door, about to leave.
But then our eyes met. He paused, looked me over, and asked, “You’re Loye, right?” I nodded, breath caught in my chest. He held the door open. “Come in. Let’s talk.”
We sat across from each other, the air charged with possibility, and the conversation began to flow. At one point, he leaned in and asked, “Tell me, who would you love to work with?” The names tumbled out of me: Don Jazzy, Olamide, and a handful of other giants who shaped the sound of the industry.
Without hesitation, he picked up his phone, reaching out to them one after the other. Calls were made, bridges tested. But the timing wasn’t right. None of them were ready to bring someone new on. Don Jazzy’s offer came closest. He said I could spend two years in the incubator, sharpening myself under artist development.
Two years. On the surface, it sounded like an opportunity, almost a blessing. But to me, it felt like a lifetime. I was too restless, too starved for something that could change my life now. Nights of curling up on hard benches, mornings waking in borrowed corners, days spent moving from one friend’s space to another, they had stripped me of patience.
Not long after, M.I. reached out again. Another meeting. Another chance.
When we finally sat down, he looked me in the eye and asked, “Where do you stay?” The question cut deeper than I expected. I told him the truth, that I didn’t really have a place of my own, that most nights I squatted at my manager’s house, drifting between borrowed spaces.
Out of nowhere, he did something I never expected. He got a hotel room for me and my friend and told us, “Stay here for two weeks. Use the time to find an apartment.”
That was how I stepped into my very first place: a two-bedroom flat that felt like a palace after years of drifting. Everything began to unfold like a dream, one door after another swinging open.
Soon after, I signed with Incredible Music, the label M.I. created after he met me. For the next two years, I lived in the cocoon of artist development, sharpening every edge of my craft. I recorded hundreds of songs, each one a small breakthrough, each one teaching me something about who I was becoming. I even cut an EP with Chopstixx, one of the biggest producers, which is not out yet.
One day, without thinking, I said, “Alhamdulillah.” It means “God is great.” I have come to believe that beyond every doubt, what happened to me was divine orchestration. I have not returned to church yet, but the experience made me return to God.
Every year, thousands of Nigerians apply for a chance to walk through those famous Big Brother Naija doors and into what could be the most chaotic, life-changing 90 days of their lives. Some come for the money. Some come for the fame. Most come with one big dream: to be seen — and maybe become unforgettable.
In this As Told To, I spoke to Ireti*, who went through the 2025 audition process, prepared for it, survived the sea of hopefuls, gave it everything and still didn’t make the cut. No camera time. No Diary Room. Just a silent rejection.
This is Ireti’s* story as told to Marv.
I have been watching the Big Brother Naija reality TV show since my university days in the “See Gobbe” season in 2017. It is a social experiment that fascinates me: unknown people from different backgrounds are put together and cut off from the world with absolutely zero idea of what’s happening. Some emerged from the house as celebrities. Nothing could have been more fascinating to me.
By the time I got to final year, I was already thinking of being a housemate.
I graduated from university at 19, and I thought if I made it to the show, I’d be the youngest housemate. But over time, the dream of being the youngest person in BBNaija vanished as more seasons happened and younger people joined. And I wasn’t getting any younger.
By the time I went for NYSC in 2018, I had become fully engrossed with the show. I talked about the show and my dream of being in it everywhere I went. But I didn’t want to just be on the show just for the sake of it. I wanted something to my name, a brand to promote on the show.
So, all my primary focus shifted to getting a job like other adults.
I got a job at a media company. This gave me proximity to the entertainment industry.
Working in entertainment brought me face-to-face with numerous Big Brother Naija stars. This experience reinforced my belief that I, too, could be a housemate.
In 2021, I began to audition for BBNaija. It was an online audition, and I had to send a video.
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I wanted to participate, meet different people, find myself, and most importantly, leave my comfort zone and see other things I can do and excel at. Also, Big Brother looked like easy and fast money. I wanted to build my own brand and fanbase quickly. So, why not give it a try?
