Chapter Eleven: Signed, Sealed… & Shaken
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1 Morning Glory & Hangover Lights
Sunlight crawled across CJ's face like a slow-moving spotlight. He blinked, half convinced last night's showcase was a dream. But the chain around Shantel's neck—his headphone pendant—glinted in the morning glow, proof that the night had been very real, very loud, and very theirs.
They were curled together on the creaky rooftop couch outside Tico's studio. Nairobi's bustle was already warming up: matatus honking rhythms, vendors singing fruit-stand hooks, pigeons flapping in off-beat percussion.
Shantel traced invisible eighth-notes on CJ's forearm.
"Think the judges still have eardrums?" she teased.
CJ kissed her knuckle. "If they don't, at least they've got heartbeats."
A cough echoed up the stairwell—lighter than the gravel cough CJ dreaded—but still Mama's cough. He flinched. Shantel caught it, worry knitting her brow.
"Doctor's appointment today?"
CJ nodded. "Results. Noon."
A new vibration buzzed between them. CJ's cracked phone. Caller ID: ESTELLE KOVA.
"Answer," Shantel mouthed.
He slid green. "This is CJ."
Estelle's voice was wine-smooth, business-sharp. "Congratulations, superstar. The entire board watched your set twice before sunrise. They're offering a three-album deal with Trustline Records."
CJ's breath caught. Shantel squeezed his hand until his bones ached.
"But"—Estelle's soft tone sliced—"there's urgency. The contract expires in forty-eight hours. Come to headquarters at six p.m. to sign, or we move to runner-up."
The line clicked dead. No time for questions, no space for delight.
Shantel exhaled a trembling laugh. "Forty-eight hours. No pressure."
CJ tried to smile. "We've played bigger clocks."
Yet a knot formed in his chest: Why the rush?
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2 Hospital Halls & Heavy Words
St. Mary's Outpatient smelled of disinfectant and worry. CJ's mother sat on the paper-covered exam bed, cheeks pale but eyes fierce. The doctor spoke in measured Swahili, flipping charts like vinyl records he'd already memorized.
"Bronchial infection has improved," he said. "But the pulmonary scarring remains. We need a four-week medication cycle—costly, unfortunately." He wrote a number on a sticky note and passed it to CJ: KSh 120 000.
CJ's stomach plunged. That was six months' rent. He hid the note, forced a grin for his mum. "We'll make it work."
She touched his cheek. "Your music will carry us, mtoto."
He hoped she was right—hoped the contract money wasn't a mirage.
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3 Fine Print & Faux Smiles
Trustline's glass façade gleamed like temptation at sunset. CJ and Shantel sat across from a slick lawyer named Kwame, who slid a contract thick as a mixtape anthology across the conference table.
"Standard 360 deal," Kwame said. "The label fronts recording, promotion, merchandise. You hand over fifty percent of publishing, seventy of touring, and first refusal on future projects."
Shantel flipped pages, frown deepening. "Seven-zero on touring?"
Kwame's grin never wavered. "You'll still profit handsomely. Remember—fame is a partnership."
CJ's mind did math against hospital bills, studio dreams, street cred, and something even heavier: owning his own words.
"Can we review overnight?" CJ asked.
Kwame's smile thinned. "Clock's ticking."
They left with a red folder that felt radioactive in CJ's backpack.
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4 Letters & Ghosts
Night draped over Eastpoint. The crew gathered at Tico's, contract on the table. Charles crunched numbers, James googled horror stories about 360 deals, Lulu cursed every second clause aloud.
A knock rattled the metal door.
Blaze. Alone, hoodie down, eyes red as exit signs. He held a crumpled envelope.
"Got thirty seconds?" he rasped.
Lulu stepped forward, protective. Blaze raised both palms. "No beef. Proof." He handed CJ the envelope and left without another word.
Inside: a single-page photocopy of a different Trustline contract—Blaze's. Dated a year back. Red annotations circled unrecouped debt and indefinite extension. Scribbled at the bottom in Blaze's messy hand:
> RUN BEFORE YOU'RE OWNED.
I'm still paying. They own Milo too. That's why he sabotaged you—he promised them a scandal to wipe his debt. Don't be next. –B
Silence gulped the room.
Shantel's voice shook. "What do we do?"
CJ stared at Blaze's note, then at his mother's medical bill on the wall. Two pieces of paper, two futures pulling him apart.
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5 Heartbeat Decisions
Midnight atop the familiar rooftop. Wind tasted of rain and uncertainty. CJ stood facing the city lights while Shantel clutched his pendant.
"If we walk," he said, "we might lose studio time, radio play— money Mama needs."
"If you sign, you might lose your name," she whispered. "Your freedom."
Thunder mumbled over Ngong Hills.
CJ took her hands. "I've spent my life turning pain into lyrics. Maybe I can flip contracts too."
She blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Renegotiate. Use the buzz. Offer them a single, not three albums. Keep publishing. They want us because we're fire right now—let's burn on our terms."
Shantel's smile was slow, bright. "You're crazy."
"Music is therapy," he said. "And rebellion is the dosage."
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6 Boardroom Battle: Part II
Next day, 4 p.m.—two hours before the deadline—CJ, Shantel, and the crew marched back into Trustline, energy crackling like live wires. Estelle sat flanked by Kwame and two silent executives.
CJ placed a USB on the table. "Unreleased single. Four-minute bomb. You sign this deal—one single, forty percent label cut, zero touring share—or the track drops online at midnight, indie. And we take the crowd with us."
The executives whispered. Kwame's jaw twitched. Estelle tapped a pen, eyes sharp but impressed.
"You think leverage comes that easy?" she said.
CJ met her gaze. "I don't think. I know. Check last night's stats— our showcase clip is at two million views. That's leverage."
Silence stretched tight. Finally, Estelle flipped to a blank contract page, scribbled new terms. "One single. Promotional option on an EP if mutually agreed. Fifty-fifty publishing."
Kwame scowled, but signed. CJ and Shantel added their names—ink bold, spirits bolder.
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7 Victory… & A New Siren
They spilled into the street, laughter mixing with matatu horns. Lulu hugged Shantel; Charles lifted CJ in a dizzy spin.
Then CJ's phone rang again—unknown number. He almost ignored it. Answered.
A gruff voice. "Mr. CJ? This is Dr. Kibet at St. Mary's. Your mother's breathing worsened. We've moved her to ICU. We need the medication deposit tonight."
CJ's world narrowed to a pulse.
Shantel saw his face drain. "What happened?"
He forced words around the knot in his throat. "Mama… ICU." He handed her the signed contract. "Take this—get the advance."
She clutched the folder to her chest. "How much?"
"Everything," he whispered.
They broke into a run—down the buzzing street, past neon stalls, under storm-bruise clouds—two lovers sprinting against time, contracts flapping like desperate wings.
Above them, thunder cracked. Somewhere in the city, an unreleased single waited to shake the world.
But for CJ, only one beat mattered now: his mother's next breath—and the promise he'd keep it singing.
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