"Buy fortune Cookies for ₦200 only, and you would be glad you did." Read the cardboard sign taped to the mobile stand
It was the third time this week that Emeka had seen the fortune cookie vendor.
On his way to the studio, the vendor was always there, same spot, close to the new shiny coca-cola billboard by the Ojuelegba bridge. Same small stand with a glass shelf of neatly arranged golden-brown fortune cookies on top.
Emeka wasn't a snack loving person but these cookies really looked inviting. He hesitated, he was late for studio rehearsals already and he knew that his boss at the music label, would chew him out. But curiosity tugged at him as he wondered if those cookies really contained prophecies. Of course not, they are simply fallacies and old wives' fables. He made to walk past the stand but curiosity won.
He turned to the vendor, an elderly man with a head wrap on.
“Baba, please…are these ones real cookies or one of those ‘shine your eye’ scams we see around?”
The vendor chuckled without looking up. “ It’s real enough, the cookie doesn’t lie. Believe that your future is waiting inside.”
“Thats serious man, my future inside a cookie? Then I can believe anything." Emeka scoffed, handing over ₦200 to the old man nevertheless.
The vendor handed him one carefully wrapped fortune cookie, it was warm, like it had just been baked.
Emeka cracked it open.
Inside was a thin strip of paper, written in blue ink:
"Your voice will bring a nation to tears."
He blinked, reading it again. "What is this, a spoken word?" He mumbled, frowning.
The vendor smiled.
Later that same day, Emeka was in the studio when the producer, MagyJay, slammed his hands on the table, in excitement.
“Bro, this your new song? It’s different I tell you, very deep. What was your inspiration?”
Emeka shrugged. “Just vibes.”
He didn’t know how to explain it, but after he read the fortune, he stopped chasing the party sound and sang something raw, about the death of his mother, the fuel scarcity, the economic situation in the country and about the little boy in Aguda, who was brought down by a stray bullet the previous day. It was a melancholic beat.
That night, he posted the freestyle video.
By the morning, it had garnered over 500,000 views on TikTok.
By the following morning, CNN Africa reposted it.
“Ojuelegba's Voice of the People.”
The fame was swift.
By the end of that same month, Emeka had interviews lined up with Channels TV, BBC Pidgin, and even Trace Naija. Everyone wanted to hear the music that brought goosebumps to the hearer and “the boy with the voice that made Nigerians cry.”
It shocked Emeka as his mind kept drifting back to that fortune cookie. Could an ordinary cookie have produced such amazing effects?
One afternoon, he returned to the same spot under the Ojuelegba bridge.
The vendor was there, as always.
"The old man greeted him with a smile."
"Congratulations!"
Emeka swallowed. “You knew?”
“The news is everywhere. Do you want another?”
Emeka hesitated. “Wetin dey inside this your biscuit, ehn? Jazz?” ("What stuff is your biscuit made off? Juju?")
“No jazz,” the man said, chuckling. “Just fate.
Still, Emeka paid another ₦200.
Crack.
"Beware of the echo that follows your fame. Friends are clapping but envious of you."
Emeka’s stomach tightened, this wasn't good at all.
A month later, while Emeka was still basking in the euphoria of his success, a fake photoshopped video started circulating online; Of Emeka allegedly slapping a beggar who asked him for money.
He denied it ever happened but the damage had been done. Brands dropped him like hot potato. Sponsors paused while Twitter exploded with the caption;
This trended. His detractors had won.
He stayed indoors for days, curtains drawn, dejected and confused.
It was MagyJay who came to see him one evening.
“Guy, you have to do something, you must speak up. Let people know the truth.”
“You think I didn't try?” Emeka snapped. “But no one wants to hear the truth again. They prefer the lies and the scandal.”
He stared at the fortune paper again, now crumpled.
"Beware of the echo that follows your fame. Friends are clapping but envious of you."
"I don't even know who's on my side anymore." He whispered, covering his face with his hands.
That evening, he traced his steps back to Ojuelegba, back to the cookie vendor.
“They cancelled everything.” Emeka said bitterly. “Even my own people. Just like that.”
The vendor looked up at him. “Then use your voice again, this time, not to sing but to speak.”
Emeka raised an eyebrow. “Speak? To who? Where?”
“Let that same voice which brought them to tears, now bring them clarity."
Then the old man handed him a third cookie but this time he didn't ask for money.
Crack.
"Sometimes, your destiny needs your boldness."
That same night, with the help of MagyJay, Emeka booked a live Instagram session.
He didn't attempt to defend himself, no. But instead, he told his life story, his struggles and the poverty. He spoke about the pressure to stay silent when the world wanted some noise, and the danger of chasing clout and false narratives, just to bring someone down.
In between tears and sobs, he recited spoken word poetry, sharing the words of the beggar he had actually helped, but who had now gone missing.
The next morning, the same pages that dragged him down, absolved him of all blame and now lifted him, singing his praises.
Months passed, fame returned, this time, bigger, deeper. Emeka started a foundation for street kids who wanted to sing, in memorial of the missing beggar. He was invited to perform at the African Union summit.
But he never forgot the vendor.
One quiet evening, he returned to Ojuelegba.
The table was gone.
So was the vendor.
All images are AI generated.
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