The application process was the same in 2022. I sent a tape but didn’t hear back from them. In 2023, old housemates were invited back for a special edition, so auditions were not open to the public. In 2024, I took a break. This year, I auditioned again.
This time, the audition was different. I sent in my application a day before the portal closed, and I immediately received a feedback email that provided my screening date and location. But that was all—no additional detail. I refreshed my email throughout the day, but there was nothing. The following day, I moved on and faced my usual business.
When I checked my email in the afternoon, it was sitting in my inbox. Biggie had responded to me. He gave me instructions on how to log in and pick my preferred date and location. I logged in to do that, but my preferred location wasn’t available.
Over the years, I have tried my best to work on myself and improve professionally and financially. This time, I felt prepared and believed I had a real shot at getting into the Big Brother Naija show, but there was no location. I was pained and thought it was likely God’s way of saying it wasn’t time.
Then God said it was time. Some days later, I received another email instructing me to pick where I wanted to audition in Lagos. I was very excited because it was my first time making it to the call-ups stage. I chose a location and began to prepare for the big audition.
I spoke to close folks, including my best friend, about it. She encouraged me all the way. She hardly let me finish any sentence. She said yes, yes to everything I said. She lives in the U.S, and she’d move back in case I got in. She was ready to be my cheerleader, my manager, my handler, and all. She motivated me to apply. Another person I spoke to gave the same energy and even advised on the angles I want to take there and how I should present myself. I wanted to look vibrant, so I carefully picked a dress that fitted my intention.
A day before the audition, I told my parents about it. My dad was surprised and asked why. He asked if I knew who I was and even reminded me of how far I had come in my career, telling me that I didn’t need Big Brother Naija. He said it was beneath me. I was, like, “beneath me bawo? How?” The call with my dad ended. But he called me back after a few minutes, and he was calmer and asked why again. I guess he had spoken to someone and was compelled to hear me out. Eventually, he gave me his permission and blessings and asked about the details.
I had to work on the day of the audition, but I still went since I work remotely. It was one of those days when I had less work to do. I got to the audition venue on Lagos Island around 7 in the morning. About ten applicants were already seated, and more people came in over time. Following the rules set for us, I turned off my phone and smartwatch. Even people with glasses weren’t allowed in to avoid the secret recording of the event and the process. Disobeying that meant straight disqualification.
By 10, Multichoice workers were available and had started registration. I got my registration number and was ushered into a hall.
They divided us into groups that consisted of eight people each. Each group had one masked judge who asked me questions like: What’s my name, age, where I’m from, what I do, interesting things about me, and why I want to be in the Big Brother house. I told them I was looking for love. I answered everything. So did the other seven applicants in the room with me. In that process, we introduced ourselves, talked, made banters, sang and danced. Everyone basically showed character and charisma. The judge found my group interesting.
When it was time to decide who made it to the next stage, the judge said that anyone he pointed out wasn’t qualified to proceed. I made it to the next stage with three others—two babes and two guys.
Then, the next interview started. I was asked about a specific situation or time that I felt like, “God, if you rescue me from this, I’d never do it again.” I had to make sure that my story aligned with the character I was trying to sell. Then again, I heard, “Congratulations, you have moved to the next stage.” Two of us made it. They collected numbers and tags and sent me to another floor with the other candidate.
When I got there, there was another judge and a cameraman. The judge asked questions that were similar to my name and place of origin, with the addition of my family dynamics. It felt like a job interview, but I tried to stay composed and answered the questions to the best of my ability. After I said all I wanted to say, the judge told me, “Thank you for coming, and I hope you get to the next stage.”
When I exited the room, I saw many unhappy faces. They were gutted that they didn’t go so far in the audition. I, on the other hand, felt relieved because the judges saw something good enough in me to move me to the next stage. There, I thought even if I didn’t make it to the next round, that felt good enough for me. It was already noon when I turned my phone back on. My dad called to check in and ask how it went. He was happy and told me that whatever the outcome, I had his support.
