Superstar

By Kofi Quaye

SUPERSTAR, is the story of Mystique, an African-American super model whose star qualities are based not so much on her beauty than the fact that she represents the unusual and exotic. Her persona captivates the public with its aura of exotic elegance, making her a huge international sensation and a superstar.
Mystique is on the top of her game; she is the superstar supermodel in demand for endorsements and movie roles; she has her own label, line of jewelry and perfumes. Her face and name had become iconic.
But to stay on top of her game, she has to survive.
Her star power and celebrity status bring her into contact with scheming managers, sex hungry account executives, manipulative agency operators, and ruthless bosses who interact with her as business associates, advisers, managers, friends, admirers, and lovers. Some have good intentions. Others have dubious motives, yet all of them are necessary components of the money making machine in she has become in the highly competitive world of fashion modeling with Mystique as the central figure.
The underlying themes explored in this novel include people and change, virtue and vice, avarice and greed, crime and punishment, all in the context of the pursuit of the American Dream with the immigrant experience as a backdrop.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453525906

Kofi Quaye

General Davis is a former gang member, motivational speaker, advocate and expert on gang and youth violence. He has dedicated himself to working with at risk youth and young adults. He makes presentations in colleges, high schools, churches and communities all over the country on youth violence and gang prevention and related topics. His website- www.generaldavis.com- contains information on how he can be contacted. Contact info is-315-876-4577. His email [e-mail] Kofi Quaye is originally from Ghana in West Africa. He resides in Syracuse and has been actively involved in the media as a journalist, editor and publisher. He was already an established author before arriving in America having written a series of crime and mystery novels, which made him one of the first African writers to write about urban life and crime in Africa. His books include JOJO IN NEW YORK, FOLI FIGHTS THE FORGERS (Macmillan, England,) SAMMY SLAMS THE GANG (Moxon Paperbacks Ltd, Accra, Ghana,] NO DEAL, (Heritage Communications, Syracuse, NY.] SUPERSTAR [Mysteek Books] CHANGES [Mysteek Books]. Since the late seventies, Kofi Quaye has edited newspapers and magazines and contributed articles to leading publications including Essence Magazine and was recently the editor of Syracuse based CNY VISION weekly newspaper. Kofi Quaye’s contact info is: 315-516-2390. His website is-mysteekmedia.com. Email: [e-mail]

Book preview

Copyright © 2010 by Kofi Quaye.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

82329

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to and recognizes the outstanding accomplishments of superstar trailblazers Diana Ross, Vanessa Williams, Grace Jones, Ajuma Nasayenga, Iman, Beverly Johnson, Angelique Monet, my colleague, business partner, great friend, actress and producer and all the other superstars who inspired the world with their brains, beauty and talent, and future superstars Sham Sincere Lewis, Shay Watts, Elizabeth Ortiz and others yet to emerge.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapte Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter One

Ladies and gentlemen, said the voice in the intercom, in a few minutes, we’ll be landing at JFK International Airport in New York City. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened. Thank you for flying British Airways.

Mystique felt the surge of excitement within her. Her dream had become a reality. In a few minutes, she would be in the United States of America, and embark on a new career and a new life. Would she like it? Was she prepared to deal with it?

Too late, she told herself.

The landing was smooth. She unbuckled her seat and followed the other passengers towards Customs.

Welcome to America, said the man.

A short, pudgy man had materialized from nowhere and was standing in front of her. A cigar dangled at the corner of his mouth. His left hand tugged at the waist of his pants. His right hand was extended towards her.

Mystique stopped. An uncertain smile flitted across her face. She didn’t recognize the face.

Who are you? asked Mystique.

Come on, baby, said the man. My name is Jim Weissman, president of Metropolitan Agency. I am the friend of Pat Henshaw, the guy who arranged your trip.

Pat Henshaw. She knew the name. He was the American who had convinced her that she had all the qualities of a superstar model, made all the contacts on her behalf with the modeling agency in New York, and arranged this trip. He hadn’t told her, though, about meeting a stranger at the air29port. Her instincts told her to be extremely careful. In a city like New York, you could easily walk into a trap, and get yourself into serious trouble. As far as she knew, the man standing in front of her could be an impostor. She took a couple of steps backwards and stood there, staring at the man.

