The sun dipped low, casting an amber glow over Yaba's busy streets. Tech startups, food vendors, and barbershops all hummed in a strange harmony. As Newton approached the studio, he could hear the muffled thump of bass before he even reached the building.
The place was barely marked — just a small black door tucked between a shawarma stand and a printing shop. Faded graffiti on the wall read: NO VOICE? NO VIBE? DON'T BOTHER.
Newton knocked twice. Then again.
The door opened to reveal Kemi, dressed in an oversized jersey and jeans, headphones draped around her neck like a crown.
"You're late," she said, frowning. "But you came. That's what matters."
She stepped aside to let him in.
Inside, the space was small but alive. Foam panels lined the walls, though most were falling off. A tangled mess of wires stretched across the floor. In one corner, a ring light flickered as a guy recorded a freestyle for Instagram. On the other side, a massive speaker roared with the sound of layered percussion.
A few heads turned as Newton walked in, mostly guys in slippers and tank tops, girls with braids and wild confidence. Everyone here was chasing something.
Kemi led him to the laptop, gestured to the MIDI controller.
Your set is in thirty minutes," she said. "You get ten minutes to catch attention or you're out.
Newton adjusted the knobs with shaky fingers. This your lineup... they don't play nice.
She leaned in, lowering her voice. "It's Lagos. Nobody plays nice.
He loaded his USB, clicked through folders Afrobeat, Amapiano, trap-fusion samples he'd cooked up at 3 a.m. in his cousin's flat. His heart thumped in sync with the beat. He was ready, but terrified.
---
Thirty-five minutes later, Newton stood behind the controller in a corner stage of LOUDHOUSE LIVE, an underground event space behind an abandoned printing press. The crowd pressed close, bodies sweating under flickering strobe lights. The DJ before him — a skinny guy named Snipez — just bombed with a poor remix of a Wizkid track. The energy was flat.
Kemi gave Newton a nod from the side of the stage. It was time.
He didn't say a word. Just pressed play.
The first beat dropped—low, gritty, percussive. Not too fast, not too slow. It gripped the crowd like a pulse. Heads began to bob. A few girls shouted, "Who dey run am?!"
He layered in a talking drum, then a distorted sax loop. It was his own sound—Afrobeat but industrial, almost spiritual. The crowd swelled forward. Then he cut the beat suddenly. Silence.
The room gasped.
And then—BOOM. He dropped the bass again, louder, dirtier.
The crowd erupted. People threw towels in the air, someone climbed on a speaker. A guy yelled, "This guy dey mad!"
Newton didn't smile. He was locked in. Focused. For ten straight minutes, Lagos listened to him.
---
After the set, Newton stepped outside, sweating, his hands still twitching.
A tall man in dark shades and gold chains approached him, flanked by two quiet guys who looked like they lifted weights and made problems disappear.
"You killed that," the man said. "Name's Stunna. I manage sound. Real sound. You got management?"
Newton hesitated. "Not yet."
"You got a name?"
"Newton."
"Nah. That's your government name. We'll find you something hotter. Come to my office in Lekki tomorrow. Noon. Don't be late."
He handed Newton a slick black business card that simply read:
STUNNA SOUNDZ
We don't chase stars. We create them.
As Stunna walked off, Kemi walked up beside Newton.
"You killed it," she said softly. "But be careful. Not everything shiny in Lagos is gold."
Newton looked at the card. His heart beat faster — not from fear, but from the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the door had opened.
But behind that door, he knew, anything could be waiting.