There is a specific, caustic irony in naming oneself 'Destiny Boy.' It implies a trajectory, a grand narrative arc written in the stars, presumably one that involves sold-out stadiums, gold records, and a comfortable retirement in a gated community where you can ignore the starving masses outside. But the universe, in its infinite and cruel humor, has a different definition of destiny. For Afeez Adesina, the 22-year-old Afrofuji artist known as Destiny Boy, destiny arrived early, abruptly, and with the distinct lack of ceremony that characterizes the human condition. He is dead. The show is over. The curtain has fallen not with a thunderous applause, but with the dull thud of a police report filed in Ogun State.

So, here we are again. Another young artist fed into the cultural meat grinder and spat out as a homicide statistic. The Ogun State Police, a bastion of forensic brilliance I am sure, have announced they are 'investigating.' One has to marvel at the optimism required to use that word. In the chaotic theater of Nigerian law enforcement—much like law enforcement everywhere, let’s be honest—an investigation usually consists of shuffling papers, looking stern for the cameras, and hoping the public forgets about the corpse before the weekend. They claim to have made an arrest. One suspect is in custody. Is it the killer? Is it a convenient scapegoat? Is it just the guy who happened to be standing closest to the body when the sirens wailed? We will likely never know the truth, because truth is an expensive commodity that nobody is willing to pay for.

Omolola Odutola, the police spokesperson, confirmed the death with the dry, bureaucratic detachment of someone reading a lunch menu. 'The suspect has been arrested,' she said. 'The case is with the homicide section.' Homicide section. It sounds so official, doesn't it? It conjures images of glass-walled labs and moody detectives staring at corkboards. In reality, it is likely a damp room filled with overworked civil servants trying to process the endless stream of tragedy that flows through the region. Destiny Boy was 22. Twenty-two. That isn't an age; it’s a warm-up lap. In a functioning world, a 22-year-old’s biggest problem should be finding a job or navigating a bad breakup. In the world we have actually built—the one governed by entropy and violence—22 is apparently a ripe old age to be harvested.

The genre was Afrofuji. A blend of the old and the new, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between tradition and the frantic, digital now. It doesn't matter what he sang. The silence that follows is the same for Pavarotti as it is for Destiny Boy. The music stops, the streams spike for a few days as the ghouls of the internet descend to consume the 'content' of his death, and then the algorithm moves on. That is the true horror here. It isn't just the cessation of life; it is the commodification of the exit. The public pretends to mourn. They post their broken heart emojis. They feign shock. But deep down, they devour it. They love the tragedy. It makes them feel something in their numb, scrolling existence.

We are told to look for a motive. Why was he killed? Was it jealousy? A business deal gone wrong? A random act of violence? Does the 'why' actually change anything? We obsess over motives because we want to believe that death is rational. We want to believe that if we just avoid doing *X*, we won't end up like *Y*. It’s a comforting lie. The reality is that we are all walking on a tightrope over a pit of vipers, and sometimes you fall. Destiny Boy fell. The Ogun State Police are picking through the wreckage, and the rest of the world is watching with mild, detached interest.

This is not a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions; it is a grim farce. A young man chases a dream in an industry designed to exploit him, in a country struggling to protect its citizens, on a planet that is indifferent to his existence. The arrest of one suspect is a band-aid on a bullet hole. It changes nothing about the fundamental brokenness of the system that allowed this to happen. The 'Homicide Section' will write their report. The family will bury their son. The fans will find a new Destiny Boy to project their fantasies onto. And the great, grinding wheel of human stupidity will turn once more, crushing the next 22-year-old who dares to think he has a destiny worth having. Rest in peace, kid. You deserved better than this carnival of incompetence, but then again, don't we all?