When I encountered Tobi, he was captivating.
Magnetic, towering, exuding an air of wealth, and sporting a grin capable of selling out concerts. The first time we crossed paths, I had no idea who he was. To me, he seemed like nothing more than another attractive guy at my friend’s birthday celebration in Lekki.
We began chatting, hitting it off seamlessly, and soon enough, he asked, “Don’t you have any idea who I am?”
I didn’t. However, Google did.
Tobi Blaze (this isn’t his actual name) is an emerging star in the Afrobeat scene. His Instagram has a blue tick, and some of his tracks have garnered respectable views online. It’s common to spot him around town with various celebrities. Photos show him socializing with big names such as Davido, Burna Boy, and even Tiwa Savage. While this caught my attention, I kept composed. This pleased Tobi; “Unlike others,” he said, “you’re different.”
We began seeing each other shortly thereafter. Our outings included dinners at upscale eateries, drives to luxurious Lagos getaways, along with unexpected presents like high-end handbags and fragrances.
I was amazed when he would say, “I love to pamper my queen.”
For some time, everything was ideal. He would accompany me to various events, including industry gatherings, where everybody appeared to recognize and admire him. People referred to him as “Blazey” and requested photos with him. It felt like I was living in a film.
However, gradually, the flaws started to become apparent.
It began with small details. Every time we went out together, he would claim his “group” would cover the expenses, yet I observed that the point-of-sale devices frequently seemed to be “broken” unless I paid using my personal card instead. My vehicle ended up being loaned to him far more often than I got to use it; one instance even lasted for two whole weeks as he said he was “filming.” However, at first, these incidents did not bother me because I had been captivated.
Then one day, I walked into a boutique in VI where we’d once shopped. The manager pulled me aside and said, “Madam, please, that guy you came with last time still owes us ₦280k. He said you’d pay.”
I was stunned. When I confronted Tobi, he laughed. “Babe, don’t mind them. They want to embarrass me because I didn’t sign an endorsement with them.”
Still, I ignored the red flags.
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Up until the day when I unexpectedly trailed him to what he called a “recording session” on the island. That morning, despite numerous attempts, his phone remained unanswered, prompting me to hail an Uber instead. Upon reaching the spot, I gave a knock, only for some stranger to answer the door.
“Tobi?” he said. “Ah, he dey inside the parlour, wait make I call am.”
The “studio” was just a room with a laptop and a mic taped to a hanger. Tobi came out, visibly startled. I looked around. There was no manager, no crew, no producer. Just two guys smoking and playing FIFA. The place stank of weed and noodles.
It was at that moment that I realized.
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He didn’t have money. Those designer handbags were counterfeit. His famous acquaintances were merely individuals who had posed for photos with him at various occasions. As for the parties, he had crashed them. Even his social media following was purchased. It seemed as though I had been dating nothing more than a hologram.
I walked out, heartbroken but wiser.
It’s been six months. I see him online now and then, still flexing fake chains and Gucci slides. But I know the truth.
Occasionally, when one of his tunes plays on the radio, I find myself smiling wistfully. In the glow of the limelight, many celebrities remain mere silhouettes.
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