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Temiloluwa’s room in Lekki looked like a pastel hurricane had kissed it—open suitcases, scattered clothes, perfume bottles, wigs, chargers, lashes, everything spilling across the floor in colourful chaos. Soft, sugary music played from her speaker, the kind that made girls dance while acting like their lives were not in shambles.
“Temi, abeg hand me that silver corset,” Abimbola said as she stood in front of the mirror, trying on her fourth outfit of the evening. Her nails sparkled like someone dipped them straight into money.
Temiloluwa, sharp and beautiful in a way that felt intentional, tossed the corset at her. “You’ve tried that one, Bims. It’s not giving main character. It’s giving side chic that they will evict in week one.”
“Week one money is still money,” Abimbola replied, turning to admire her waist. “You know me, I don’t care for too much drama. I just want that five hundred million.”
Temi rolled her eyes playfully as she folded another dress into her suitcase. “Abimbola, they will not hand you the money at the gate.”
“Then I’ll collect it at the end,” she said proudly. “But Temi na, imagine us on that show together. Temi_1 and Bims_influencer. Two Lekki babes taking over national TV. Nigeria will choke.”
Temi laughed, shaking her head but secretly loving the image. “They will faint. The whole country is not ready.”
She turned to the mirror and applied lip gloss, her reflection glowing. Temiloluwa didn’t have to try to be fine; her beauty was structured, polished, almost architectural. Everything about her felt deliberate.
“You know the first day is introduction and confessionals,” Temi said. “We need killer outfits. First impression can make or break your entire brand.”
“Brand is for people who don’t love money,” Abimbola replied, throwing two more heels into her bag. “Me, I love money. Fame is secondary.”
“Please, shift,” Temi said, laughing. “You and money are married at this point.”
“Call it holy matrimony,” Abimbola said proudly.
They both burst into laughter. Their friendship had the easy rhythm of people who understood each other’s madness and had accepted it without complaint.
Temi checked her phone list. “Okay. Skincare, outfits, wigs, makeup, shoes, accessories, tripod, ring light…”
Abimbola groaned. “Temi, we’re not going there to shoot TikTok.”
“We’re going there to win,” Temi responded. “And every winner has good lighting.”
Abimbola shook her head. “I swear, you’re the real problem.”
“And you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
They zipped their suitcases at the same time. Tomorrow, they would step into chaos. But tonight, they were still Temi_1 and Bims_influencer, two ambitious Lekki girls with too much energy and not enough patience.
Far away in Ibadan, Shindara stood quietly in her small room, staring at her ring light with a mixture of hope and fear. Her follower count blinked back at her: 12,607. Compared to the Lagos girls who lived in long captions and soft life aesthetics, she was barely a whisper.
She tied her satin scarf and walked to her wardrobe. Nothing luxury. Nothing designer. Just neat, simple clothes she had worked hard to afford. She pulled out her best items: two pretty dresses, a few nice tops, one good pair of heels, and a wig she had straightened too many times.
Her heart raced.
She needed this show.
Not for drama.
Not for bragging rights.
Not to shade anyone.
She needed the exposure. She needed her name to finally mean something outside her small circle. She wanted fame not for vanity, but for opportunity.
She folded her favourite pink dress carefully, smoothing the fabric as if it were made of gold. Her heels were slightly worn, but she polished them until they shined.
Her phone buzzed with another influencer posting about the show. Shindara inhaled deeply.
“I can do this,” she whispered. “Maybe this is my chance.”
Her room was small, the light slightly dim, the fan humming with stubborn effort. But her dreams filled the space until it felt too small to hold them.
She packed slowly, each item placed with intention, like prayers disguised as clothing.
When she finished, she stood beside her bed, hands trembling lightly.
“Let them come,” she whispered. “Let them shine. I will shine too.”
The night stretched across Ibadan and Lagos, carrying the heartbeat of three different girls, three different dreams, all heading toward the same battlefield.
The auditions were coming, and every corner of Nigeria felt the shift.
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