11/12/2025
WITHOUT MERCY
THE MAN WHO TRIED TO BUY THE RAIN
Story by Emmanuel Samson
KingArmani
CHAPTER FIVE
The Betrayal
Friday came faster than Silas was ready for.
He spent the week preparing, practicing "Gravity" until his fingers hurt and his voice grew hoarse. Mercy helped him arrange the song for solo performance, stripping away her harmonies, restructuring the verses so they'd work with just his voice and his guitar.
"You need to own it," she told him during a rehearsal. "Right now you're singing it like you're borrowing it. It's your song too, Silas. Own it."
She was right, as usual. He'd been so used to supporting her voice that he'd forgotten how to lead. He worked on it, pushing his voice forward, letting the emotion come through even when it felt vulnerable, even when it felt like too much.
By Friday afternoon, he was as ready as he was going to be.
"I wish I could be there," Mercy said as he packed his guitar. She had an evening shift at the teaching hospital where she was doing her clinical rotations. "Take a video for me?"
"I will."
"And Silas?" She kissed him. "Don't be nervous. They're going to love you."
He arrived at Canaan Club two hours early, as Six had requested. The club was already busy with setup—sound guys running cables, bartenders stocking shelves, security checking IDs at the door even though it wouldn't open for another hour.
Six was in his office, a cramped room behind the stage that smelled of cigarette smoke and ambition. He waved Silas in, gestured to a chair.
"You ready?"
"I think so."
"You think so, or you know so?"
"I know so."
"Better." Six leaned back in his chair. "Let me tell you how this works. You'll go on at nine, right after the DJ's first set. You'll play for thirty minutes—four, maybe five songs. The crowd will be warmed up but not drunk yet, so they'll actually listen. This is your chance to make an impression."
"Four or five songs. I only have one original."
"Then cover the rest. Play what you know. Play what makes you feel something." Six pulled out a small bottle of wh***ey from his desk drawer, poured two shots. "Drink this. It'll calm your nerves."
Silas wasn't much of a drinker, but he took the shot, felt the burn slide down his throat. Six drank his own, then poured another.
"You know what the most important thing is for a performer?" Six asked.
"Talent?"
"Confidence. Talent helps, sure. But confidence is what makes people believe you. You walk on that stage like you own it, like you deserve to be there, and the audience will believe it too. You walk on nervous and apologetic, and they'll smell it like blood in the water."
Silas nodded, trying to absorb the advice.
"There's someone I want you to meet," Six continued. "My business partner. Manages the talent side of things while I run the venue."
As if summoned, a man entered the office. He was younger than Six—maybe late thirties—with sharp features and sharper clothes. Everything about him screamed calculated success, from his expensive watch to his perfectly maintained fade haircut.
"Silas, meet Tunde Adeyemi. Tunde, this is Silas Okafor, our new Friday resident."
They shook hands. Tunde's grip was firm, professional, the handshake of a man who'd learned to read people through physical touch.
"Six tells me you're talented," Tunde said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "Says you have a voice."
"I'm still learning."
"Modesty. I like that. It's rare in this business." Tunde pulled out a business card, handed it over. "I manage artists. Help them develop their careers, get them studio time, connections, opportunities. If tonight goes well, we should talk."
"I appreciate that."
"Don't thank me yet. I'm not doing this out of charity. If you're good, I can make money off you. If you're not good, I'll forget your name before you finish your set." Tunde smiled, but there was steel behind it. "That's how this business works. Everybody's looking for the next thing, and yesterday's next thing is tomorrow's has-been."
Six laughed. "Tunde, you're scaring the boy."
"Good. He should be scared. Comfortable artists are boring artists." Tunde stood. "Break a leg tonight, Silas. And if you're as good as Six thinks you are, we'll talk about your future."
After Tunde left, Six poured another shot. Silas declined this time—he needed to be clear-headed, not drunk.
"Don't mind Tunde," Six said. "He's intense, but he's good at what he does. He's broken more artists in the last five years than anyone else in Lagos. If he takes interest in you, it could change your life."
Change your life. The phrase echoed in Silas's head as he left the office and found a quiet corner backstage to tune his guitar and run through his songs one more time.
What did it mean to change your life? And what were you willing to give up for it?
At nine o'clock, the DJ finished his set with a Burna Boy track that had the crowd moving. The club was packed—maybe two hundred people, bodies pressed together, the heat and energy palpable even from backstage.
Six took the microphone. "Alright, alright Lagos! We have something special for you tonight. A new artist making his debut on our stage. Give it up for Silas!"
The applause was polite but restrained. They didn't know him yet. He was nobody to them.
