The Hustle HQ

Part 4: The Last Chance The group stumbled back into their corner of Hustle HQ, silent and defeated. The memory of Mr. Bello’s smirk stung more than the rejection itself. Teni broke the silence first.“Tomorrow. One last chance. If we flop again, it’s over. My reputation, my brand, my followers—ruined.” Zainab snorted. “Your followers? Babe, nobody cares. This is about money. My rent is due next week!” Amaka dropped her sewing kit on the table. “Enough! If we’re serious, then tonight—no jokes, no distractions. We work until it’s perfect.” Femi raised a finger. “I agree. But we must structure the financials. Investors like structure.” “Bros,” Zainab cut in, “structure nearly killed us today. Chill.” Everyone turned to Chuka. He looked guilty, hugging his laptop.“Look, I admit HustleCoin was… premature. But if we want Bello to take us seriously, we need something bold. Something they’ve never seen before.” Amaka threw a wrapper at him. “No more coins!” They split tasks. Teni practised her opening speech in front of a mirror, adding exaggerated hand gestures.Femi recalculated the business plan on sticky notes, plastering the walls with numbers.Amaka sketched new branding—sleek uniforms, a logo, and delivery bags shaped like mini jollof pots.Zainab worked the kitchen, cooking actual sample meals for the pitch: smoky jollof rice, suya skewers, and zobo in branded bottles.Chuka sulked in the corner until Amaka forced him to design the app interface properly—no “investment opportunities,” just menus and delivery tracking. As the hours dragged, chaos naturally returned.Teni spilt zobo on the whiteboard, smudging Femi’s calculations.Amaka pricked her finger and yelled at Zainab for not helping.Zainab burned one pot of rice while livestreaming, turning their crisis into “content.”And Chuka? He kept trying to sneak “Powered by Blockchain” into the design. By 3 a.m., everyone was exhausted. Femi suddenly slammed the table. “Wait. What if we don’t just pitch Feast Fast as food delivery, but as cultural experience delivery? Meals that carry identity, history, and pride.” Amaka’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Every order comes with a mini story card—facts about the dish, its origin, the culture. Not just eating, but learning.” Zainab grinned, waving a spoon. “Finally, something sexy. Investors love stories.” Even Teni looked impressed. “Ooo, I can sell that. I’ll open with: ‘We don’t just feed stomachs—we feed heritage.’” Chuka hesitated, then muttered, “Fine… no crypto.” The room burst into laughter, their first real moment of unity. As the sun crept through the blinds, they collapsed on stools, surrounded by food samples, sketches, and scribbled notes. For the first time, they actually believed they had a shot. Teni whispered sleepily, “Tomorrow… we win.” Amaka nodded. “Or die trying.” Zainab added, “And if we lose, at least eat your fill before shame kills us.” They all laughed, tired but hopeful. Tomorrow wasn’t just a pitch. It was survival.

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