The night after the alley clash didn't end.
It echoed.
CJ lay on his mattress hearing the rumble of boda-bodas outside, knuckles throbbing in the dark, adrenaline still looping like a broken record. He tried to write, but every syllable shook with the taste of blood and dust.
At 2 a.m. his phone lit up—Tico in the group chat:
> Tico: Yo, Blaze just dropped something. Check SoundCloud NOW.
Lulu: He's fast.
Charles: Bet it's trash.
Tico: 3 minutes of heat, bro. He name-dropped CJ in the first bar.
CJ's stomach dropped harder than any punch he'd dodged. He plugged in battered earphones.
A warhorn-deep bass rumbled.
> "Little CJ talkin' big, but he bleeds like the rest /
I left his hoodie holy—now he's prayin' for breath…"
Blaze had recorded right after the fight; you could hear sirens in the background, Kevy laughing off-mic. The track felt raw, feral. In the last verse Blaze spat Shantel's name—warning CJ to keep her out of "his lyrics and his life."
The playback ended. Silence stabbed.
CJ stared at the cracked plaster ceiling. Blaze had just turned a schoolyard rivalry into public humiliation—and pulled Shantel into the crosshairs.
---
Morning light slid under the curtain like a knife. CJ's mum had already left for her double shift; a note on the table said "Stay safe. Remember who you are."
He jammed the note into his pocket, grabbed his notebook, and bolted.
---
The Hideout — 11:17 a.m.
Tico's one-room studio smelled of solder and stale fries. The crew huddled around battered speakers.
"Track's charting on the hood page," James said, scrolling. "Seven hundred plays in four hours."
"Let him have his clicks," Lulu growled. "We clap back and bury him."
Charles shook his head. "Not just a diss track. Blaze dragged Shantel. That's a red line."
CJ, silent until now, opened his notebook. Pages brimmed with half-rhymes, fury splattered in jagged ink.
"I'm done playing defense," he said, voice low. "Tonight we answer. No half-measures."
Tico nodded, opened FL Studio, pulled up a beat he'd been saving—ominous piano over trap drums, like church bells in a thunderstorm.
CJ closed his eyes. Breathe in tempo, breathe out truth.
Verse spilled:
> "You weaponize sirens—I harmonize storms /
Your threats paper-thin like the hood you perform /
Drag a queen in your gutter, that's a cowardly flex /
I crown her in my stanza—watch royalty check…"
Every line hit harder, voice sharpening on the mic. Lulu layered a haunting hook:
> "Can't mute the truth, can't clip these wings /
From the ashes, the phoenix sings…"
When they finished, sweat shone on their faces like war paint. Tico mastered fast, eyes blister-red. By dusk, the track was live.
Title: "Ash to Anthem."
---
Viral Detonation — 9:42 p.m.
Phones vibrated like a swarm. The hood page blew up—#AshToAnthem trending locally. Listeners called CJ's rebuttal "surgical," "biblical," "proof that Blaze just got baptized by fire."
But a new notification cut the celebration.
> Blaze (DM): You crossed a line. Pull up Riverside Park. Midnight. No crews. Just you and me.
Blaze (DM): Or I'll find your girl first.
CJ's pulse roared. Before the crew could protest, he typed:
> CJ: Midnight. I'll be there.
---
Riverside Park — 11:59 p.m.
Fog curled over the abandoned skate bowls, moonlight slicing through ripped chain-link. CJ arrived alone—except he wasn't.
Shantel stepped from the mist.
"Thought you might need backup." Her eyes flashed—fearless.
"Shan, it's not safe—"
Footsteps. Blaze emerged, Kevy lurking behind with a phone livestreaming.
"Couldn't keep your word, rookie?" Blaze sneered at Shantel. "Fine. Both of you can learn."
He flicked a switchblade open. Steel glinted.
CJ's breath iced. But Shantel moved first—threw her sketchbook at Blaze's face. Paper fluttered like startled birds. CJ lunged, tackling Blaze; blade skidded across concrete.
Kevy charged, but Charles burst through the fence with Lulu and Tico. The crew had tailed CJ after all. In seconds Kevy was down, phone spinning.
Blaze scrambled up, lip bleeding, eyes wild. Sirens wailed again—someone had called cops.
CJ stood over him, fists clenched but spared the final punch. He leaned close, voice steady:
"Next time you write my name, spell it legend."
Police lights washed the park blue-red. Blaze bolted into the dark, Kevy limped after. The crew melted away before the cops arrived.
---
Dawn
CJ and Shantel sat atop a shipping container watching sunrise burn Nairobi skies tangerine.
She opened the battered sketchbook; inside, last night's sheets were slashed, but the first page showed CJ mid-performance—eyes fierce, mic ablaze—drawn in graphite.
"I sketched what I saw in you," she whispered.
CJ traced the lines. "I'll write what I see in you."
She smiled—the storm-calm smile that started all this. Below, Lulu's phone blasted Ash to Anthem through tinny speakers as the city woke.
CJ inhaled dawn air heavy with diesel and possibility.
The war wasn't over.
But the world was finally listening.
And CJ?
He had more than bars now.
He had a reason.