Silas walked on stage, his guitar slung across his shoulder, and for a moment the lights blinded him. He couldn't see the crowd, could only feel their presence—a wall of judgment and expectation and curiosity.
He adjusted the microphone, sat on the stool they'd positioned for him, settled his guitar across his lap.
"Good evening," he said, and his voice sounded strange coming through the speakers, amplified and slightly distorted. "My name is Silas, and this is a song I wrote for someone I love."
He began to play "Gravity."
The opening chords were familiar, comforting. His fingers found their positions automatically. And then he started to sing.
"Gravity pulls me down,
But your love lifts me higher..."
At first, his voice was shaky, uncertain. He could hear the nervousness in it, the way it wavered on certain notes. But then something shifted. He stopped thinking about the crowd, about Six and Tunde watching from the back, about what this meant for his future.
He thought about Mercy instead. About the way she looked when she sang, about the light in her eyes when they made music together, about the trust she'd placed in him when she said I choose you.
And his voice steadied.
"Through the darkness, through the pain,
We found our way to light.
Hold my hand, don't let me go,
Together we take flight."
The crowd grew quieter. People stopped talking, stopped moving, turned their attention to the stage. Silas felt it—that moment when an audience shifts from passive observation to active listening. It was intoxicating.
He finished the song. The applause was immediate, enthusiastic. People cheered. Someone whistled.
Silas looked out at the crowd, and for the first time, he could see them—faces lit by the club's neon signs, eyes reflecting the stage lights, mouths open in appreciation.
They saw him. Really saw him.
And he liked it.
He played three more songs—covers of popular tracks that he'd arranged for acoustic guitar, singing with increasing confidence as the crowd's energy fed his own. By the time he played his final song, he felt like he was floating, like the stage was exactly where he belonged.
When he finished, the applause was thunderous.
Six was waiting for him as he came off stage, a huge grin on his face. "That was excellent! Better than I expected, if I'm being honest."
Tunde was there too, more measured in his response but clearly impressed. "You have something," he said. "Raw, needs development, but there's definitely something there."
Silas was still riding the high, his heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through his body. He'd done it. He'd performed, and people had responded.
"We should celebrate," Six said. "Come to the VIP section. Drinks on me."
The VIP section was roped off from the main floor, occupied by the club's regulars—people with money, people with status, people who didn't have to worry about police shakedowns for seven hundred naira. Bottles of expensive liquor sat on tables. Women in tight dresses laughed at jokes that probably weren't that funny.
This was another world, separate from the Yaba room and the Surulere church and the bridge where he and Mercy hid. This was the world he'd been watching from the outside his entire life.
And now he was inside it.
They drank. Six introduced him to people whose names he immediately forgot. Women flirted with him, touching his arm, complimenting his voice, asking if he was single. He told them he had a girlfriend, but they didn't seem to care.
Somewhere around his third drink, Tunde pulled him aside.
"I want to talk to you about that song," he said. "'Gravity.' It's good. Really good. Original material is hard to find."
"Thanks. I wrote it with my girlfriend."
"Even better. Collaboration shows maturity." Tunde's eyes were sharp, calculating. "How would you feel about recording it? Professionally, I mean. I have studio connections, engineers who could really bring it to life."
Silas's head was swimming—from the alcohol, from the performance high, from the sudden attention. "That would be amazing. Me and Mercy have been talking about recording it for months."
"Mercy. That's your girlfriend?"
"Yeah. She's the real talent. Her voice is incredible."
"I'm sure it is." Tunde sipped his drink. "But here's the thing. The music industry is complicated. If you're going to make it, you need to move fast, make decisions quickly. Opportunities don't wait."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I can get you studio time next week. We could record 'Gravity,' get it on streaming platforms, see if it has legs. But we'd need to move fast, and we'd need to be strategic about how we position it."
"Strategic how?"
"Well, for one thing, simpler is better. Solo artist, solo song. Duo acts are harder to market, especially when you're unknown. And if we're being honest, a male solo artist has better commercial prospects than a male-female duo in this market right now."
Silas felt something twist in his stomach. "You're saying record it without Mercy."
"I'm saying record it as your song. Give her a writing credit, obviously. She'll get royalties. But the artist credit, the face of it, that should be you."
"I don't know..."
"Look, Silas." Tunde leaned closer, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "You're talented. You have something real. But talent alone doesn't make it in this industry. You need strategy, you need timing, and you need to be willing to make hard choices. The question is: how badly do you want this?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.
How badly did he want it?
He thought about Reverend Paul's judgment. About being shaken down by police. About the Yaba room that never got any bigger no matter how hard he worked. About the look on Mercy's face when he couldn't afford to buy her the simple gold chain she'd admired in a market stall.
