Hustle HQ - by Emilia's Pen

Part 1: Welcome to the Grind The first Monday of the month, the glass doors of Hustle HQ swung open and five dreamers walked into the co-working space that promised to turn small hustles into big empires. Teni came first, phone already in selfie mode. She narrated every step of her entrance to the few hundred people watching her live stream.“CEO moves only! Hustle HQ, the Silicon Valley of Africa, where millionaires are made. We dey here to secure the bag!” she declared—just before tripping on a chair and almost falling. In the far corner sat Chuka, already surrounded by three laptops, muttering about candlesticks and bull runs. He wore a faded BUY BITCOIN T-shirt and looked up just long enough to say, “Another bull market is coming. Who wan invest in HustleCoin before it’s too late?” Teni wrinkled her nose. “Abeg, move your wires. I need this angle for my ring light.” Not long after, Zainab arrived, balancing two plastic bags of jollof rice. “New vlog dropping tonight, guys,” she whispered into her phone. “I’ll be teaching you my secret recipe for smoky jollof.” She didn’t notice Teni watching her with raised brows.“But… you just bought that from Mama Chinyere’s canteen,” Teni said.Zainab coughed nervously. “Content is content.” The fourth person barged in with headphones on, eyes glued to a crashing chart. Femi cursed under his breath. “No no no—GBP/USD don crash again?! Baba God, why me?” Then he spotted the others and quickly smoothed his shirt. “Good morning o. If you’re smart, you’ll let me double your money before close of market today.” Last through the door was Amaka, dragging a sewing machine that nearly toppled over the receptionist’s desk. “Sorry I’m late!” she puffed. “NEPA took light at home. Please, who’s sitting near a socket?” And just like that, fate—or maybe Mr. Bello the building manager—placed them all at the same table. A few minutes later, Bello clapped his hands at the centre of the room. His voice carried with the kind of cheer that made people suspicious. “Attention, Hustlers! Our annual pitch competition is here. One million naira seed money for the best idea. But there’s a twist—you must form a team. Seven days only.” The five stared at each other. “Obviously, I should be CEO,” Teni said immediately. “I have ten thousand followers.”“Forget followers,” Chuka interrupted. “We’ll launch HustleCoin. Guaranteed returns.”“Food delivery,” Zainab countered. “Simple and fast.”“Forex school!” Femi slammed the table. “That’s where real money is.”“Please,” Amaka waved her hand. “Let’s do fashion tech. Imagine Uber but for tailors.” Within minutes, the table turned into a marketplace of insults and ideas. Chuka shoved HustleCoin flyers into everyone’s hands. Teni demanded silence so she could record content. Femi shouted at his frozen WiFi, accusing Amaka of bringing bad juju. Zainab started live-streaming the entire quarrel under the caption “Teamwork is hard.” By noon, the five were slumped in their chairs, exhausted. Silence hung between them until Teni finally sighed. “Fine. We’ll form a team. But if this fails, na una fault o.”Chuka folded his arms. “As long as HustleCoin stays on the table.”“Food delivery,” Zainab whispered.“Forex school,” Femi insisted.“Fashion tech,” Amaka added stubbornly. The whiteboard in front of them soon bore the most ridiculous scribble anyone had ever seen: Crypto-Jollof Fashion App for Forex Tailors. They stared at it in silence, then at each other. Somewhere in the background, Mr. Bello shook his head and muttered, “These children.” The five hustlers had seven days to turn chaos into a business plan. And whether they liked it or not, they were stuck with each other.

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