In my head, I had started planning who would be my wardrobe manager, makeup artist, social media handler, and be this and that.
I waited for the follow-up email about rejection or making it to the next stage, but nothing came through. When the rollout for this season started, I knew they had picked their candidates already. I wasn’t devastated a bit. Not sad. Not happy. I just moved on with my life.
On the opening night of this season, I was very impressed by how good the selected candidates looked and thought that could have been me—people following my social media accounts and talking about me. I’m not sure if I’d match the energy that most of them give, though.
But if another opportunity to audition comes and I’m not married by then, I will take it. In fact, I’d tell the judges that I had been there before and tell them the stage I got to, just to convince them.
To me, Big Brother Naija is a platform to showcase myself in the best way possible. I have heard several stories of people from poor backgrounds, looking to stand out in their family and go on the show and become rich. That’s valid. But that’s not my story. For me, it’s not really about family sometimes. It’s about myself and what I want to do, because the show is about selling yourself and showing what you can do. Though I can’t speak for the judges regarding the specific things or qualities they are looking for, I tried to have the best fun at my audition. It didn’t matter to me whether it was the second or third stage that disqualified me. I’m just grateful I got to that stage.
Some wounds don’t just bruise, they brand you. For Majesty Lyn, that moment came not in the chaos of criticism, but from a man who should have believed in her. She had just come off stage, her heart still thumping with adrenaline and applause, when he said to her face that she would likely not make it in music.
In this As Told To, Majesty Lyn tells the story of that night and unpacks what it felt like to be dismissed before she even started, how the man came back into her life and hurt her again.
This is Majesty Lyn’s story as told to Marv.
I still remember the exact words. I had just come off a stage in Port Harcourt, buzzing from the adrenaline of a killer performance. I had rapped. I sang. I had done everything I knew how to do well, and the crowd loved it. A friend introduced me to someone in the crowd, someone they said could potentially be my manager. I thought, “Okay, maybe this is my moment.”
But the man looked me in the eye and said, “What you did on stage was fire. But I don’t think you’ll sell in Nigeria. Nigerians don’t listen to rap. And you’ll have to pick. Either sing or rap. You can’t do both.”
I was stunned. I remember thinking, “Wait, isn’t your current artist doing both, too?” I couldn’t tell if he was being dismissive because I was new, or because I was a woman. But either way, his words hit hard. At that moment, I masked my anger, smiled politely, and left the event earlier than I’d planned. My spirit had dropped. Before that moment, I’d been giddy with excitement. After that, I just wanted to get home.
That night, I did what I always do when I feel something deeply; I wrote music. I didn’t record the rap I wrote. I just left it in the book.. At the time, I was just a girl in 300 Level, studying Mass Communication in university, and going to rap battles, freestyling with instrumentals and turning my poems into bars.
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You see, I started with poetry. My dad had this giant Shakespeare anthology that I used to go to his library to read. I couldn’t even understand half of it at the time, but I loved how it sounded. I loved how words could bend and breathe. My notebooks in school were filled with verses and sketches instead of notes. That was how I knew writing was home for me.
Rap came later. My mom ran a business that doubled as a restaurant during the day and a bar in the evening, and I’d help out after school. The music we played was those old Naija mixtapes. They were my first taste of Hip-Hop and rap. Then I stumbled on an M.I. project. I can’t remember which, but it had that talk-your-shit energy, and my brain exploded. That was the first time I felt rap deeply.
I wrote my first song in my uncle’s studio. My younger brother, a producer, had made a beat, and I asked if I could lay something on it. That was my first moment in front of a mic, not just a performer now, but a recording artist. Around that time, I also made a song called “Two Tablespoons of Lemon.” It was never released.
Years later, after I’d put in more work, more hours, more freestyles and different kinds of songs and rocked different stages, I saw him again—the man who told me I’d never make it by rapping and singing. This time, I had just finished performing at a UBA-sponsored campus event. The crowd had gone wild. I came offstage, and there he was. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “I guess you proved me wrong.”
