The event manager who paid his own LUMS fees

A 16-year-old with a five-hour window and a borrowed bike

The episode opens with Muzamil noting that he had been hearing about Jahanzaib Shafique for the better part of eighteen years — attending his events, watching the company grow, and noticing something unusual: while event managers in Pakistan tend to rise and fall quickly, JBnJaws kept compounding. That observation sets the tone for everything that follows.

Jahanzaib was born in New York but moved back to Lahore within his first year. He grew up in a close, education-focused family — “mummy ready bachche,” as he puts it — and attended Beaconhouse Garden Town before joining LUMS in 2005 to study economics and mathematics. Sports didn’t work out. Debating didn’t work out. What did work out was sitting at a computer, teaching himself design.

His first event came in his O-levels third year. A friend from LGS invited him to an EP concert at a park in Mall Town. The band was small then, the crowd was head-banging, and the vibe hit him immediately. By the end of that same evening, the idea of doing one themselves was already on the table. Within two months, they had organised a battle-of-the-bands concept featuring EP, Noori, Mikaal Hasan, and others at an amphitheatre near Alhamra. Jahanzaib handled promotions, design, and band negotiations. His parents thought he was just sitting at the computer.

The curfew was eight or nine in the evening. That gave him a five-hour daily window after school. He and his partner rode out on a friend’s bike, did everything hands-on, and never told anyone their age. “Hum apni age batate nahin the,” he says. Most people in the scene were supportive. A few were probably nervous. Nobody pushed back hard.

The event lost 20,000 rupees. Two sponsors had backed out and they plugged the gap themselves. But the feedback on MIRC forums was strong enough that they were invited back — first by another LGS campus, then by Cantt College, which Jahanzaib describes as having “a very filled up, very energetic, very engaged audience.” Over the next two years they did four events: one profitable, two break-even, one at a loss.

What drove it — and it wasn’t money

Muzamil asks directly: what was the motivation? Popularity, power, or money? Jahanzaib is candid. “I think thoda sa acknowledgement aur popularity ka kick thoda sa zyada tha us time par.” He was a self-described nerd whose social world was expanding through the events. The sense of achievement was real — “jab event live chal raha hai aur aap stage par aakar audience ki zaroor dekhte ho… thousands of people are enjoying a product you created.” Money barely registered. The upgrade was a new mobile phone.

He never seriously considered that this could become his primary income. Not yet.

LUMS, 27 clubs, and paying your own fees

Jahanzaib applied only to LUMS. He had been featured in newspapers for his events work and filed the clippings. He got in, hit a 3.43 CGPA to secure his economics and mathematics major, and then — once the major was locked — shifted his attention back to work.

His attendance was near zero. Morning classes were missed. But he had identified something the university’s own students couldn’t easily do: they lived on campus, had no cars, and couldn’t navigate local vendors. Jahanzaib could. Someone asked him to help with a club event. Then another. Then another.

“Over a period of the next one year, 50 clubs se LUMS hain. 50 mein se 27 ka main kaam kar raha tha.” He handled events, printing, design, projector screens, delegate booklets, and full branding for Olympiad and Lumun. He charged market rates, kept the margin, and used it to pay his own tuition. His father had covered the first semester. After that, Jahanzaib covered everything himself — from LUMS’s own budget.

By his second year, he was earning more than the 90,000-rupee starting salary that the top recruiting companies were offering LUMS graduates. He never applied for a job. He never seriously considered it.

The partnership that built JBnJaws

Between school events and LUMS, Jahanzaib had tried a design studio called Creative Headquarters with two partners. It lasted about six months before the economics collapsed — he was doing the operational work, they were supposed to bring clients, and the clients didn’t come. He ended up borrowing money to pay salaries and walked away.

The pivot came through a chance encounter at an Overload show. Faraad had organised extra performances and Jahanzaib had mobilised his entire network — roughly a hundred people, each given a target of ten to fifteen attendees — to fill the venue. Within an hour it was packed. “Meri smile matlab main ek pagal sau ho gaya. Maine kaha yaar ho gaya hai.”

Overload’s manager came over to ask who had done the crowd work. That manager was Sarwaz, who became Jahanzaib’s co-founder and has remained his partner ever since. Sarwaz was working at an ad agency and had sponsor relationships. Jahanzaib had school and university networks and could handle promotions and setup. Within twenty days they had done their first event together under the name JBnJaws — combining JB Productions and Jaws Productions. They made money for the first time.

The terrorism years and the pivot to corporate

The period from 2008 to 2009 nearly ended the company. Emergency was declared during one of their events. Three thousand people were sitting in the venue when the NOC was cancelled mid-show. Bombings were happening across the city. Schools raised their walls. Permissions dried up. “Events was the least priority for anyone. Even for corporate or even for the government to give permissions.”

Jahanzaib went back into LUMS, ran his club-services operation, and waited. Sarwaz focused on his job. By 2009 to 2010 they regrouped, reopened an office, and began the slow work of entering corporate events. Service Shoes was their first proper corporate client — low budget, low risk, and it went well. Samsung followed in 2010 with a brand activation. In 2014 or 2015 they landed the Pakistan Cricket Board’s team event — Afridi and the full squad — which Jahanzaib describes as arriving almost by accident: “bilkul tukke se mila, we just happened to be at the right place at the time.”

Between 2010 and 2016 they built their corporate portfolio steadily. Jazz became a major long-term client. They ran what Jahanzaib says are still Pakistan’s largest gaming events. Music festivals. Sensitive, high-profile launches.

