I watched him walk towards his car outside the restaurant, flashing the whitest smile to his adoring fans. “I love you,” he said, blowing kisses as his bodyguards cleared a path to the awaiting vehicle.
Omotayo Williams, the heartthrob of the music industry. From the outside looking in, it seems he has it all, the fame, the fortune, the influence, the women.
But people like me, who are “privileged” to see the real him, the Tayo behind closed doors, know that truly, all that glitters is not gold.
“Tayo, I just saw you at Zok.” I texted him.
“And you didn’t come to say hi? This is how it is now, Zoey?” He replied humorously.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your moment with your fans.” I sent back.
“Meet me at my house. Let’s chill for a moment.”
Twenty minutes later, I was pulling up at his apartment complex in Victoria Island.
“You’re smoking already? You just got home.” I said the second I stepped inside.
“I have to keep the demons at bay.” He said gesturing to the sofa.
“Talk to me,” I said settling in. “You’ve been indulging in many substances, which is unlike you. You keep talking about these demons quite often. Let me into the chaos, please.”
“I don’t want to trauma dump.” He said reclining on the sofa.” I feel like a failure and it’s hard to go through life every day with a clear head.”
“I believe it’s you I just saw at Zok navigating through a swarm of people. Not just regular people, fans who adore you, and scarily, idolize you.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Try me.”
“Yes, I have the fame, the money, and whatnot. But look at my peers. Some of them came after me but they are already selling out shows at Madison Square Garden. They sit with A-listers at the Grammys, they’re crushing it at Coachella, but here I am, stuck in Lagos.” He rubbed his face and continued.
“I want to own private jets, not just fly them. I want to import Ferraris and Rolls Royces into Lagos, I want to own houses globally. I want a house in Banana Island!” He exploded.
I let him sit with his thoughts before I spoke.
“Do you think you will ever achieve all of these?”
“I don’t know.” He muttered, staring at the floor.
“Tayo, I’ve known you for almost a decade. I knew you when you were living in Mushin, hustling to make ends meet. I knew you when you were a studio rat. Now? You sell out shows the minute your tickets drop, and don’t talk to me about it being in Nigeria. That is no small feat.
You live in Victoria Island, you gave your family a home in Lekki Phase 1. You left that restaurant in a Range Rover, we are talking multi-millions here.”
“Tayo look at me,” I said tilting his face towards mine. “You blew up three years ago. Three years. That is not a long time, yet look where you are today. You are unhappy because you are comparing yourself with other people. You are not them. The earlier you realize that everyone runs on different clocks, the better for you.
And stop being ungrateful. Do you know how many people want to be you? Have you seen the boys who use you as an inspiration and hope that one day, their stories will be like yours?
Contentment is what you lack. Alcohol, smoking and women won’t fix that. When you wake up each day, count your blessings no matter how small you think they are.
Just last week, you told me that you’re flying out to Los Angeles to record a verse with an American A-list artist. Why don’t you ponder on that and start to feel some form of gratitude? Your life doesn’t suck.
I finished, feeling a little enraged at how quick he was to dismiss all the successes he was blessed to achieve in a short time. But I also felt some form of understanding because we are wired to want more. Nobody wants to be stagnant.
Our close friend, Caleb who also lived in the slums and is still struggling to live a better life would kill to get a fraction of Tayo’s successes. Everybody with working eyes can see how lucky he got. Yet here is, being an Oliver Twist, always asking for more.
“I’m going to leave you with this, Comparison is the thief of joy. It’s time to clean up your act.”
As I walked out of his home, I thought to myself,
Will it ever be enough?
Can we ever truly say, I have done enough and I’m proud, without immediately chasing something else?
I don’t think so. But I don’t think that should bring us so much unhappiness as well.
Keep pushing, but be content.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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