He apologised sincerely. We even ended up becoming friends and worked together briefly at a campus radio station. He helped with playlist placements and show curation for my music. But it was a complicated friendship. There are things I still can’t talk about because of an NDA that I signed. But I won’t lie, some wounds don’t just vanish. Sometimes I have to train my mind to pretend it doesn’t sting anymore. And hope that one day, it actually doesn’t.
I’ve grown. I’m no longer just the girl trying to prove something. These days, I’m focused, grounded. I know my sound as a hybrid of a singer and rapper better. I know who I am. I’m growing and making better music. I just dropped a single “Rover,” and my new EP, Situationship, is on the way. It’s a messy love story, but it’s honest and it’s me—a testament to my evolution as an artist and human being. He told me I couldn’t do both. So I did. And I’m not done.
I have learned to use the pain of being written off to do something useful. I have learned to use the hurt as a hook, turn it into fuel and use it to make the angry songs. This is what I am now because I know that one day, I’ll be too rooted in my power to care what has been said to me.
I’m not bitter about the situation anymore, but it may take a long time to forgive it. It’s just like when someone is in a toxic relationship. A lover says something hurtful to you and apologises so there’s peace, but you know what they had said is how they truly feel about you. Despite that, you take it to the chin because you love the person, but their hurtful words or acts cross your mind once in a while, and you still feel them.
I still remember that situation and statement and it hits hard every time. As long as that persists, it may be hard to let it go. I’m learning that forgiveness is a process, one that time might heal at the end. But there’s still that underlying feeling, and at this moment, I wouldn’t say that I have totally forgiven it when I have not forgotten about it.
At first, it was love, or at least it looked like it. Until it wasn’t. In the wild west of dating, while semi-famous, the expectations to foot bills can be endless.
In this As Told To, ShineTTW opens up about falling hard, loving honestly and how his interactions with famous celebrities led to his girlfriend demanding exorbitant money from him.
This is ShineTTW’s story as told to Marv.
I had just attended Lagos Fashion Week 2024 when a contact who worked at a fashion magazine in New York, US, reached out to ask if I would like to attend some of the New York Fashion Week shows. It would be my first fashion event outside Nigeria. I accepted the offer, even though I didn’t tell them I had to save up for it. It cost me a lot of money to be there, but I wanted to be at the show.
Then boom, my pictures started flying around on the internet as one of the Nigerian artists at New York Fashion Week. That was cool to see that, but also a bit strange. I wasn’t even pushing myself as a fashion-forward musician at that point. But I felt good to be in the spotlight.
People were paying attention even when I wasn’t performing.
That visibility came as both a blessing and a curse. The truth is, people especially women, never really meet the real me.. They meet “the artist,” the me that went to New York Fashion Week. The guy in the fashion photos, the interviews and music videos. They fall for the idea, not the reality. And in the event that love blossoms, that illusion is always in the mix.
I lived with the music producer Spellz in 2019, so I knew early in my career how illusions manifest and people begin to have expectations. In those days, I was always around whenever big artists, such as Wizkid and Runtown, came to record music. The benefits of being in the same space with them aren’t just learning from their creative process but also picking up lessons from their experiences, including relationships.
There is a babe I first met in 2021. She was beautiful, but nothing serious transpired between us. We just said hello and exchanged contacts. I reached out a few times after, tried to link up, but it never happened. She always said she was busy. I’ve learned that if someone wants to be with you, they will. So, I didn’t push it.
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In 2024, I was in the U.S, and I found out she was around too. That’s when we finally met up again. This time, it clicked. We went on dates, did grocery shopping together and hit the studio. It felt like a real relationship, like something was actually forming. In that one week I spent there, we saw each other constantly. I liked her. She liked me. But I still lived in Lagos, and she was in the US. We were both honest about not liking long-distance, but we decided to try.