He thought about what it felt like on that stage, feeling hundreds of eyes on him, feeling important, feeling seen.
"I want it," he heard himself say.
"Good." Tunde smiled. "Then let's make it happen. Come by my office Monday morning. We'll draw up some papers, get you properly signed, and start building your career. This time next year, you could be playing sold-out shows. But you have to trust me, and you have to be willing to make the tough calls."
"What about Mercy?"
"What about her? She still gets credit as a songwriter. And when you make it big, you can help her career too. Bring her on as a backing vocalist, feature her on a track. But right now, you need to focus on establishing yourself as a brand. Solo. Clean. Marketable."
It made sense. It was logical. And yet something about it felt wrong, like he was betraying something fundamental.
But then again, wasn't he doing this for her? Wasn't the whole point to make enough money that he could give her the life she deserved?
"Okay," Silas said. "Let's do it."
Tunde shook his hand, sealing the deal. "You won't regret this. I'm going to make you a star."
They drank more. The night blurred. Somewhere around midnight, Silas realized he should call Mercy, tell her about the performance, about Tunde's offer. But his phone was dead, and besides, she was probably asleep after her shift.
He'd tell her tomorrow. He'd explain everything. She'd understand.
She had to understand.
Silas didn't make it home that night.
Six offered him the small room above the club—a crash pad they kept for artists who stayed late or drank too much. It had a narrow bed, a window that looked out over the street, and the persistent smell of old smoke.
He fell onto the bed fully clothed and slept dreamlessly, the kind of heavy, drugged sleep that comes from too much alcohol and too much excitement.
When he woke, the sun was already high, streaming through the window. His head pounded. His mouth tasted like something had died in it. His phone, when he finally found a charger, showed seven missed calls from Mercy and a string of increasingly worried texts.
How did it go?
Silas, call me when you see this
It's 1am, getting worried
Are you okay? I'm trying not to panic but please just text me
It's 3am. I can't sleep. Please be safe
Silas???
I'm going to your room. If you're not there I'm calling hospitals
Guilt hit him like a physical blow. He called her immediately.
She answered on the first ring. "Silas! Where are you? I've been terrified!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm at Canaan Club. My phone died and I—"
"You stayed at the club? All night?"
"I was celebrating. The performance went really well and we were drinking and—"
"And you couldn't find five minutes to let me know you were alive?"
The hurt in her voice was worse than anger would have been. She wasn't yelling. She was wounded.
"You're right. I should have found a way to contact you. I'm sorry."
Silence on the other end. He could picture her standing in their room, phone pressed to her ear, trying to decide whether to forgive him or stay angry.
"Tell me about the performance," she said finally, choosing to move forward rather than dwell.
"It was amazing, Mercy. They loved it. They loved 'Gravity.' People were actually listening, really listening."
"I knew they would." Some warmth crept back into her voice. "I wish I'd been there."
"Me too." And he meant it. The performance would have meant more with her there, watching from the crowd, sharing the moment. "But there's more. Tunde—he's the manager I told you about—he wants to record 'Gravity.' Professionally. In a real studio."
"Silas! That's incredible!"
"Yeah. He said he can get us studio time next week."
"Us?"
The question was innocent, but it made Silas's stomach clench.
"Actually, I need to talk to you about that. Can we meet? I'm coming home now."
"Okay." She paused. "Silas, is everything alright?"
"Everything's fine. I'll be there soon."
He hung up before she could ask more questions.
The danfo ride back to Yaba felt longer than usual. Silas sat in the back, wedged between an old woman carrying a basket of dried fish and a young man in a suit who was already sweating through his shirt despite the early hour. The conductor called out stops in a rhythm that had become white noise in Silas's life, background music to the anxiety building in his chest.
How was he going to explain this to Mercy?
He'd practiced different approaches in his head. He could lead with the practical angle—solo artists were more marketable, this was better for their financial future, she'd still get songwriting credit and royalties. He could emphasize that this was temporary, just to get his foot in the door, and once he was established, they could work together openly.
Or he could tell her the truth: that standing on that stage, being applauded, being wanted, had awakened something in him. Something hungry. Something that wasn't satisfied with singing under bridges and hiding in shadows. Something that wanted more, needed more, demanded more.
But how do you tell the woman you love that you're choosing ambition over the life you'd promised to build together?
When he reached their building, he took the stairs slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. The hallway smelled of cooking oil and disinfectant. Someone's radio played gospel music—a Sunday sermon, the preacher's voice rising and falling in practiced cadences.
He opened the door to their room.
