The Hustle HQ

Part 2: The First Pitch Morning came with the sound of hustlers pouring into Hustle HQ—some already on calls, others sipping overpriced coffee like it was startup fuel. At the far corner, the “chaos crew” sat around their shared table, staring at the abomination of a business idea still scrawled on the whiteboard: Crypto-Jollof Fashion App for Forex Tailors. Nobody wanted to erase it, but nobody could explain it either. “We need structure,” Teni announced, adjusting her wig like a crown. “As CEO, I declare today our first brainstorming session.” “CEO?” Femi scoffed. “Abeg, na me suppose be CEO. I’ve been trading markets for five years.”“And how much profit do you have to show for it?” Amaka shot back. “If your forex dey pay, why you dey here fighting for ₦1 million?” Femi hissed loudly. Chuka clapped his hands like a preacher. “Brethren, why are we arguing when the answer is clear? HustleCoin will solve everything. We create our own cryptocurrency, tie it to fashion, food, and forex—bam! Billionaires!” “No offence,” Zainab said, spooning leftover rice into her mouth, “but your last coin collapsed in three days.” Chuka frowned. “That one was pilot testing.” The argument dragged on until Mr. Bello strolled past with his usual smirk. “Don’t forget, my people—your first pitch presentation is due tomorrow. Two minutes only. Investors don’t have time for nonsense.” Everyone froze. Tomorrow? They hadn’t even agreed on what business they were pitching. That afternoon, they tried rehearsing. Teni insisted on going first. She stood at the front, switched on her ring light, and began:“Good morning, investors. With ten thousand loyal followers, I—” “Cut!” Amaka groaned. “You can’t start a pitch with your followers. This is not Instagram Live.” “My followers are the business,” Teni snapped. Next came Chuka. He launched into a 10-minute rant about blockchain, decentralisation, and “financial freedom.” By the time he got to “the global revolution of HustleCoin,” Zainab was asleep on her chair. “Two minutes, oga,” Femi reminded him. “Not TED Talk.” Femi tried next. His pitch was basically shouting forex buzzwords: “Liquidity! Spread! Margin call!” He ended with a flourish and a loud: “We double your money, guaranteed.” “Guaranteed scam,” Zainab muttered. When it was her turn, Amaka unveiled three half-finished dresses and spoke passionately about African fashion taking over the world. But midway through, the sewing machine jammed and started sparking again. Everyone screamed and dived for cover. Finally, Zainab stood up, chewing gum. “Okay, okay. Hear me out. People love food. People are lazy. We make app. They click. They eat. We get paid.” Silence. For the first time all day, nobody argued. “That… actually makes sense,” Amaka admitted.“Food is recession-proof,” Teni agreed reluctantly.“Maybe we can add HustleCoin as payment option?” Chuka offered hopefully.“No coin!” the others shouted in unison. They spent the night trying to polish Zainab’s idea into something professional. Teni handled branding—complete with flashy logos and slogans like “Feast Fast: Food at the Speed of Hustle.” Amaka designed uniforms for future delivery staff. Femi insisted on calculating “profit margins,” though no one understood his formulas. Chuka sulked in the corner but secretly coded a prototype app that barely worked. By 2 a.m., their presentation slides looked like a rainbow explosion—graphs, fashion sketches, random forex charts, and way too many stock photos of jollof rice. Exhausted, they collapsed in their chairs. “If we win this million,” Teni mumbled, eyes half-shut, “first thing I’m buying is my own office. No more sharing table with you lunatics.” They laughed weakly. For the first time, it felt like maybe—just maybe—this disaster team could pull something off. Next morning, the investors filed into Hustle HQ. The crew stood at the front, sweaty palms and nervous smiles. Mr. Bello cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Team Chaos with their big idea.” The spotlight hit them. Teni clicked to the first slide—only for the projector to reveal Crypto-Jollof Fashion App for Forex Tailors in bold letters. Everyone gasped. Zainab whispered under her breath, “Chuka, I will kill you.”

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