I’m dating an upcoming artist so you don’t have to

"Baby, When I Blow..." & Other Lies I Believe

If you’ve ever been tempted to date an upcoming artist, this is your sign from God, Sango, and your village ancestors to not try it at home. Or abroad. Or anywhere. Because what I’ve seen with my two eyes, even CCTV cannot withstand.

It’s 7PM. My bones are weak. My spirit is floating. My uniform smells like regret and Dettol. I’m a psychiatric nurse not the cute ones you see in movies with a clipboard , iPad and a stethoscope. No, darling. I deal with the real trenches here in Yaba 😭

My job includes dodging flying TV remotes, talking people down from imaginary balconies, and whispering sweet nothings to men who think they’re Jesus reincarnated.

Today was spiritual warfare.

It started with a 56-year-old ex-soldier whose brain clocked out after his last “tour”. One minute, he was calm. The next, he bit my colleague’s ear like it was chinchin and smashed a plate on her head like he was doing a WrestleMania mashup of Triple H and Randy Orton. As we tried to sedate him, another patient climbed a doctor’s back screaming, “Open the door!”

Which door, please? The one leading to heaven?

Before we could blink, another woman accused her roommate of stealing her baby. The baby does not exist. It’s the air. They fought with teeth. I had to separate them like a secondary school principal. My wig shifted. My spirit almost left me.

I was just screaming 😭😭😭

Anyway, I got home. Finally. Ready to collapse like a poorly made puff-puff.

Instead, I opened the door and see Deji.

My boyfriend. My housemate. My national problem. An upcoming artist whose career is still downloading.

He didn’t notice I entered. No greeting. Just there, standing in front of the speaker, nodding like one of the patients I just left. Shirtless. Eyes closed. Vibrating on the same frequency as his vibe.

I peeked into the kitchen. No food. Not even one grain of rice. Apparently, he and his “producer” (a.k.a. food scavenger🙄) had eaten everything. Plates? Unwashed. Milo? Finished. My last pack of Indomie? Gone. They probably used it to tap inspiration.

Then he finally turns around. Bright-eyed. Grinning like he won Grammy in his dream.

"Ahan, my nurse! You're back. How was work?"

Before I can lie and say “fine,” he jumps up, taps my shoulder like he just signed a deal with Sony Music. "Babe, we don blow o!" At this point I'm even more irritated. I just smile.

“BABE, WE DON BLOW!!!”

I just stood there. Hungry. Exhausted. Irritated. The room spinning like one of his unmixed tracks.

He grabs my hand. “Come and hear this jam! Omo this one sweet die! It’s DEEZY BABY!” He does a little dance . I’m irritated x2 .

He hits play.

The beat starts… I hear one weird beat like a generator that’s about to die and lyrics that sound like someone writing from inside a dream. I need you to read this with the voice of someone who hasn’t eaten:

Ngbati ebi pami, garri turn my soulmate

Cold water and sugar, na that be our first date

No firewood, no gas, but vibes dey

I dey soak with style, like say na buffet

Even my pot don dey look me with side-eye

‘Na only soak you sabi?’ I say ‘Na wetin hunger supply’

I smiled. Because love is endurance. Because I didn’t want to be the villain in his story. Plus I was too tired to cry.

“Did the producer mix it?” I ask, hoping there’s a silver lining somewhere.

He laughs. “Mix? Babe, you don’t get it. Raw pain. Raw emotion. That’s what gives music depth.”

Deji doesn’t own a mic. Or a studio. He records voice notes on his phone while hitting his chest for percussion. He believes struggle is the studio. Hunger is the muse. And he’s the second coming of Fela with Wi-Fi.

But the songs? They sound like heartbreak, hernia, and heartbreak again. One time he called his sound “Afro-spiritual.”

I told him, “This one sounds like the spirit is still in captivity.”

And yet, every day, he sends them to me😭

Morning: “Babe, check this freestyle.”

Afternoon: “Tag Don Jazzy and Asake.”

Night: “Let’s go viral.”

Let’s go where, Deji? To prison?

Because if Don Jazzy hears that beat, he’ll ask NCC to ban audio messages. Asake will file a restraining order. Tunde Ednut will block me, relocate, and block me again.

And God forbid I don’t repost. He’ll start sulking like a toddler denied sweet. “So you don’t believe in me again?” Deji, I believe in you o . I believe you need to get a job. A real one. One that pays. One where they don’t use Maggi and vibes to produce and stolen Wi-Fi to chase Grammy nominations.

To make it worse, Deji has fans. Yes. His producer who is really just a broke boy that eats free food. And one guy on Twitter who says Deji’s music “touches his soul.” I suspect the soul is trying to escape.

One time, I sat Deji down. Gently. Soft voice. Nurse-to-patient approach.

“Maybe music can be a side hustle, babe? Just small hustle?”

He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’m not trying to make music. I’m trying to make history.”

Sir, make history with those beats? This is more like prehistoric trauma.

Now, I’m in a relationship where I can’t cry out loud. I’ll be going through heartbreak and hunger, and Deji will be there composing lyrics like,

“Even when she vex, her beauty still dey flex…” i’m not vexing, Deji. I’m starving. You used our last 5K to buy studio time that never existed.

At this point, I don’t know if I’m a girlfriend or a GoFundMe campaign. He owes me food. Sleep. Sanity. Clean plates and Milo !

And people will say, “Support his dreams.”

But what if the dream is a nightmare?

Still, I smile. I nod. I do backup dancer for his delusion. But every time he says “DEEZY BABY!” I hear my own future screaming “HELP ME!”

Because while Deji is chasing his dream…

I’m the one being haunted.

Deezyyy baby 🎵🎤

Omg faints 😭