Why they never did weddings

Muzamil raises the obvious question: weddings are easy money. Families pay without blinking, the format is repeatable, and the downside is limited. Why didn’t JBnJaws go there?

Jahanzaib’s answer is partly personal — “mujhe woh out of place feel kiya” — and partly strategic. The business model is different. Corporate events don’t require owning inventory; every event has different needs and you source accordingly. Weddings require sofas, backdrops, and a standing stock of physical assets. More importantly, they wanted to master one thing at a time. “Concert mein hum kar chuke the. Corporate mein jaana chahte the.”

He also describes the crowd-management disaster that sharpened their risk thinking: they had put up fifteen billboards across Lahore for a concert in 2006 or 2007, the venue gate was rushed and broken, and people poured in like ants. “Woh event interrupt ho gaya tha kisam ka hamara aur property par kuch damages hue.” After that, they built filters. They got more selective about what they took on.

Cartel Media, COVID, and the value of diversification

By 2016, the landscape had shifted. Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter had changed what clients wanted from events. The metric was no longer how many people attended — it was how many people saw it. PR companies existed but were operating on an old model: invite journalists, invite channels, measure column inches.

Jahanzaib watched a client engage a PR firm and realised he already knew most of the people that firm was calling. “Mujhe unko jaanta tha. Maine kaha yaar main try karta hoon next time. Main aapki cost bhi save kar dunga aur aapko kaam bhi shayad zyada accha try karenge dene ka.” They ran two test engagements, were satisfied with the results, and formalised Cartel Media and PR in 2016 — dedicating a room in their office to it, registering it, and targeting fashion, retail, and e-commerce brands that couldn’t afford large events but could sustain a monthly PR retainer.

COVID validated the decision. Gatherings were banned. Events billing collapsed to roughly 20 percent of normal. But PR work held. Content creation surged. Influencer rates went up. “Hamne PR se usko balance kiya.” They retained their entire team, took modest salary cuts to reflect reduced travel costs, and used the digital wave to pick up new clients. Car launches — Hyundai Tucson, and others — filled part of the gap. Competitors who had no supporting businesses had to downsize. JBnJaws didn’t lose a single person.

“Woh diversification helped you out,” Muzamil says. Jahanzaib confirms it without hesitation.

Why Pakistan’s events industry keeps hitting the same ceiling

Later in the discussion, Muzamil pushes on a broader question: why are Pakistani award shows forgettable, why do concerts feel like a singer arriving and leaving without any designed experience, and why does scale so often end in disaster — citing a recent Lahore concert where people described themselves as “just happy to have made it out alive”?

Jahanzaib’s diagnosis is systematic. First, venues. “Venues ki purpose-designed venues kam hain.” Expo Centre Lahore is essentially the only option for large ticketed events, and it has stopped hosting concerts. Every other venue either has parking that collapses or boundaries that can’t hold a crowd. Second, consumer mindset. “Pakistan mein khaas taur Punjab mein consumer ka mindset nahin hai pay karne ka.” People call contacts for free passes rather than buying tickets, which keeps paid-guest volumes low and makes large events financially fragile. Third, taxation. “60% of the ticket money used to go to excise.” An event costing 20 million rupees with 10 million in ticket revenue was already underwater before a single rupee went to production. Fourth, security and political uncertainty keep international artists away and brands nervous. Fifth, local top artists now charge around 10 million rupees for a single performance, consuming a disproportionate share of whatever budget remains.

“Hamari presentation side dekhoge na usme kaafi saari aapko nirbhishin feel hogi but jab woh execution par jaate hain to cutting cutting cutting cutting cutting.” The ambition is there. The environment keeps trimming it.

Muzamil draws a contrast with Coldplay: people don’t go to a Coldplay concert to hear the songs — they can do that in a car. They go because it creates a life-long memory. “They are not saying I want to go to a Coldplay concert. They are saying I want to live that experience.” Jahanzaib agrees entirely. The industry optimises for filling a room. It doesn’t yet consistently optimise for designing a moment.

He points to PSL as the local proof that it can be done differently — a product that has made brands plan their annual campaigns around it. “Why can’t that be reciprocated into so many other areas?” His honest answer is that it requires sustained investment, a stable environment, and a willingness to dedicate your best team to building something original rather than executing the next client brief. JBnJaws has been planning to do exactly that since 2020. COVID intervened. Then economic crisis. “Hum woh situation se ladh rahe hain, finances par ladh rahe hain jo ki hamara core kaam nahin hai.”

Pakistan in 2050

By the end of the conversation, Muzamil asks Jahanzaib the question he puts to most guests: what does Pakistan look like in 2050?

Jahanzaib’s answer is measured but genuinely optimistic. He has never seriously planned to leave. His businesses are here. His future is here. “Main agar koi mostly jo yahan par business planning hai woh bhi yahan par ki hui hai.”

His argument rests on generational change. The new cohort coming through is more educated, more globally connected, more entrepreneurial, and more empathetic than any before it. “Inhi mein se hamare kuch politicians banenge. Inhi mein se hamare kuch companies ki leaderships banengi.” He sees a critical mass forming — not yet dominant, but building. He points to Bangladesh, which separated from Pakistan and was behind it, and is now growing rapidly. He points to India’s acceleration in the 2010s. Every country has a growth path. Pakistan’s is delayed, not cancelled.

“I do see progression still… I don’t see Pakistan breaking up. I don’t see misfortune happening.” By 2035, he thinks Pakistan could be at the stage where other regional countries are today. By 2050, the next generation will feel the acceleration that his generation has been laying the groundwork for. He wouldn’t move his children out. The question, for him, is already settled.