Mercy was sitting on the mattress, her nursing textbooks spread around her, but she wasn't reading. She was just sitting there, waiting. When she saw him, her face lit up with relief and residual worry and something else—a wariness that hadn't been there before.
"You look terrible," she said, standing up.
"I feel terrible." He set down his guitar case, his bag. "Mercy, I—"
"Come here." She pulled him into a hug, and for a moment he let himself sink into it, into the familiar comfort of her arms, the smell of cocoa butter on her skin, the steadiness of her heartbeat.
"I was so scared," she whispered. "I thought something happened to you."
"Nothing happened. I just... I got caught up in the moment. It won't happen again."
She pulled back to look at him. "Tell me about it. Everything."
So he did. He told her about the performance, about the crowd's reaction, about the high of being on stage. He told her about Six and Tunde, about the VIP section, about the offer to record "Gravity."
Her eyes got brighter with each detail, her smile wider. This was their dream, after all. This was what they'd been working toward.
And then he told her the rest.
"Tunde thinks it would be better if I recorded it as a solo artist," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "Not because you're not talented—you're incredible, you know that—but because solo acts are easier to market, especially for someone unknown. You'd still get full songwriting credit and royalties. And once I'm established, we can work together. This is just about getting my foot in the door."
Mercy had gone very still. "Your foot in the door."
"Our foot in the door. This benefits both of us."
"How does erasing me from our song benefit me, Silas?"
"It's not erasing you. Your name will still be on it."
"My name." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "My name will be buried in the liner notes that no one reads while you stand on stage singing the song we wrote together, taking all the credit."
"That's not how it is."
"Then how is it? Explain it to me." She crossed her arms. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're taking our song—the song we created together, that's about us—and turning it into a solo career move."
"Mercy, please. You know how much I love you. You know I want to build a life with us. But your father was right—I can't do that as a struggling photographer. This is an opportunity. A real one."
"So this is about my father now? About proving something to him?"
"It's about proving something to myself!" The words came out louder than he'd intended. "Do you know what it's like to be thirty years old and have nothing? No family, no inheritance, no safety net? Do you know what it's like to look at your girlfriend and know that you can't give her anything, that you're asking her to struggle with you for the rest of her life?"
"I chose that struggle, Silas. I chose you."
"And I'm trying to make it so you don't have to struggle anymore!" He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated, exhausted, hungover. "This is one song, Mercy. One song that could change everything for us. Is that really too much to ask?"
She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was very soft. "You're not asking. You've already decided."
He wanted to deny it, but she was right. He had already decided. The moment Tunde made the offer, maybe even before that, standing on that stage feeling important for the first time in his life.
"The recording session is Monday," he said. "I'm sorry. But I'm doing this."
"Then do it." Mercy started gathering her textbooks, shoving them into her bag with sharp, angry movements. "Do your solo song. Build your solo career. I need to go."
"Where are you going?"
"Study group. At Joy's place. I'll be back late."
"Mercy, can we please talk about this?"
"What's there to talk about? You've made your decision." She swung her bag over her shoulder, headed for the door. Then she stopped, turned back. "That song is about us, Silas. About gravity and love and holding hands through darkness. But I guess that doesn't matter anymore."
"It still matters. You still matter."
"Do I?" She shook her head. "I'll see you later."
The door closed behind her with a soft click that felt louder than a slam.
Silas stood alone in the room, surrounded by the evidence of their life together—the camera equipment, the sheet music, the photo frame from Tarkwa Bay, the peach panties still hanging from the bedpost. Everything suddenly felt fragile, like it could all disappear if he made one wrong move.
But he'd already made the move, hadn't he?
He pulled out his phone, stared at Tunde's contact information. He could still back out. He could call Tunde right now and say he'd changed his mind, that the song had to stay as it was, a duet, a partnership.
But then what? Back to scraping by, back to police shakedowns, back to seeing disappointment in Reverend Paul's eyes?
No.
He'd made his choice. He'd live with it.
He texted Tunde: See you Monday morning. Let's make this happen.
The response came immediately: That's what I like to hear. You won't regret this.
Silas lay down on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. He could still smell Mercy's cocoa butter on the pillow. He could still hear her voice asking Do I still matter?
He closed his eyes.
Outside, Lagos continued its endless noise—generators, traffic, music, arguments, laughter. The city didn't care about his choices. It would keep moving whether he succeeded or failed, whether he kept Mercy or lost her, whether he became somebody or stayed nobody.
That was the thing about Lagos. It gave you opportunities with one hand and took away what mattered with the other. You just had to decide which hand you wanted to hold onto.
Silas had made his decision.
He just hoped it was the right one.
WITHOUT MERCY | Chapter 5
For those who survived their worst chapter and wrote themselves a better ending.
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