Real Stories: I dated a Nigerian celebrity, then I discovered his fake life

When I met Tobi, he was magnetic.

Charismatic, tall, always smelling like money, and with a smile that could sell out shows. When I first met him, I didn’t even know who he was. I thought he was just another fine boy at my friend’s birthday party in Lekki. 

We started talking, vibed effortlessly, and before long, he said, “You don’t know who I am?”

I didn’t. But Google did.

Tobi Blaze (not his real name). Up-and-coming Afrobeats artist. Blue check on Instagram, a few songs with decent streams, always hanging out with other celebs. I saw pictures of him with Davido, Burna, even Tiwa. I was impressed, but played it cool. He liked that. “You’re not like these other girls,” he told me.

We started dating soon after. Dates at expensive restaurants, road trips to Lagos resorts, and surprise gifts, designer bags and perfumes.

I couldn’t believe it. He’d say, “I like to spoil my queen.”

For a while, everything was perfect. He’d take me to events, industry parties, and everyone seemed to know and respect him. People called him “Blazey” and asked for pictures. I felt like I was in a movie.

But slowly, the cracks began to show.

It started with little things. He’d always say his “team” would sort the bill, but I noticed the POS machines kept “malfunctioning” until I used my own card. He borrowed my car more than I drove it, and once kept it for two weeks, claiming he was “shooting a video” on the mainland. I didn’t mind. I was blinded.

Then one day, I walked into a boutique in VI where we’d once shopped. The manager pulled me aside and said, “Madam, please, that guy you came with last time still owes us ₦280k. He said you’d pay.”

I was stunned. When I confronted Tobi, he laughed. “Babe, don’t mind them. They want to embarrass me because I didn’t sign an endorsement with them.”

Still, I ignored the red flags.

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Until the day I followed him unannounced to a “recording session” on the island. He’d been ignoring my calls all morning, so I took an Uber there. When I got to the location, I knocked, and a random guy opened.

“Tobi?” he said. “Ah, he dey inside the parlour, wait make I call am.”

The “studio” was just a room with a laptop and a mic taped to a hanger. Tobi came out, visibly startled. I looked around. There was no manager, no crew, no producer. Just two guys smoking and playing FIFA. The place stank of weed and noodles.

That’s when it hit me.

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He wasn’t rich. The designer bags were fake. His celebrity friends were just people he managed to take pictures with at events. The parties? Crashed. Even his followers were bought. I felt like I’d been dating a hologram.

I walked out, heartbroken but wiser.

It’s been six months. I see him online now and then, still flexing fake chains and Gucci slides. But I know the truth.

And sometimes, when I hear one of his songs on the radio, I just smile sadly. Behind the spotlight, some stars are just shadows.

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