You see, I’ve always thought I was terrible at dating. Not because I’m emotionally unavailable or anything, but because, for some reason, I’ve always been unlucky in love.. I’ve had three serious relationships, and none of them worked out. They all started out the same way: good vibes, connection and real spark. But they always ended the same way too: in disappointment and distance.
My single “Time” came out of that. It’s about those moments when something starts off feeling like magic but ends in a mess. “Time will determine if your love is real or vanity” came straight from that place of disillusionment.
When things start going weird in one of my relationships, I’d try to convince myself that maybe with time, it would get better. But it never does.
But with this babe, it felt good, even though my pessimism due to failed relationships was peaking. At the same time, I thought I could beat the odds. She came to Nigeria for Christmas shortly after, and we spent even more time together—weeks, actually. It felt real and consistent. But then came the unnecessary billing and demands.
As an artist, people often assume I’ve got money lying around, that I can sponsor their lifestyles and fix all their problems. She’d always make insane demands for things; if it’s not luxury bags and hair, it’s to sponsor dinners for her and her group of friends. The one that broke the camel’s back and has since stuck with me the most was when she asked that I pay her rent. It was ₦5 million. When I said I couldn’t, she said I didn’t love her and wasn’t willing to spend money on her. I tried to make her understand that I don’t have unbudgeted funds lying around, but she didn’t see my point. The entitlement became clear to me. It felt inconsiderate and l wasn’t comfortable with it. I realised that she had seen me at fashion week and the clothes, and assumed I was a bag of money. Suddenly, someone who wasn’t interested in me in 2021 was now interested. So I ended the relationship.
She tried to fix it, even after I said I was done. But I couldn’t do it. I’ve seen that play out too many times. Each time it happens, things repeat themselves. I had realised that with her, love is always transactional. It’s sad. It makes me wonder what people truly wanted from me: me, what they think I can give, or access to the famous people I am in proximity to.
At one point, every “I love you” sounded suspicious. So, I began to slowly, though painfully, detach myself from the drama and relationship. I’ve become quick to get myself away from things that don’t serve me. It makes me guarded.
Being an artist complicates everything, and it’s a weight I carry on my chest. That’s why now, I’m not looking for relationships. I’m not on the streets, I’m not in love. I’m just at peace. I just carry all of my feelings with me into the studio. And it’s crazy, some of these stories and memories show up in my music, even when I don’t intend to. Sometimes I write a line and don’t even know why I wrote it until later. That’s when I go, “Oh… this was about her.”
It’s a similar situation to “Time.” It’s why some people think it’s just a breakup song, but it’s a reflection and timestamp on a period of hurt and clarity. If love finds me again, cool. If it doesn’t, I’ve already made peace with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I’m better off on my own.
With stories about suffering first and finding success later, to how women should behave, Nollywood didn’t just entertain us growing up—it shaped us, whether we were conscious of it or not. But then real life happened, and we found out that we’ve been fed mostly half-cooked ideas and lies.
In an interview with Zikoko, Nneka* reflects on growing up believing what Nollywood told her was the experiences of women who chose to pursue corporate careers and how she started working and adulthood and life slowly peeled those layers of fiction away.
This is Nneka’s story as told to Marv
There’s a Nollywood movie whose name I can’t remember, but the storyline I will never forget. I watched as a child. In it, Patience Ozokwor played a terrible boss. She made everyone who worked for her scared. When I watched that movie, I remember not thinking how awful she was. But how awful all women in power were.
I grew up in a house that watched Nollywood movies in the days of video clubs. Many of them told similar stories about women.
In the 2012 film Mr. and Mrs, Thelma Okoduwa plays Linda, a woman who had a full-time job at a bank. Eventually, her husband begins to have an affair with the maid and the foundation of her marriage is threatened.
For a young, impressionable me, this is what happens when women don’t give their husbands time. The film told me that busy working-class women lost their families or their husbands to the housemaids who gave them food, and I wholly believed this. I felt bad for her. She had lost her most precious possession—her marriage.
