Cocoa Tea is a mentor who's very knowledgeable about the

Host: The recording studio glowed with soft amber light, its walls covered in acoustic foam and fading posters of reggae legends. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, sweat, and dreams still in rehearsal. A gentle bassline throbbed from the next room—a heartbeat of creation, pulsing low and slow, like the ocean after a storm.

Jack sat behind the mixing console, cigarette between his fingers, watching the blinking lights on the board as if they were constellations. Jeeny stood by the glass booth, her hand resting on the mic stand, eyes half-closed as though listening to an echo only she could hear.

Pinned to the corkboard beside the console was a handwritten quote from Koffee, written in looping black ink:
“Cocoa Tea is a mentor who's very knowledgeable about the business, he gives me musical advice and encouragement, knowing that I have to get there at some point.”

Jeeny: “That line—‘knowing that I have to get there at some point.’ It’s hope and humility all in one. It’s about the long road—the rhythm before the melody.”

Jack: “Or the sound of youth still believing in destiny. Mentorship, sure—it sounds noble. But in truth, it’s just someone else telling you how hard the road really is.”

Host: The beat in the next room grew louder, steady and hypnotic, like the pulse of ambition itself. The light on Jack’s face flickered between glow and shadow as smoke curled upward.

Jeeny: “You always turn guidance into burden. But mentorship isn’t about control—it’s about continuity. It’s a way of passing fire without burning the hands.”

Jack: “Or it’s about living through someone else because your own fire’s gone out. Let’s not pretend every mentor is pure-hearted. Some are just guarding their thrones.”

Jeeny: “Not all. Cocoa Tea saw himself in Koffee, I think. One generation telling another—‘Don’t lose your soul chasing your sound.’ That’s not power, Jack. That’s preservation.”

Jack: “Preservation, maybe. But every torch passed carries a bit of ash, too.”

Host: The sound of the guitar riff slipped through the open door, golden and warm, filling the room with something almost sacred. Jeeny smiled, softly, as if the notes themselves were defending her point.

Jeeny: “You hear that? That’s what mentorship creates. It’s not control—it’s collaboration through time. Every artist is a bridge for another.”

Jack: “A bridge, sure. But one built from compromise. You think guidance doesn’t shape obedience? What if her mentor’s wisdom also clips her wings?”

Jeeny: “Then the wings grow stronger fighting against the guidance. The student doesn’t stay in shadow forever. Mentorship just gives you light to start with.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted from the board, meeting Jeeny’s reflection in the studio glass. The two stood mirrored, separated by the line between sound and silence—between learning and creating.

Jack: “You really think advice can shape destiny?”

Jeeny: “I think advice reminds us that destiny isn’t a solo act. Every song has harmony behind it.”

Jack: “And dissonance, too.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But dissonance is still part of the music.”

Host: The song in the next room stopped. Silence fell like a held breath. Then, faintly, a voice—young, confident, alive—filled the air. Koffee’s recorded tone, smooth yet fierce, wrapped around the room like sunlight through fog.

Jeeny closed her eyes to listen.

Jeeny: “That’s what mentorship sounds like—the echo of another’s belief living through you. Cocoa Tea’s wisdom became her courage.”

Jack: “Or maybe she just learned to echo it long enough until her own voice formed. Every artist starts by mimicking their idols, Jeeny. The trick is learning when to stop.”

Jeeny: “But imitation isn’t weakness—it’s apprenticeship. No one grows in silence. Even the greatest voices were once whispers of another’s tune.”

Jack: “Then tell me this—what happens when the mentor’s voice grows too loud? When the echo drowns the original?”

Jeeny: “Then the pupil must break the rhythm. That’s the final lesson—the mentor shows the path; the student must decide when to walk off it.”

Host: The lights dimmed. The console glowed like a constellation of intention. Outside, rain began to fall—a soft, syncopated beat against the glass, adding percussion to the night’s reflection.

Jack leaned back, his voice lower now, softened by thought.

Jack: “You ever had a mentor, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Yes. My grandmother. She taught me how to listen—not just to sound, but to silence.”

Jack: “And what did that teach you?”

Jeeny: “That silence is where you learn who you are. The world shouts advice at you, but silence whispers truth.”

Host: Jack’s hand hovered above the soundboard. He pressed a single button, and the recording started again—Koffee’s voice flowing through the speakers, raw and radiant.

Jack: “She sounds like she believes in something real. Like she hasn’t been broken by the business yet.”

Jeeny: “That’s what mentorship can do—it reminds you the dream is worth surviving the machinery.”

Jack: “You think survival’s enough?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the first verse of every song worth singing.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming against the windows like distant applause. Jeeny turned toward the sound, her eyes alive with reflection.

Jeeny: “You know, I think mentorship is love disguised as patience. It’s saying, ‘I believe you’ll get there, even if you can’t see it yet.’”

Jack: “And what if you never get there?”

Jeeny: “Then at least someone believed you could. That belief becomes your compass.”

Jack: “Faith as direction.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even music needs a map.”

Host: The studio lights pulsed gently, matching the heartbeat of the song. Jack watched Jeeny as she stepped closer to the glass booth, her silhouette framed by gold light and rain.

Jeeny: “Look at her—Koffee, young, brave, still learning. She’s not chasing fame; she’s chasing mastery. That’s what a good mentor teaches—not success, but integrity.”

Jack: “Integrity doesn’t sell records.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not today. But it makes music that outlives the market.”

Host: Jack gave a faint, reluctant smile. The kind that meant he wasn’t convinced—but he was moved.

Jack: “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe mentorship isn’t control—it’s chorus. One voice rising to guide the next, until they both disappear into the harmony.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A lineage of sound. A chain of hope.”

Jack: “Then maybe this quote isn’t about business at all—it’s about legacy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind of legacy that hums long after the song ends.”

Host: The music faded. The rain slowed. The room filled with that sacred kind of silence that follows creation.

Jeeny reached over and turned off the console. The lights dimmed to darkness, leaving only the faint hum of electricity—a reminder that something was still alive beneath the quiet.

Jack exhaled, finally peaceful.

Jack: “So, what’s the real lesson then?”

Jeeny: “That greatness isn’t born alone—it’s taught, shared, believed into being.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. A faint moonlight filtered through the clouds, falling on the puddles like silver applause.

Jeeny smiled softly as they left the studio, her voice drifting like the last note of a song not yet finished.

Jeeny: “Every melody begins as mentorship, Jack. The rest is just learning to play it your own way.”

Host: The door closed behind them, and the studio fell silent once more. But somewhere, faintly, the echo of Koffee’s voice still lingered—bright, steady, and young.

And in that echo lived the truth they had both come to understand:

Mentorship is not the act of teaching another how to sing—
it’s the quiet, unwavering faith
that their song will one day find its own rhythm.