Come on, baby. I’m Jim Weissman. Why? You don’t believe me? Everybody knows who I am.

Mystique didn’t move. Her eyes were fastened on the man, watching every move he made.

Listen, young lady, I’m not here to kidnap you if that’s what you’re thinking. But you’re doing the right thing, though.

That did it; he sensed her fear and knew the reason for her hesitation.

Thank you, Mr. Weissman, she said.

They shook hands.

Call me Jim, baby. You look terrific, absolutely out of sight. I gotta tell you. You’re one hell of a woman. How was your trip? Nice trip, wasn’t it? Follow me, please.

What is he excited about? Why would he bother to ask answer it with another question?

She asked herself these questions as she followed Jim Weissman and couldn’t find any answers. And then it happened.

They came from everywhere, all at once. Suddenly, men and women with video cameras, tape recorders and microphones hoisted on their shoulders surrounded them. Others were holding cameras in their hands and above their heads. And just as suddenly, bright spotlights sprang into life and she was staring into a sea of lights, popping cameras and whirling video cameras.

Mystique blinked rapidly, her eyes smarting from the bright lights. She looked down at her shoes, feeling slightly dizzy.

"Look up, baby. Smile into the cameras. This is the media. They’re all here, CNN, NBC, CBS, WPIX, Time, New York Times, Newsweek, Daily News, and The Post. Look up, baby. Smile, baby. Look into the cameras. They’re going to ask questions."

Jim Weissman was yelling at the top of his voice.

She hadn’t expected this kind of confrontation with the media; she hadn’t been told she would walk out of the plane to face a mob of cameramen and reporters. And then the questions rang out, men and women yelling at the top of their voices.

Which part of the jungle did you come from?

They say you come from Guyana, which is in South America. How can you be an African?

How do you keep in shape in Africa without sophisticated gym equipment?

You don’t look like an African. How come?

Do you speak English?

How is your sex life?

Are all the women in your country as tall are you?

Were you discovered in the jungle?

She was confused and bewildered by the barrage of questions being shouted at her by the disorderly mob of men and women who pushed each other and jabbed cameras and microphones in her face.

Go on, baby, yelled Jim Weissman. Answer them; this is the media. Go ahead. Say something.

She thought fast. If she could get out of here by saying something, so be it. But how in the world do you answer such questions about the jungle, sex, Guyana, and the height of people in her country? These people must be crazy to ask her about her sex life. In the country and culture she had just come from, sex wasn’t discussed in public, even among friends, let alone on television. And how was she supposed to look like?

She cleared her throat and began to speak, not addressing anyone in particular.

As you probably know already, my name is Mystique, and I have just arrived from a country called Ghana in West Africa. I have traveled to this country to pursue a professional career in modeling under contract with the leading modeling agency in New York City, namely, the Metropolitan Agency. The word jungle doesn’t properly describe the environment I come from. In Ghana, I lived in the capital called Accra, which has a metropolitan setting. I didn’t see forests and jungles there, but I must say that I’m glad to be in this great country of yours, the United States of America. And if you’re interested, my mother is African and my father an American, but I have lived most of my life in Africa. If you have any further questions, please contact Mr. Weissman of the Metropolitan Agency.

She leaned towards Jim Weissman and whispered into his ear.

Mr. Weissman, please get me out of here. Please.

That was a great speech, baby, he said. Now, gentlemen, get out of my way. She said what she had to say.

He lunged into the crowd, pulling Mystique after him, half-running. He didn’t stop or slacken the pace until he reached the limousine.

Feet thundered behind them and voices yelled.

Get us out of here, quick, snarled Jim Weissman at the chauffeur, shoving Mystique into the open door of the limousine. He slammed the door after leaping into the back seat and landed on the sprawling figure of Mystique. With tires screening, the limousine leapt forward, lurched momentarily and sped off.

Goddammit, said Jim Weissman as he scrambled on hands and feet into a sitting position.

