Lagos, Nigeria – 5:37 A.M.
The world outside was asleep, but his brain wasn't.
Wealth Emmanuel sat hunched over a beat-up sketchpad that had survived water stains, travel, and self-doubt. Pencils scattered around him like fallen weapons. His room was quiet, except for the humming fan slicing humid air and the gentle click of his stylus on his screen.
The design was nearly finished.
A fitted hat, deep navy with crimson detailing, inspired by the Negro Leagues, but with modern edge—an homage to the past and a rebellion against the now. The thread work spelled one word: GRANDEUR.
But it wasn't just a word. It was everything.
His thumb hovered over the "save" button.
He hesitated.
He always did.
Because saving something meant admitting it was real.
And once it was real, it could be ignored.
That hurt more than failure.
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The flickering bulb above him buzzed like it had secrets to tell. His room was small, but his mind wasn't. That contrast made it hard to breathe sometimes.
He whispered under his breath:
"I don't wanna just wear the world—I want to shape it."
Earlier that day…
School had been unbearable.
Business Communication class was packed and hot. The projector screen had glitched out halfway through the lecture. The lecturer still spoke for an hour straight about "professional workplace decorum."
"Your resume must reflect who you are on paper," she barked.
"First impressions matter."
Wealth had almost laughed out loud.
"On paper?"
What paper could capture this?
The dreams, the vision, the blueprint in his head?
No CV could explain that he'd been designing brands in his mind since he was twelve. No transcript could measure how much he loved color theory or typography. How he obsessed over chainstitch embroidery or watched YouTube interviews of artists at 2 A.M. like they were gospel.
He wanted to raise his hand and ask, "What if your resume isn't a PDF? What if it's a movement?"
But he didn't.
Instead, he sketched a quick logo in his notebook—a snarling hound with soulful eyes. Above it:
DAWGHOUND.
Below it:
Loyalty. Focus. Purpose.
A few classmates glanced at his paper.
"Guy, you dey draw dog for lecture?"
He ignored them.
They wouldn't get it.
Not yet.
Back in the present…
The sun hadn't risen, but his anxiety had.
He sat on his floor now, phone in hand, scrolling through Instagram.
Everyone seemed ahead.
Designers dropping collections.
Artists booking gallery spaces.
Friends flexing JJs and brunch dates.
He clicked over to his own profile: @richessemakesart
Posts: 147.
Followers: 612.
Clout? Unmeasurable.
But every post was real.
Every color chosen with care.
Every caption was a quiet scream: "Please see me."
He set the phone down.
"Maybe I'm not meant to be seen," he said aloud.
And the moment those words left his mouth, something twisted in his chest.
Because it wasn't true.
Because it couldn't be.
He got up, walked to the mirror. His reflection looked worn—bags under his eyes, hairline thinning at the edges, T-shirt stretched out. He rubbed his face.
"You're not insane," he told himself.
"You're just early."
He remembered something Tyler had said in an interview:
"If you don't believe your shit is the best, why should anyone else?"
Wealth repeated it like a prayer.
Then opened a new blank page on his sketchbook.
And started again.
Elsewhere in Lagos…
A creative director for a rising fashion label was scrolling through reels, looking for inspiration.
She stopped on one.
A rough animation of a snarling dog blinking in sync with jazz drums.
She replayed it twice.
The art was raw, but the energy? Unfiltered. Different.
She clicked the username:
@richessemakesart
And followed.
BACK IN THE ROOM…
His phone buzzed.
Notification: New Follower – @____studio
Wealth barely noticed. He was too deep in flow, working on the next page.
The hat now had a matching jacket.
Letterman style. Cropped.
Wool and satin.
On the back, stitched in bold white:
WE DON'T CHASE TRENDS. WE BUILD WORLDS.
He exhaled.
That was it.
That was him.
He looked around his room—cramped, hot, scattered. But tonight it didn't feel small.
It felt like a cocoon.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow he would wake up, put on his cleanest fit, and go outside like it was Paris Fashion Week, even if it was just Yaba Market.
Because dignity was his armor.
Because he was his first muse.
Because the world he wanted didn't exist yet—so he'd have to build it.