The Midnight Pretender

I’ve not had a wink of sleep in over two days trying to perfect this track. It has to be the one… We’ll never get another opportunity to impress the big record label boss. I say “we” meaning my twin brother Nkem and I, he is still at the club right now, but he should be back soon.

My father used to say he was born lucky, and I was lucky to be born. It didn’t help that he came out clutching my mom’s IUD. The voices in my head keep echoing that, but I also reaffirm we make our own luck. Especially since there’s only one spot.

Nkem enters the studio holding a half emptied bottle of vodka, he slurs my track is better than yesterday’s. I’m almost tempted not to remind him about the big label boss, but he’s my brother. Nkem groans, “I will do something when I wake up,” his words barely audible, then slumps into darkness.

I stay up for a while, playing the track over and over again. There is still something missing, like a sunset with no clouds. I fiddle with the MIDI controller for hours until it hits me harder than my father’s Dunhill Paris; an additional adlib is what the track craves. I layer it in and listen to the final result for a while.

Nkem mutters some words along the track under his sleep, it seems he can hear my track beneath his haze of stupor, maybe he even loves it. As much as I’d hate to admit it, his approval really did mean a lot. I push back from the desk, yawning and stretching. there was nothing left to add. My dilated eyes take their toll, and I eventually fall asleep.

A sharp tap from my manager snaps me awake. The big record boss is here. She wasn’t what I expected, the Prada suit bows to her presence as she descends into my modest studio, an executive sovereign that borderline flew to the sun and back without acquiring so much as a tan. I was almost intimidated, but I knew I’d done my best. Any fear would be a betrayal of not just myself, but also all of the hard work I had put in.

We briefly exchange pleasantries, I recognize that’s my first mistake from the lack of rhythm in her drumming fingers. My manager’s eyes blazing with venom prompt me to play my track for her. She nods along, saying it would need a revision, and she wants to make it happen, but she needs to hear my brother’s song first.

My manager asks me to call Nkem, I go to fetch him, wondering why he didn’t make it a priority to come introduce himself. I would say my soul departed and my eyeballs shriveled when I found his room empty, but that would be a blatant fabrication. Of course, he’s wandered off. The problem now is resisting the soft whispers that say I should continue trying my best to find him while my manager stalls for time. Especially after I realize the track, whether he’s done recording it or not, is more important and also easier to find.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I find his track on the computer and play it. The minute big label boss whips off her glasses and asks my manager, “Bring me this artist.” I knew the deal was already signed for Nkem.

Nkem was now a world-famous superstar by the time I summoned enough courage to ask him how he did it, he shrugs and says “Your track came to me in a dream…it was inspiring.”