The days after I sent that DM felt like a mix of excitement and endless waiting. Every time I unlocked my phone, I instinctively checked Instagram, hoping to see a notification from the band, a reply, anything at all. But for now… nothing. Not even a "seen."
At first, it was frustrating. I had reached out, given my best, and yet the silence felt like a brick wall. But after a while, I realized something: I couldn't just sit and wait. Dreams weren't just about waiting—they were about working, pushing, improving.
And so, I practiced.
Every morning, I woke up before school, squeezing in at least thirty minutes of vocal warm-ups. My mom always smiled knowingly when she saw me humming scales in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and stirring soup like I was conducting a full orchestra.
"Bori, you really take this seriously, huh?" she said one morning, brushing a loose strand of hair from my forehead.
"I have to, Mom. I need to be ready. If they ever reply… I can't waste the chance," I replied, my voice firm, even though a part of me feared they might never reply at all.
After school, I retreated to my sanctuary: the quiet auditorium. It had become my second home. The empty seats, the echo of my voice, the stillness of the stage—everything about it felt perfect for practice. I would spend hours singing, recording myself, analyzing every note, every vibrato, every gesture, trying to make it flawless.
I rotated songs constantly, making sure I could cover a wide range: Jungkook's Seven, Jimin's high notes, Jin's emotional ballads, even BTS rap segments—my voice might not be perfect at rapping, but I practiced until the words felt natural.
Each video I recorded was posted on TikTok and Instagram, tagged with #KpopCover, #ARMY, #BoriSings, #DreamBig. Views slowly climbed, likes appeared, and comments trickled in:
"You have such an amazing voice!"
"Keep singing, you'll go far!"
"ARMY supporting ARMY! Go Bori!"
Every little encouragement fueled me more than I expected. Sometimes I would read the same comment over and over, letting it sink in, imagining the day someone would finally reply to my messages.
Of course, school life continued alongside my practice. My friends teased me about the endless singing, but I didn't mind. Prizzy would sometimes come in to watch me perform, giving a thumbs-up or a small clap at the end of each song. "You sound amazing today," she'd say, making me feel like the stage was mine, even if it was just an empty auditorium.
Thelma remained my fellow ARMY confidante. We spent lunch breaks dissecting BTS choreography, comparing cover performances, and sometimes crying together over new music videos. She would occasionally post snippets of my singing videos on her own IG, tagging me and writing, "This girl is going to go far—mark my words!" Her support made the endless practice sessions bearable, even exciting.
The weekends were the most intense. While other kids relaxed or hung out with friends, I treated Saturdays and Sundays like mini boot camps. I practiced vocal scales, recorded multiple videos, and experimented with harmonies. Some days, my voice hurt, but I refused to give up. I reminded myself constantly: opportunity doesn't wait, and neither can I.
I even started exploring dance. BTS performances weren't just about singing—they were about energy, charisma, movement. I copied choreography from their videos, even if I wasn't perfect. The mirror in my room quickly became my audience, my judge, and my motivator all in one.
Late nights, after homework and dinner, I would lie on my bed scrolling TikTok, observing trends, seeing which covers went viral, which techniques others used. I studied every successful cover singer I could find, not to copy, but to learn.
By mid-February, I had a routine. Morning vocal practice, school, afternoon rehearsal in the auditorium, evening posting and engaging online. Each day blurred into the next, but I felt my skills growing. My range expanded, my pitch improved, my confidence grew with every video uploaded.
There were tough days, of course. Days when I would wake up exhausted, voice hoarse, and feel like giving up. Days when a video would flop, with barely any views or likes. I would slump onto my bed, staring at the ceiling, asking silently, Why isn't anyone noticing me? Am I good enough?
But then, I remembered my promise to myself. Six years of dreaming. Six years of loving BTS, six years of singing alone in my room, six years of hoping. And I realized: giving up now would be letting go of all of that. So I would get up, swallow the frustration, and practice again.
Sometimes I imagined what it would feel like to be chosen, to finally have someone reply, to get my chance. It felt almost unreal, like a dream I couldn't quite grasp. But I used it as fuel. Every note I sang, every cover I posted, every dance move I perfected became a step closer to that dream.
By the end of February, I noticed small changes. My TikTok videos had more views. Comments were growing longer, more personal. Some followers messaged me privately, encouraging me, asking when my next performance would be. I smiled every time, feeling the first stirrings of validation that maybe, just maybe, someone would notice me.
Still, the DM I had sent to the American K-pop company remained unread. That little notification, or lack thereof, haunted me. I wanted to despair, but I couldn't. My mom's words echoed in my mind every night: "A day will come when you'll meet them." That small promise became my anchor, steadying me through the uncertainty.
By the beginning of March, my skills had improved noticeably. I could hit higher notes without strain, maintain pitch longer, and even handle harmonies I previously struggled with. Dance movements were smoother, transitions more confident. I could see growth every day when I watched my old recordings.
Prizzy and Thelma noticed too. "Bori, you're… different," Prizzy said one evening, watching me practice Butter. "You're… like a pro now. You really sound like someone who could be on stage."
I smiled, feeling warmth spread through me. "Thanks… I just… I want to be ready, in case…" I didn't finish the sentence. The thought of the reply, the possibility, was too fragile to voice aloud.
By this time, I had made a small ritual of posting a new video every week. Each one better than the last, each one a reflection of my effort, my growth, my heart. Sometimes I would read the comments and feel the little spark of hope flare inside me.
Then came the first day of March. I had just finished recording a cover of "Yet To Come", pouring every ounce of emotion into the lyrics. I sat back on the stage floor, chest heaving, sweat trickling down my back. The video uploaded, captions written, hashtags carefully chosen, and I felt… ready.
Ready for the day when someone would finally notice. Ready for the world outside Nigeria to see me. Ready for my chance to chase a dream I had nurtured for six years.
As I walked home that afternoon, the warm March sun on my skin, I whispered quietly to myself:
"Soon… it has to be soon. I'm ready now. I won't let this chance slip away."
And with that, I walked into the house, greeting my mom and Prizzy with a tired but hopeful smile. I had no idea that the next few days would finally bring a reply—a message that would change everything.
But for now… it was just me, my voice, my TikTok, and the endless practice that carried me closer to my dream every single day.