“Temi ‘T-Spark,’” he murmured. “She bought her first phone here. Used to sit on that stool over there, recording voice notes into the microphone, deleting them because she thought her voice was ugly.”

But inside 9jabet, the past was safe. And sometimes, the oldest phone in the room held the strongest power.

“Now, you will walk out of this shop. You will never speak of this phone or this video. And you will tell your influencer friends that 9jabet Old Mobile Shop is not a place for games. It is a museum of your past. And in this museum… I am the curator of truth.”

The bar reached 100%. Papa Tunde turned the laptop screen toward her. On it was not the video of Temi burning rice. Instead, it was a photograph. A high-definition, zoomed-in shot of Adaeze herself, taken from the crowd at a music awards show two years ago. She was sweating, her wig slightly askew, picking her nose with a look of intense concentration.

Adaeze slammed the bag on the counter. Inside was a shattered Nokia X2-00—the music phone with the dedicated keys. “This phone belongs to my rival, Temi ‘T-Spark.’ I paid her assistant to steal it. There’s a video on it. A video of her before the fame. No makeup, in a village kitchen, burning jollof rice and crying because she lost a rap battle. If I leak it, her endorsement deal with the beverage company collapses. Mine goes up.”

That night, Papa Tunde closed early. He wiped down the glass case, placed the repaired Nokia X2-00 inside a safety box, and brewed himself a cup of Lipton tea. Outside, the neon lights of the modern phone shops flickered—selling speed, selling vanity, selling forgetfulness.