ACT 4. The Healing Capitalist Summit

What if the next unicorn wasn’t a startup, but a song?

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We met in the control room.

Not a metaphorical one. A real one, nestled at the back of the Songa Mansion—its walls lined with cables, faders, and glowing meters. Sage held a guitar, caressing it like a child in her lap. Lewis Blues tapped a djembe with one hand, a mug of honey tea in the other. May Dove stood nearby, humming something that hadn’t become a song yet. Mo watched

Someone had written on the wall in looping green marker:

“WHAT’S THE ROI
OF THE SOUL?”


No one had an answer yet.

But that night, we tried.

My half-brother, Forbes Nash Jr., stood by the mixing console like a man pitching a hedge fund that didn’t exist yet. We don’t share a mother, but we share enough damage to build something strange and maybe sacred out of it. He spoke in questions more than sentences, metaphors more than models. His hands moved like a conductor. He said:

"What if Pixar was a bank? What if every song was an asset? What if the key to fixing capitalism… was a jam session?"

May Dove Munnie arched an eyebrow. Her husband, Mo, just looked at the console like he wanted to run a regression analysis on the chords. Emerson Spelling, ever the brand guru with a savior complex, nodded as if he’d been thinking that all along. Probably had.

I stayed quiet. Watched. Drank the tea someone had left on a coaster shaped like a vinyl record. Thought about what Bill Campbell used to say when founders got ahead of themselves:

Slow down. Say less. Let the silence talk.

Forbes was still talking. Quoting himself, mostly. Talking about trust fund kids and trap producers co-owning IP. Saying he used to be part of the problem—driving clicks with fear, selling dopamine like water—but now he wanted to build something different. Something that rewarded collaboration over conversion.

"I’m building a machine that pays people to listen."

That was my cue.

“Even is fast.
Quick is slow.”

They turned. The room stilled.

"Art isn’t software," I told them.

"It doesn’t iterate. It emerges. A love song doesn’t come from a sprint—only a slow burn. You rehearse it until it sings.”

Emerson tried to joke. “Does this ‘singing’ come with a Q1 projection?”

"Call your therapist. Or your mother. Or your muse," I said.

May Dove asked if I was saying we had to feel things.

"I’m saying you can’t fund genius if you’re allergic to silence."

Mohammad Munnie, May’s husband, had been sitting silently beside her. But now, he finally spoke.

"You realize we’re fiduciaries, right? Our mandate is to grow capital."

Forbes jumped in.

"Then redefine capital. You’re not just managing wealth—you’re midwifing culture."

That landed.

He brought up Jobs. How he got fired. How Pixar softened him. How Ed Catmull and Bill Campbell taught him to lead creatives, then humans.

"I’m the ex-billionaire who got humbled before I got wise," Forbes said. "And Wyoming? He’s our Bill Campbell. The whisperer. Also... our uncle was John—yes, that John Forbes Nash. Game theory, Nobel Prize, the Prisoner's Dilemma. And what he taught us? That rational self-interest can lead to irrational outcomes. But art? Art breaks the loop."

I laughed—told him our uncle solved equations, we’re just trying to solve each other. But maybe that’s harder.

Then he turned to Mo.

"You’re the hardest one to win over. Not because you’re skeptical. But because your job is to grow her wealth. That’s where you get your worth. But what if you grew something deeper than capital? Like community. Or courage."

"I’ll put that in a spreadsheet," Mo said.

"He will," May Dove smiled.

Emerson looked around the studio.

"You really think we can save business?"

"Not save," Forbes said. "Rewrite. In 4/4 time."

Mo stood.

"Let’s say we fund this thing. What happens when the artists run out of ideas? When courage doesn’t monetize?"

I looked at him. Steady.

"Then the money learns patience. Or it dies trying."

I said it without blinking. I meant it. The room didn’t clap or crumble. Just a quiet little shift—like the truth adjusting the furniture inside someone’s soul.

Sage laid into a groove. Not showy, just honest. A slow thump on the guitar, like she was scoring the silence. Lewis followed with the djembe—his fingers tracing the pulse beneath the conversation.

Mo crossed his arms. Bracing. He looked at May like he already knew she was going to say something that would cost him—socially, financially, or both. But she didn’t speak. Not yet.

“It’s easy for you,” Mo said to me. “You’re not the one calling the family office every quarter, justifying why we’re investing in feelings instead of funds.”

May flinched. Barely. But I saw it. Everyone did. She didn’t push back. She didn’t need to. Her silence had weight. Enough to tilt the room.

Forbes looked at me. I knew he saw me in Mo.

He wasn’t wrong.

“I used to call it stewardship Turns out, I was laundering shame through spreadsheets—and calling it strategy.” I’d worn my addiction to work like armor, but it’d left me wounded.

It landed. You could feel it. Not with a bang, but like a tax bill in a family office inbox.

Forbes turned to the Munnies. He spoke softly, but with fire.

“Maybe it’s not the portfolio that’s the problem. Maybe it’s art that’ll fix what’s aching. Not mo money.”

He winked at May. She almost smiled. Almost.

“That’s the tension between The Art and The Machine, isn’t it?

More.”

Forbes let that sink in.

Mo nodded along. I don’t know if he was starting to believe, but he was at least starting to understand.

Forbes continued,

“Most businesspeople try to scale output.

We’re trying to
scale goosebumps.

It’s not automation—it’s amplification. We’re not built on attention. We’re built on resonance.”

Mo leaned forward, like something cracked open.

Mo spoke, seeming to stumble upon the words as he went. “What if the most profitable outcome... is a culture that doesn’t need saving?” he said. “What if the next unicorn isn’t a startup? What if it’s a song?”

He looked toward the musicians like he wanted proof. Lewis answered with rhythm. Sage layered in the melody.

🎧 Listen to “Be The Song” below
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And before I even noticed, Mo was singing too. No sheet music. No rehearsal. Just the sound of a man unlearning.

He caught Forbes watching and shook his head.

“I can’t believe you want me to build a portfolio out of performance,” he said, laughing to himself.

“Not performance,” I told him. “Presence.”

May turned to him, took his hand.

“I’m not signing off on the math,” she said. “I’m signing off on the man.”

She looked at the group, then confessed what we already felt.

“I thought wealth meant we were winning. But I was losing myself behind designer handbags and charity galas. Keeping up with the Joneses... we forgot how to be the Munnies.”

She turned to Mo. He didn’t look away.

“We called it legacy,” she said. “But maybe the legacy our kids need isn’t in a trust fund. It’s the one we build on trust.”

Mo nodded.

“Forget the legacy we meant
for the kids someday.
Let’s build one with meaning
for them today.”

The band kept playing.

Mo and May didn’t just buy in. They sang in:

“You say you want to make a change?
You say you want to make a difference?
You say you want to be somebody?
You’ve got to be the song.”

---

Want more? Explore the Universe of Songa

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Listen to “Be The Song” below—
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