In Lagos, the overpopulated city where generator sounds and danfo horns blended into the background noise of life, two voices were exceptional. Amarachi and Tomi were best friends ever since secondary school. They met at the school assembly when they both sang solos at the school end-of-year carol. Amarachi’s voice boomed and rumbled like the roar of the Atlantic Ocean, and Tomi’s voice flowed like silk on a Harmattan breeze.
From the time they first met, their harmonies cracked like jollof and fried plantain. They were renowned as “The Angels of Isolo” back home, performing at weddings, birthdays, and even church revivals. The people believed that they brought down the Holy Spirit with their duets.
Their relationship was robust, with latent tension occasionally percolating at the surface. Tomi was the more charming of the pair, but Amarachi’s voice always carried more authority. Her range, control, and expression could silence people. She knew it. She smiled, applauded, and even took pride in it, but bitterness had taken root.
When the prestigious Naija Vocal Star competition announced auditions in Lagos, Amarachi and Tomi signed up together, as usual. The prize? Five million naira, a music contract, and an all-expense-paid trip to South Africa for a continental tour.
“Let’s just have fun,” Amarachi said, braiding Tomi’s hair the night before their audition.
“Fun ke? We’re winning this,” Tomi replied, her eyes sparkling.
They lived through the auditions and made it into the top ten. Then the top five. Their friendship frayed. Rehearsals became chilly. Judges’ accolades were now grumblingly swapped like WAEC results.
“Amarachi, your voice gave me goosebumps,” one of the judges said during the semi-finals. “You can be Nigeria’s next vocal queen.”
Tomi grinned, clapped, and proceeded to cry in the bathroom.
By the final week, whispers began. Amarachi’s mic cut out unexpectedly during a rehearsal. Her costume was mysteriously misplaced minutes before a recording. She noticed. But she said nothing.
It wasn’t until she overheard Tomi talking with two other contestants, Sharon and Bisola, in a hidden corner backstage that the truth stabbed her.
“She always believes that she’s superior to us,” Tomi spoke in a hushed tone. “We must dull her light. Just a bit. If she cracks up singing during the finale, the judges won’t take a chance.”
Amarachi caught her breath. The girl whom she had shared rooms, meals, and dreams with was conspiring against her. She slipped out quietly, not calling them out on it. She had a choice to make.
The day of the finale arrived. The Eko Hotel was packed. Amarachi’s heart beat like bata drums in her chest. Cameras, lights, makeup—everything felt surreal.
Backstage, she saw Tomi smile at her like nothing was wrong.
“Let’s give them a show,” Tomi said.
“Sure. Let’s,” Amarachi replied.
Unknown to Tomi, Amarachi had secretly reported the incident to the producers the night before. Not in ill will—but because if she was going to be a winner, she wanted to be a winner with clean hands.
She climbed onto the stage, wearing a gold ankara dress that glimmered like sunlight on Third Mainland Bridge. Her song: Yoruba gospel ballad, “Gbo Temi.”
The audience fell silent as she sang.
Her voice soared, soft in some spots, fierce in others. She sang of betrayal, of power, of redemption—all in song.
Tomi waited in the wings, frozen.
Tomi performed next. She sang fine—her voice was strong, even poignant. But something was amiss. The judges clapped their hands, but not with the same enthusiasm.
After all performances, the host approached, envelope clutched in hand.
“And the winner of Naija Vocal Star 2025 is.”
Pause. Drumroll. The audience took their collective breath.
“Amarachi Ibe!”
The audience went wild.
Amarachi stepped out, her eyes scanning the audience, and then very briefly across the face of Tomi, who stood frozen.
Then the surprise.
The host went on, “Before we continue, we have to address a serious incident. Due to backstage indiscipline and attempts at sabotage by some contestants, two individuals have been disqualified and barred from future competition.”
Gasps.
“Tomi Williams and Sharon Atunde.”
Amarachi’s smile faded. She had not expected the disqualification to be announced. Tomi glared at her, tears welling up in her eyes. Shame, regret, and rage burnt on her face.
Weeks passed.
Amarachi’s face was on billboards everywhere in Lagos. She made her first EP. She was asked to sing at the Governor’s inauguration. But fame was a lonely business.
She thought about Tomi a great deal. She had not heard from him since then. She entered a studio one evening in Lekki, and there was a letter addressed to her.
“Amara,
I was wrong. Jealousy is a terrible thing. I let it get the best of me. You were always my sister. I hope someday, you will forgive me. Until then, keep singing.
Love, Tomi.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She tucked the letter into her bag, folded, and headed to the studio.
The red light flashed.
“Recording in 3.2.1.”
She sang.
This time, not for judges or glory—but for friendship, suffering, and healing.
Somewhere in Surulere, in a tiny lounge, Tomi sang harmonies for an upcoming artist. Her voice still had the capability to break hearts. She was not famous. But she was reclaiming.
She’d occasionally see Amarachi on TV. Her smile always tugged at her lip.
They hadn’t reunited. Not yet.
But someday, perhaps, their voices would soar together again—this time, though, not in competition, but in harmony.
