Chapter Sixteen: Echoes of a Crown
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1 Rooftop Reverie
A lavender dusk settled over Umoja Estate, painting corrugated roofs the color of bruised peaches. CJ stood on his familiar rooftop stage—really just two long tables lashed together—watching Shantel splash white paint across a sheet to spell the words THE CROWNLESS CONCERT in bold, drippy letters.
"Perfect," he said, taking her paint-stained hand. "Because crowns rust, but voices ring."
She grinned through a strand of loose braid. "And tonight, your voice is the only royalty that matters."
Around them Charles strung Christmas lights, Lulu tested a second-hand mixer, and James chased sparks from a faulty extension cord. The neighborhood kids jogged up the stairwell carrying plastic stools like VIP seats. For once Umoja's air was charged not with tension but with anticipation.
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2 A Call from the Clouds
CJ slipped away to fetch sodas. At the kiosk his phone buzzed: unknown number.
"This is CJ."
"Morning, young king. Blitz Amani, Zulu Empire Records. We need to meet."
CJ nearly knocked over a crate of Cokes. Blitz wasn't just any executive—he was a platinum rapper-turned-mogul whose verses had once taught CJ about flow.
"I heard Bridges Made of Music," Blitz continued, voice silk over static. "We're prepared to back you—tour, merch, global collabs—if you'll hear us out."
"How soon?" CJ asked, heart pounding.
"Tomorrow. Westlands. Penthouse studio. Noon. Bring your partner—the girl with the sketchbook hook."
Call ended, CJ stared at the dying sunset. Fame was no longer a distant star; it was knocking on the door with polished shoes.
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3 The Penthouse Pitch
Westlands the next day felt like another planet—glass towers and valet smiles. Shantel clutched CJ's arm as they rode the lift to the 20th floor, palms sweating despite the AC.
Blitz met them in a lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows. Afro-beat lo-fi murmured from invisible speakers. He wore a charcoal suit and sunglasses, even indoors.
"CJ," he said, shaking hands. "Shantel. You're both meteors waiting to light the industry."
A junior exec slid a thick folder across a marble table. "Three-album deal, international rollout. Six-figure advance."
CJ's pulse leapt—Mama's hospital bills, future tours… but he kept his poker face.
Blitz tapped the folder. "Just polish the message. Less estate angst, more universal uplift. Album title suggestion: Nairobi Dreams. Cleaner than Mama's Voice."
Shantel's jaw tensed. "Her voice is universal."
Blitz spread his hands. "We're not erasing her—just broadening appeal."
CJ closed the folder. "And the publishing split?"
"Standard industry—sixty us, forty you."
Shantel exhaled sharp. CJ thought of Mama humming in that cold ICU, thought of Joseph's bullet, thought of every flat football kicked across dusty streets.
"We'll think on it," CJ said, rising.
Blitz's confident smile barely flickered, but his lenses followed them out like twin cameras.
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4 The Pulse of Home
Back in Umoja by twilight, CJ and Shantel climbed the rooftop. The lights were up, the stage set, the words CROWNLESS billowing like a rebel banner.
CJ opened the contract again, pages fluttering in the evening wind. "We could clear every debt tonight," he murmured. "Mama could move somewhere with real walls, real air."
Shantel laid her charcoal-smudged fingers on the page. "But at the price of her name?"
CJ's gaze drifted to the estate below—laundry lines, matatu horns, barefoot children practicing dance moves under a flickering street lamp. "This block made me. If I sand off its edges, what's left?"
She took his face in her hands. "Your truth isn't ugly, CJ. It's gold covered in dust. Anyone who really sees it will buy the gold with the dust."
He kissed her forehead and ripped the contract neatly in two. Paper scraps scattered like captive birds tasting sky.
"Then we stay crownless," he whispered. "And loud."
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5 Mama's Green-Light
The day of the show, CJ visited the hospital alone. Mama was propped on pillows, eyes clearer each dawn. He played her the new master of the title track, Her Song, My Soul.
Tears glistened but didn't fall. "People will hear my son," she said softly. "That's all a mother needs."
CJ placed a backstage pass—hand-drawn, laminated with tape—on her bedside table. "I'll livestream it for you."
She pressed his fingers. "Sing me truth, mtoto."
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6 Curtain Up on Concrete
Nightfall. The rooftop throbbed with bodies—neighbors, random vloggers, even a couple of indie journalists. Lava lamps on borrowed generators cast nebulae against the water tanks. The air smelled of chips mwitu and cheap perfume.
Brian "Blaze" Omondi arrived, sober eyes shining. He stood by the stairs, a quiet sentinel in a rehab-issued hoodie. CJ nodded gratitude; Brian nodded back—no words needed.
Lulu's voice boomed through the dented PA. "Umoja, are you ready?"
A roar, raw and real.
Tico dropped the beat: a heartbeat-deep kick, high-hat rainfall. CJ stepped forward, Shantel by his side in a flowing indigo duster speckled with white paint. Phones rose like fireflies.
CJ's opening verse sliced the Nairobi night:
> "No throne, no gold, just rust on my shoes,
Mama sold rings so her son couldn't lose.
Now I polish that rust till it blinds every doubt,
My crown is the chorus the block screams out."
Shantel answered with a melody that fluttered, then soared:
> "We are the sky in the city's ache,
The song that rain on tin roofs makes."
James triggered a recorded sample of Mama's hum—Hakuna mungu kama wewe—looped into the hook. The crowd gasped, recognizing the sacred hush of home turned into art.
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7 The Power Cut & the Promise
Three songs in, the generator sputtered. Lights died. Speakers hissed. For half a second there was only night. Gasps rippled.
CJ raised his un-mic'd voice. "Phones up!"
Hundreds of screens lit like constellations, washing the rooftop in blue-white glow. Shantel began a gentle a cappella refrain:
> "If the power fades, let our hearts ignite,
If the world goes dark, we'll be our own light."
CJ followed, rapping sixteen bars raw, no beat, the city below holding its breath. When he ended, the generator coughed back to life—as if refusing to miss the encore.
Thunderous cheers shook the flimsy plywood stage.
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8 Blitz Watches in the Dark
Across the street, inside a parked SUV, Blitz Amani lowered binoculars. He had come to see how a "street kid" handled a crowd without corporate shine.
The phone in his hand buzzed with notifications—livestream links, #CrownlessConcert trending. He smirked, half annoyed, half intrigued.
"Maybe raw sells, too," he muttered. "Maybe we let the dust shine."
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9 An Unwritten Future
After the finale, CJ and Shantel collapsed onto an upturned milk crate, sweat and euphoria mingling. Kids crowded for selfies; aunties pressed chapatis into their hands; a tearful teen shoved a note: "Your song stopped me from quitting school. Asante."
CJ read the note twice, throat tight. Shantel squeezed his knee.
"This is why we tore that contract," she whispered.
"Yeah," CJ said, voice hoarse. "But we're not done. Mama still needs a safer roof. The world still needs the album."
A familiar figure approached—Brian, holding a flash drive. "Beats I made in therapy," he said, shy. "Free. No strings."
CJ clasped his shoulder. "BarCode 2.0?"
Brian grinned. "If the king will have a knight in recovery."
Shantel laughed. "Welcome to the crownless court."
CJ looked over the estate, lights flickering, music still echoing from tin radios on balconies.
They were dust and gold, truth and thunder, crowns built from chorus. And the world had only heard the first verse.
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End of Chapter Sixteen