From A Producer To A Global Superstar-Chapter 431: Trouble ?

The hallway outside Michael’s office had already begun to empty when he stepped out, jacket folded over his arm, phone in hand, mind half on the next day and half on nothing at all. It was that quiet hour where work didn’t feel like work anymore, just movement out of routine. A few staff members passed him with quick nods, elevators opening and closing with soft chimes, the building settling into its night rhythm.

He was almost at the lift when something tugged at the back of his mind.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Just... unfinished.

He slowed, fingers tightening slightly around his phone. The idea didn’t come fully formed at once. It rarely did with him. It came in pieces, fragments connecting faster than most people could track. Nigeria. Silence. Dayo leaving. Public perception. Timing.

He stopped completely.

Then turned.

By the time he was walking back toward his office, the idea had already shaped itself into something usable.

Clara was still inside, laptop open, glasses slightly lowered on her nose as she reviewed something on screen. She looked up the moment he walked back in, surprise flickering across her face for just a second before she straightened.

"I thought you’d left for the night."

"I was about to," Michael said, dropping his jacket back on the chair. "Then I realized we’re leaving something on the table."

Clara closed her laptop halfway. "What kind of something?"

Michael didn’t answer immediately. He walked to the window instead, looking out over the city lights. Calm. Measured. Already ten steps ahead in his head.

"He left Nigeria quietly," he said after a moment not expecting an answer more like speaking his thoughts

Clara nodded.

"He made no statement. No explanation. No controlled exit."

Another nod. "That’s correct."

Michael turned slightly, just enough to look at her with his eyes not focused on her but somewhere else he had the expression on tryingo figure something out. "That kind of silence... doesn’t stay empty for long."

Clara’s expression shifted, understanding starting to form. "You want to fill it."

"It’s already been filled I want us to guide it," he corrected, voice even. "There’s a difference."

She leaned back in her chair, thinking. "What angle?"

Michael didn’t hesitate this time.

"That he used Nigeria."

Clara’s eyes sharpened she came to a realization to what he is planning.

"That he went there to build momentum, gain attention, attach himself to the culture, and left once it served its purpose," he continued. "No commitment. No follow-through."

She let out a quiet breath through her nose. "That will catch."

"It’s believable," Michael said simply. "That’s all it needs to be."

Clara tapped her pen lightly against the desk. "We’ll need layers. Not just one article. Multiple voices. Blogs, opinion pieces, maybe a few ’insider’ takes."

"Exactly."

"And the U.S. side?"

"That’s where we push harder."

Clara raised a brow. "Because that’s his base."

"Because that’s where doubt hurts him more," Michael replied.

She nodded slowly now, already shifting into execution mode. "We can bring up the gap in English releases. That’s been floating around already."

"Use it."

"Frame it like he lost direction, then tried to compensate by moving into other markets."

Michael gave a small, approving tilt of his head.

Clara continued, thinking out loud now. "Korea becomes ’diversion.’ Nigeria becomes ’hype move.’ We question consistency. Commitment. Creative stability."

"And expectation," Michael added. "Make it clear people were waiting for something... and didn’t get it."

Clara’s fingers were already moving across her laptop. "I’ll get PR on it immediately. We’ll spread it across entertainment blogs first, then let larger outlets pick it up organically."

"Don’t rush it too hard," Michael said. "Let it feel natural."

"Understood."

He watched her for a second longer, then reached for his jacket again.

"And Clara."

She looked up.

"No direct links."

She gave a small smile. "Of course."

He had learned his lessons from the past experiences with Dayo.

By the time Michael finally left the building, the first calls were already being made.

—

It didn’t take long.

The first article dropped quietly, almost easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention.

A mid-level entertainment blog, nothing too big, nothing too small. The kind that lived off speculation just as much as information.

The headline was simple.

"Did Dayo Use Nigeria For Momentum Before Leaving?"

At first, it read like curiosity.

Then like suggestion.

Then like something else entirely.

They brought up his sudden arrival. The attention. The collaboration that had dominated conversations. The way everything seemed to peak quickly.

Then they brought up his departure.

No farewell.

No announcement.

No clear direction.

From there, it spread.

Another blog picked it up, adding its own spin.

"Fans Question Dayo’s Intentions After Quiet Exit From Nigeria"

Then another.

"From Korea to Nigeria — Is Dayo Searching for Relevance?"

The tone began to shift.

Less questioning.

More concluding.

By the time larger platforms got involved, the narrative had already formed enough to feel real.

Longer articles started appearing, more structured, more confident.

They talked about how Dayo hadn’t released a major English project in years. How expectations had been building in the U.S. for a return that never came. How instead of delivering, he moved across regions, experimenting, expanding, but never fully committing.

They framed it carefully.

Not outright attack.

Just enough doubt.

They pointed at Korea. Then Nigeria. Then back to the gap in his original market.

