[STORY] Sometimes, fame feels like the loneliest place in the world

Two nights ago, I got a ride request from a quiet corner in Yaba.

The app showed “Mental Health Support Center” as the pickup location. That alone had me curious.

I texted to confirm:

Me: “Hi, I’m outside. Are you ready?”

The reply came instantly.

Rider: “Just please don’t cancel. I’ll explain when I get in.”

That was unusual.

A few seconds later, a young guy, probably mid-20s, hoodie pulled over his head, stepped into the backseat. His eyes looked puffy—like he’d either been crying or hadn’t slept for days.

Me: “Good evening, bro. Where to?”

Him: “Lekki Phase 1. Just… drive, please.”

I started the trip, but the silence was heavy, pressing against the car windows. After a few minutes, he sighed loudly.

Him: “Do you ever feel like your brain is working against you?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I’m just a driver, not a therapist. But something told me to listen.

Me: “Sometimes, yeah. Why do you ask?”

He chuckled bitterly.

Him: “Because mine’s been screaming at me for months. Anxiety, depression, therapy sessions that feel like homework. My therapist says healing isn’t linear, but damn, sometimes I think I’m stuck on repeat.”

The words hit me. I know the mental health conversation is everywhere—therapy, self-care, mindfulness, emotional healing—but hearing it raw like this, from a stranger in my backseat, felt different.

We hit Third Mainland Bridge, the Lagos night lights stretching across the water like tiny lanterns. He leaned forward suddenly.

Him: “You know the crazy part? My therapist asked me to practice gratitude journaling today. Said I should write three good things that happened. But I couldn’t even pick one. Not a single thing.”

I glanced at him through the rearview.

Me: “Bro, you got into this car. That’s one. You didn’t cancel your therapy appointment. That’s two. And you’re still breathing, talking to me. That’s three.”

He went quiet. Really quiet. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—like a genuine, belly-deep laugh.

Him: “Damn. Maybe therapy is working. Just not how I imagined.”

The ride continued with bursts of conversation. He told me about his panic attacks at work, the stigma his friends gave him for going to therapy (“Guy, na only oyinbo dey do that”), and how hard it was to explain depression in a culture where everyone says “Just pray it away.”

I didn’t judge. I just listened.

But here’s the plot twist.

As we reached Lekki, he asked me to stop near a tall white building. He pulled down his hoodie, finally showing his face fully. My eyes widened—I recognized him instantly.

He wasn’t just “some guy.”

He was a rising Afrobeats artist whose songs I’d played countless times on Spotify. His tracks were trending on TikTok, used in Gen Z dance challenges.

I was starstruck.

Me: “Wait… you’re Kaptain Kush?!”

He smirked.

Him: “Yeah. Don’t spread it. People think I’m living the dream. But sometimes, fame feels like the loneliest place in the world. Therapy’s the only thing keeping me from breaking apart.”

Before stepping out, he said:

Him: “Bro, thanks for listening. You just made journaling easier tonight. I’ll call this entry ‘The Bolt Driver Who Became My Therapist.’”

He shut the door, leaving me in stunned silence.

As I drove off, I muttered to myself:

“Even the people we think are the happiest are fighting battles we can’t see. Mental health is real. Therapy isn’t weakness—it’s survival.”