From A Producer To A Global Superstar-Chapter 432: Jeff and Dayo

The phone buzzed against the table, low and steady, vibrating just enough to pull attention without breaking the rhythm of the room.

They were still laughing.

Jeffery had just said something about Dayo ducking a real race if it ever came down to pure endurance, and Janet had backed him up with that exaggerated seriousness she liked to use when she knew she was stirring trouble. Their mother shook her head, smiling into her plate, while their father leaned back like he had seen this exact argument a hundred times before and knew how it would end.

Dayo glanced at the screen.

Sharon.

He didn’t react immediately. Just a small pause, the kind that would pass for nothing if you weren’t watching closely. Then he picked up the phone and stood.

"I’ll take this," he said, easy, already stepping away.

No tension in his voice. No weight. Just a normal excuse.

"Don’t go and start planning strategy without me," Jeffery called after him.

Dayo smirked over his shoulder. "You need strategy first before you can plan anything, and besides, planning strategy for you is overkill."

That got a quick laugh out of the table, and he stepped out, closing the door behind him without making a thing out of it.

The hallway was quiet.

A different kind of quiet from inside. Cooler. Still. The sound of cutlery and voices softened into a low blur behind the door.

He answered.

"Yeah. What’s up?"

There was a brief pause on the other end, like Sharon was choosing how to say it.

"Have you gone online?"

"No," he said. "Just finished training. Came back with Jeff. What happened?"

Another small pause, then she let it out.

"The narrative has shifted."

He leaned slightly against the wall, not rushing her.

"Shifted how?"

"It’s not just Nigeria anymore," she said. "It’s in the U.S. now. Proper media push. Blogs, articles, opinion pieces. Not random posts. Structured and weirdly natural."

Dayo didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

"They’re saying you used Nigeria," she continued. "That you went there to build hype, take advantage of the moment, and left once you got the attention. They’re tying it to the fact that you haven’t released an English album in years. They’re asking why you went to Asia, then Nigeria, instead of focusing on your core market."

She exhaled slightly.

"Some of them are even framing it like you’re avoiding the U.S. audience because you can’t keep up creatively anymore."

Silence sat between them for a second.

Not heavy. Just there.

Dayo adjusted his grip on the phone, his gaze drifting down the hallway, unfocused.

It didn’t take long.

It never did.

"This isn’t random," he said, more to himself than to her.

"I know," Sharon replied quietly.

He didn’t say the name.

He didn’t need to.

The pattern was too clean. Too deliberate. Too coordinated.

Michael.

He let that settle in his mind, not as a surprise, but as confirmation.

Then he pushed it aside.

"So," Sharon said, "we need to decide how to handle it. It’s picking up fast."

Dayo’s expression didn’t change.

"Nothing."

She blinked on the other end. "Nothing?"

"Don’t respond," he said. "Don’t debunk. Don’t try to explain."

There was a small pause.

"Dayo—"

"Let it run," he continued, calm, steady. "The more they talk, the more attention it pulls. You start fighting it, you give it structure. You make it real."

"That’s already happening," she said, a little more firm now. "This isn’t just noise. People are picking sides, and it’s now in your core market."

"And they always do," he replied.

He shifted his weight slightly, still relaxed.

"This isn’t the first time my name has been dragged into something," he added. "And it won’t be the last. It never sticks. It never does."

"You can’t assume that every time," Sharon said. "This one is different. It’s coordinated. It’s being pushed from multiple angles. If it shapes perception now, it could affect how you step back into Nigeria later."

Dayo let out a quiet breath, not irritated, just thinking.

"It’s temporary," he said. "It always is."

"You’re very sure of that."

"I am."

There was no arrogance in it. No need to prove anything. Just certainty.

"Think about it," he continued. "Right now, they’re saying I left without a reason. They don’t have the full picture. Once the competition becomes public, that narrative weakens on its own. Once the music drops, it disappears completely."

Sharon didn’t respond immediately.

"You’re betting on time correcting it," she said eventually.

"I’m not betting," he replied. "I’m working."

That line sat there.

Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just clear.

"And in the meantime?" she asked.

"In the meantime, we stay focused on what actually matters."

There was a slight shift in his tone now. Subtle, but clear enough.

Conversation moving.

He wasn’t staying on the problem.

"How are the producers?" he asked.

Sharon let out a small breath, adjusting with him.

"They’ve settled in," she said. "They’re working with Wayne. It’s going well. Faster than I expected, actually."

"Good."

"They’re adapting quickly. One of them even joked that it feels like they’re cheating you. Said the money doesn’t match how smooth the process has been so far, and also the fact that they are learning while working, that it’s been a wonderful experience."

That pulled a faint smile from him.

"They’ll work for it," he said with a smile. "Give them time."

"They already are," she replied. "And Wayne is picking things up fast. The exchange is working both ways."

"Good."

Another short pause.

"And the timeline?" he asked.

"For the sessions?"

"No. Competition."

"Two weeks," she said. "You know that."

"Yeah," he nodded slightly, even though she couldn’t see him.

"Are you where you need to be?" she asked.

"Close enough."

"That doesn’t sound convincing."

"It doesn’t need to be," he replied lightly. "It just needs to be true."

She exhaled, half amused, half still concerned.

"You’re very calm about all this," she said.

"Because it’s not new," he answered, amused that she still felt fazed after all she had been through with him. "Different angle, same game."

"And you’re sure we shouldn’t step in at all?"

"For now, no," he said. "Let it build. Let it stretch. When it peaks, it collapses faster."

Sharon was quiet for a second, but knowing the kind of person Dayo is, she trusted his abilities.

Then, softer, "Alright."

"Keep monitoring it," he added. "But don’t interfere."

"I will."

"And Sharon—"

"Yeah?"

"Don’t let it distract you."

A small pause.

"I won’t," she said.

The line settled.

"Alright," he said. "We’ll talk later."

"Alright."

The call ended.

He stayed there for a moment after the screen went dark.

Not thinking too hard. Not running through scenarios. Just letting everything sit where it needed to sit.

His mind did a quick thinking about everything, to see if there was anything missing.

Then he pushed off the wall and headed back.

The moment he stepped in, the warmth hit him again.

Voices. Movement. Familiar energy.

Jeffery looked up immediately. "You disappear and come back like that, something is wrong."

"Your instincts are off," Dayo said, taking his seat again.

"What was it?"

"Nothing serious," he replied, reaching for his glass. "Work stuff."

His mother glanced at him briefly. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he said, easy. "Just noise."

She held his gaze for a second longer, like she was checking something deeper, then nodded.

"Good."

Jeffery leaned back, folding his arms. "You see? That’s what happens when you start doing too many things at once. One day it will catch up."

Dayo raised a brow. "Focus on your own lane first."

"My lane is clear," Jeffery shot back. "Two hundred meters. Simple and straight. No confusion, unlike you that’s competing for all sprint events."

"Stick to it then."

They held each other’s gaze for a second, then both cracked a smile.

The tension never built.

It never needed to.

The conversation shifted again, naturally, drifting into small things. Training schedules. Old stories. Janet cutting in with something random that made no sense but still managed to land.

Time moved.

Slow, easy.

Eventually, chairs shifted. Plates cleared. The energy softened.

One by one, people started heading off.

"Don’t stay up too late," their mother said as she passed him.

"I won’t."

Jeffery pointed at him on his way out. "We’re settling that argument soon."

"Prepare yourself," Dayo replied.

Jeffery laughed. "You wish."

The room emptied.

Later, the house settled into that quiet that only comes after a full day.

Dayo sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

He unlocked it.

The screen filled with it immediately.

Headlines.

Posts.

Clips.

Fragments of the same story, told in different ways.

He scrolled once.

Twice.

Didn’t stop to read anything fully.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t type.

After a few seconds, he locked the phone and dropped it beside him.

No tension in his shoulders.

No shift in his breathing.

Outside, somewhere in the distance, a car passed.

Inside, everything was still.

The world was loud.

But in that room, none of it reached him.