"Is this evolution," one article asked, "or avoidance?"

On social media, it caught fire.

Not all at once.

But steadily.

Comments started stacking under posts.

Some agreeing.

Some pushing back.

"He’s just moving global, what’s wrong with that?"

"Moving global doesn’t mean abandoning your base."

"You people always find something to complain about."

"So why didn’t he say anything before leaving?"

That question repeated.

Over and over.

Why didn’t he say anything?

Hashtags followed, some familiar, some new.

#DayoInNigeria

#WhyDayoLeft

#DayoComeBack

#DayoUsedNigeria

The divide was clear.

On one side, critics building on the narrative, adding their own frustration, their own interpretation.

On the other, fans.

Loud.

Unapologetic.

Relentless.

"You people are funny. He doesn’t owe anybody anything."

"Go and rest. When he drops you will still stream."

"You said he should go global, now he’s global you’re crying."

They didn’t just defend him.

They attacked back.

Accounts that pushed the narrative too hard found themselves flooded within minutes.

Replies stacking faster than posts could be made.

Old clips resurfacing.

Receipts being dropped.

Arguments turning messy.

But even with that...

There was still no response from Dayo.

No tweet.

No statement.

Nothing.

And that silence kept the conversation alive.

—

Miles away, in a completely different world, none of it touched him.

The water closed over Dayo’s head with a familiar weight, muting everything into a steady, controlled rhythm. His body moved through it without hesitation, each stroke clean, precise, practiced.

Breath in.

Turn.

Push.

The world outside didn’t exist in here.

Only timing.

Only movement.

Only the quiet pressure of water and the steady burn building through his muscles.

He hit the wall, flipped, and pushed off again, faster this time. The pace wasn’t casual. It hadn’t been since he arrived.

There was a difference between training and preparing.

He was past training.

By the time he finally surfaced at the end of the lap, water sliding down his face as he pushed his goggles up, he caught movement at the edge of the pool.

Jeffrey.

Leaning slightly against the railing, arms folded, that familiar look already on his face.

Dayo let out a short breath. "You’ve been standing there long?"

"Long enough to confirm something," Jeffrey said.

Dayo reached for the towel, dragging it across his face. "What?"

"That you’re still not as fast as me."

Dayo paused, then looked at him slowly.

"Say that again."

Jeffrey shrugged, completely unfazed. "You heard me."

Dayo let out a small laugh splashing him water only for him to move back, shaking his head as he stepped out of the pool. "You’ve been training one event just recently and now you’re talking like this."

"Focused training," Jeffrey corrected. "You should try it."

"Focused?" Dayo scoffed lightly. "You mean hiding in 200 because you know you can’t handle the rest."

Jeffrey pushed off the railing, stepping closer. "At least I win in my lane."

Dayo turned fully now, towel hanging over his shoulders. "Three gold medals in the Olympics."

Jeffrey didn’t even blink. "Different events."

"Still gold in the Olympics."

Jeffrey smirked i had less time training and and won a Silver recently."

Dayo pointed at him. "Exactly. Silver."

"Which means I showed up," Jeffrey shot back. "Can’t say the same for you in my race."

Dayo laughed properly this time, shaking his head. "You’re actually serious."

"I’m always serious."

They held each other’s gaze for a second longer before the tension broke naturally.

A shared laugh.

Easy.

Familiar.

"You’re talking too much," Dayo said, grabbing his bag. "Let’s go."

Jeffrey followed, still smiling slightly. "We’ll see who’s talking after the competition."

"Just don’t disappear when it’s time," Dayo replied.

"Don’t worry. I’ll be right there."

—

The drive home was filled with the same back-and-forth, neither of them letting the argument drop completely, each adding small jabs just to keep it alive.

By the time they stepped into the house, the energy carried in with them.

Abisola looked up first from where she sat, a knowing smile already forming. "I can hear you two from outside."

"It’s him," Jeffrey said immediately. "He started it."

Dayo dropped his bag. "That’s a lie."

Jason looked over from his seat, amusement clear. "What’s the issue now?"

"He thinks he can beat me," Jeffrey said.

Jason raised a brow. "In what?"

"Anything," Jeffrey answered.

Dayo stepped closer. "He means one race he’s been practicing since forever."

Janet looked between them, already entertained. "So what happens if he wins?"

Dayo didn’t miss a beat. "He won’t."

Jeffrey pointed at him. "You see? This is what I’m saying."

Abisola shook her head, smiling. "You two have not changed."

Dinner turned into a continuation of the same argument, layered with laughter, small interruptions, and the kind of ease that didn’t need effort.

For a while, everything else stayed outside.

No noise.

No headlines.

No narrative.

Just family.

Just presence.

Then, somewhere in the middle of it, Dayo’s phone buzzed against the table.

He glanced down.

Sharon.

The screen lit quietly between them.