Nollywood told me marriage was the holy grail for women, and I believed. Growing up, whenever adults asked what I wanted to be, I’d freeze a little, because deep down, I wanted to say something simple like “work in an office.” But I was scared. Saying I wanted a regular 9–5 felt almost shameful, like I was asking for too much. It was always “I want to own a business,” because there was always that fear of “You want to work? Who’ll take care of your husband? You’re too busy in the office. They’ll snatch your husband.”
I began to struggle with this idea as I approached my 14th birthday. It was around this time that I discovered Christiane Amanpour, the veteran British war correspondent on TV. She was in Kabul during the Iraq War. I sat with my father in the sitting room watching her report — father and daughter attentive.
I was so incredibly surprised that I turned around and asked my father, “Is that a woman in a place they’re fighting, shooting guns and bombs going off? A woman can do this?” My father’s response was “Yes, indeed.”
I grew interested in foreign media and started reading novels by Sandra Brown and other authors with female protagonists doing strong things. It made me realise that, “Come oh, all these things Nollywood is telling me aren’t exactly true o.”
Consuming other forms of media outside Nollywood began to change my mindset. It showed me women doing big things, making me want to do big things, too. At some point, I decided I wanted to work in news media. I went to university and studied mass communication, where I learnt about the concept of “male gaze.”
Later, as a young cub in a newsroom, I was determined to prove that I belonged, that I deserved this job. I, too, began to spend hours upon hours longer at the office.
My mind began to flicker back to The Bank Manager, the 2005 movie, where Eucharia Anunobi played a bank manager who prioritised her job over her husband and young children. I will never forget the scene where, during a heated argument with her husband, Anunobi’s character retorted, “I will never resign my appointment with the bank.”
I remember siding with her husband at the time. Years later, in my newsroom, I began to see why she had to spend long hours at the bank. It dawned on me that women just have to do a lot and put in more work than men to prove that they’re capable and deserve things like promotions.
I also discovered that female bosses aren’t terrible. It’s not a gender thing; it’s a personality thing. I have had bad male and female bosses—more of the male, to be honest.
I will never forget what someone told me at the newsroom: “After all this your hard work now, one man will just bench you.” What this person meant was that I didn’t need to work as hard because I’d get married. I was just working so hard to get a promotion.
Now I try to make sure that nothing I do or say puts those ideas in anyone’s mind. I know how powerful those ideas can be. It could even be a joke, but it plants something in someone’s path and spirit. As a career woman in the media, I don’t play with rhetoric like that. I don’t even allow people to make jokes like that to me. It’s that serious.
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Studying mass communication at university and working in the media in Nigeria have indeed shown me that Nollywood was very wrong. In fact, not just wrong. It did a whole generation dirty. I see people believe those ideas; many still struggle with them in 2025.
Anybody who’s 35 to 40, who grew up watching Nollywood and reeducated themselves, would find out they have been fed a lot of wrong information about gender roles, not only at the workplace, but also at home.
Now, as a grown-up, I’ve realised that it isn’t true; some women are full-time housewives and they still lose their husbands.
Looking back at those older Nollywood movies, I realise that those men who made those films weren’t exposed. Most of those movies back then came from Aba, in the South-East, which is one of the global capitals of sexism. As much as they were making movies, most of them were really chauvinistic men who grew up with expectations about women.
These days, I catch myself scrolling through YouTube comments under Nollywood movies and laughing out loud. Some women would comment something like, “God will punish that man. This is exactly my story.” And I get it. It’s a movie, but I notice it’s personal and painful for a lot of people.
The chokehold Nollywood had on me growing up is losing now.
These days, I have been thinking about making my own Nollywood movies. I want to explore the panic around turning 30 and being unmarried. The movie will reflect the anxiety about being 30 and show how real it is for single women. It’ll also ask if the pressure to get married is as prominent as it used to be. These days, women are getting married in their 40s. I want people to know that marriage isn’t the ultimate for women.
Note:The name of this interview subject has been changed for confidential reasons.
