My experience with Ric Hassani – Make Me Believe
MP3 DOWNLOAD: Ric Hassani – Make Me Believe. The air in the tiny Lagos club hung thick with the scent of sweat, cheap cologne, and anticipation. My friend Ada, a whirlwind of infectious energy, had dragged me along, promising a night I wouldn’t forget. I, a perpetually cautious creature of habit, had reluctantly agreed. I wasn’t much of a club-goer, preferring the quiet solace of my books and the comforting rhythm of my own thoughts.
The music swelled, a pulsing heartbeat that vibrated through the floorboards. Then, he walked on stage. Ric Hassani. Even bathed in the hazy stage lights, his presence commanded attention. He was even more captivating than on screen, his voice a smooth baritone that effortlessly filled the space, weaving its way into the very fabric of my being.
He started with a song I knew—”Gentlema”n.” The familiar melody, usually a soundtrack to my quiet evenings, now resonated with a raw intensity amplified by the collective energy of the crowd. But it was when he launched into “Make Me Believe” that the night truly shifted.
The song, a ballad of yearning and vulnerability, spoke to a hidden part of me I rarely allowed myself to explore. His lyrics, about the fragile hope of finding love and the fear of being hurt, mirrored unspoken anxieties I’d been carrying for years. The way he sang, with such aching honesty, felt like a revelation.
As he sang the line, “Make me believe in love again, show me that it’s not a game,” I felt a tear escape, a silent confession to myself. For years, I’d built walls around my heart, convinced that love was a dangerous game, a source of pain I couldn’t afford. His song, though, was a gentle crack in those walls, a sliver of sunlight breaking through the darkness.
The night continued in a blur of music and movement. I didn’t dance, but I felt a profound shift within. Ric Hassani hadn’t just performed a song; he’d performed a kind of emotional surgery. He’d dissected the guarded parts of my soul with his voice, revealing wounds I hadn’t even known were there.
Later, as Ada and I walked home under the star-studded Lagos sky, I felt strangely lighter. The weight of my self-imposed isolation seemed to have lessened. The memory of Ric Hassani’s performance, his captivating voice, and the vulnerability in his eyes had stirred something within me—a flicker of hope, a tentative belief that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t a game after all. “Make Me Believe” had done exactly what the song promised; it had made me believe. And for the first time in a long time, I felt ready to take a chance.
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