The sky was pouring again. Not the angry kind of rain that flooded Umoja's alleys, but soft, steady drops — like the world itself was humming a quiet lullaby. CJ stood on the rooftop of their old flats, hoodie up, notebook open, and heart spinning like vinyl on a dusty turntable.
Below, the city whispered. Horns, prayers, laughter, and broken promises in traffic form.
Next to him, Shantel sat cross-legged on a tattered mat, sketchpad on her lap, box braids wet from the mist.
"You always write up here when it rains?" she asked without looking up.
CJ exhaled, eyes still scanning the horizon. "Only when I don't have the words. Up here... it's like they find me."
Shantel smirked, "Or maybe you just like the view of my sketches."
He glanced down at her book. A drawing of him, mid-performance, head tilted, mouth open like he was catching fire instead of spitting bars.
"You made me look like a preacher," he laughed.
"You kind of are," she shrugged. "Just not in a church."
That hit him.
She always did that — dropped one-liners that echoed louder than beats. And somehow, her silence made noise too.
---
CJ turned back to his notebook. The page stared back, blank but expectant. He hated this part. When emotions stormed louder than his pen.
"I can freestyle in front of a hundred people, but I can't tell you how I feel," he muttered.
"Then rap it," she said simply.
He blinked. "Right now?"
She nodded.
So he stood, closed the book, and let the beat in his mind play. It was soft, mellow, like a jazz riff over trap drums.
He inhaled. Then let it out — not a battle verse, not bars for TikTok — but raw, unfiltered truth:
> "You my peace in a place that don't rest /
Ink in a world that don't bless /
I ain't crowned, but when I see you /
I feel royal in my chest…"
He paused.
Shantel didn't laugh. She didn't even smile. She just looked at him like he was home.
"Say it again," she whispered.
He walked closer.
> "I ain't crowned…
But when I see you…
I feel royal."
Her sketchpad slid from her lap. The rain blurred the lines. But CJ saw her eyes — glistening with the same storm inside him.
She stood. No umbrella. No defense.
And then she kissed him.
Not like in the movies — no spinning cameras, no soundtrack. Just lips on lips. Breath on breath. Truth meeting truth.
When they pulled apart, she whispered, "You feel like poetry."
---
Later that evening, they sat under the shelter of a stairwell. Esther Wambui, CJ's mother, had texted:
"Come home before 9. Bring Shantel if she's hungry."
"She likes you," CJ said.
"Your mom?"
He nodded. "She says your silence reminds her of herself. Except… yours comes with color."
Shantel smiled softly. "And yours comes with fire."
She paused, her eyes distant. "My brother used to say something similar."
"Joseph?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "He said the loudest people often have the quietest pain. I think that's why I fell for your music before I even knew you."
CJ looked away, humbled. "You think I'm loud?"
"I think you're loud with purpose. It echoes. Even after it's over."
---
As they walked back through the alleyways of Umoja, CJ felt something shift. Not in the air — in his soul. Like the music wasn't something he performed anymore. It was something he lived.
But the moment was cut by a voice from the shadows.
"You still writing rhymes when the streets are bleeding, CJ?"
Blaze.
Leaning against a wall, hoodie up, eyes sharp as a broken bottle.
Shantel stiffened beside him.
CJ stepped forward. "I write 'cause they're bleeding. You stopped writing. You forgot."
Blaze scoffed. "Nah, I just started surviving."
"You call that surviving?" CJ pointed at the scar on Blaze's lip. "You're drowning in the same blood Joseph bled."
That was too far. Shantel flinched.
But Blaze didn't lash out. He just nodded slowly. "You're right. And maybe I ain't the villain anymore, CJ. Maybe I'm just the ghost."
And with that, he walked away.
---
Back at the house, Esther Wambui was seated on the edge of the couch, her body thin, but her presence strong. A pot of boiling tea hissed in the background.
Shantel helped her plate ugali and sukuma wiki. CJ sat at the small dining table, listening as his mother hummed softly — a tune from his childhood. Her hums were full of memory. Full of prayers that never made it to words.
"CJ," Esther said gently, "a woman can love a man who raps. But she stays with one who listens."
He nodded. "I'm trying."
"I know," she smiled. "I hear it in your silence. You're not just rapping anymore. You're becoming."
---
That night, CJ sat at the foot of his bed. Shantel had gone home. Esther was asleep.
The sound of rain still danced on the windowpane.
CJ opened his notebook again — the same blank page.
He didn't hesitate this time.
He wrote the hook first:
> "I don't need chains.
I don't need fame.
I just need rain, a beat, and her name."
Then the verse:
> "Mama's hum in the nighttime glow
Shantel's kiss when the pain runs low
Blaze in the dark like a faded flame
Me in the middle with a borrowed name…"
This wasn't a song for TikTok. This was for him. For the boy who had written bars in darkness and dreamed in silence.
He titled the page:
"Echoes in the Rain."
And underneath, he scribbled a line for himself:
> "Even crownless kings build kingdoms... one verse at a time."