Mystique was breathing heavily and thinking. What kind of country is this? Would it be like this all the time? Would she have to remind the man sitting beside her that she was a woman, not a baby?

Involuntarily, her eyes closed. Exhausted by the cumulative effects of jet lag and mental and physical exertion, she drifted into sleep.

Jim Weissman wiped the sweat off his face with a soggy handkerchief, turned to look at her and smiled.

Poor baby. My poor little baby, he said.

Pat was right about Mystique’s naiveté and lack of knowledge about the celebrity life in America. This was what it was all about: constant confrontation with paparazzi, stupid questions from reporters, wild stories in the media, written by people who don’t know what they are talking about. She would find out soon. The celebrity life is all about dealing with hostile media hype, aiming to aggravate, annoy, and humiliate celebrities, all part of a grand design to sell more papers and raise Nielsen ratings.

Mystique had come a long way, but she still had a long way to go.

Chapter Two

Gentlemen, as you know already, we are in the process of launching the career of Mystique in this country, and as you can see from the excitement already generated in the media, it looks like we have the right product. All we have to do now is to put the package together correctly and sell it and, believe me, if we do it right, she will make millions of dollars for our company. So any ideas on how to proceed with making money on our sensational, hot model?.

Jim Weissman had made his point, in his usual blunt, direct manner.

Ron Johnson leaned back in his chair and thought. Mystique was the product. Jim hadn’t even alluded to the fact that this product was an African American female. As far as Jim Weismann was concerned, Mystique was merchandise to be marketed, a product to sell.

Ron felt the tension in his body. These men in business suits made him sick. They were his colleagues, but that was about it. Beyond that, they were just a bunch of honkies with no feelings. How could they do this to a human being, and in this case, to one of his race?

For a moment, he wondered whether Mystique knew what she had gotten herself into. He wondered how she would react if she knew she was being discussed as a product to be marketed and sold to the highest bidder, not much different from other items for sale in a grocery or a department store.

Ron wasn’t surprised at the attitude of his colleagues. It was the nature of the business. Decisions made were based on the value of the product at that moment, and in the case of models, how they could be packaged and promoted in ways that hyped their sex appeal and feminine sensuality to maximize their earning potential for themselves as well the agency.

Ron Johnson knew he wanted to quit his job now more than ever. He wanted to express his true feelings without fear of being fired. Right now, whether he liked it or not, he was part of the machine that kept the wheels of the industry in motion. These were men and women, like him, who were paraded as account executives, talent coordinators, talent developers, agents and other acronyms that were as vague in meaning as in function. Their titles only slightly hinted at what they did in the industry.

Ron Johnson looked across the table.

As president of Metropolitan Enterprises, Jim Weissman occupied his spot at the head of the table. No emotion showed in his face. His eyes darted from face to face. The inevitable stump of a cigar, characteristically unlit, dangled at the corner of his mouth.

This was a man many feared to cross. He had power, money and connections in the fashion industry.

To his right was Rick Jansen, the Senior Vice-President, a fifteen-year veteran, ten of which had been with this company, his balding pate accentuated the aura of weariness and senility that had descended on him though he was in his late thirties. And his height of six feet four inches didn’t help either. He walked with a noticeable stoop.

David Martin, the Vice-President in charge of operations, faced Ron Johnson across the table. The perpetual smile was on his face. Nobody knew for sure whether he was actually smiling or whether it was contrived. The glint in his eyes, the smooth round face, the thick eyebrows and the hairless skin all combined to create an aspect of permanent youthfulness in David.

Next to Ron Johnson sat Chris Sheppard, whose title as Executive Vice-President did not suggest any specific role in the corporate structure of the company. He was a kind of an all-round person and troubleshooter who was known to be the favorite of the boss. Everything about him showed his athletic bent of mind. He had broad shoulders, brawny arms and a muscular physique.

The only African-American at the meeting, Ron Johnson was aware he kept his job with the agency as a result of his proven competence as a Vice-President in charge of client relations. He also knew that the moment he made a wrong move or said something somebody didn’t like, he would be fired. They knew it, and he knew it

He didn’t particularly care for the way this company