The fame hadn't come with a parade — it came with pressure. It came with murmurs in the crowd. With rivals watching every step. With managers calling and never following through. With expectations so loud, CJ couldn't hear himself think.
The success of their Phoenix Lounge performance had gone viral in ways none of them expected. They'd landed in someone's Nairobi culture vlog. Then someone else's TikTok breakdown. Then came the radio interview with NRG Radio's "Young Blood" segment, where Lulu boldly said, "We're not just rappers — we're a revolution in sneakers."
It was all happening fast.
Too fast.
But while the buzz grew, the crew's bond began to stretch.
---
"You changed the hook again?" Charles said, his voice laced with tension.
CJ stood by the speaker, phone in hand. "Yeah. It didn't feel tight. The rhythm was off."
Charles folded his arms. "You're not the only one writing, bro. You can't keep switching lines without telling us."
Lulu, who had just walked into the studio — a small dusty room in the back of Tico's cousin's barbershop — raised a hand. "Yo, chill. We're all tired. Let's not fight over a chorus."
Tico didn't even look up from his phone. "Maybe we need to rest. Not every session gotta feel like war."
CJ rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept properly in two nights, his head filled with lyrics and the sound of his own doubts. Ever since Rico posted that freestyle dissing "plastic rappers dripping in borrowed fame," people had started speculating it was about Rebel Tongue. Comment sections boiled with theories.
"CJ's bars ain't hit like they used to."
"Lulu's carrying the group now."
"Y'all see Charles freeze at the last verse?"
The comments got under CJ's skin. Not because they were true — but because they could become true.
He stared at Charles. "I'm just trying to sharpen the blade, man. We can't be soft now."
Charles scoffed, grabbing his bag. "Maybe the blade's pointed at your own crew."
Then he left.
---
That night, CJ walked alone through the narrow alleys of Kayole, his hoodie up, headphones on. The beat in his ears was one he'd made himself — raw, gritty, unfiltered. It sounded like steel against stone. Like Nairobi after midnight.
He ducked into a corridor filled with graffiti and broken bricks. This was where it started. Where they used to practice their flows, ducking from cops and ducking from doubt.
He started freestyling under his breath:
> "Voices in the dark like whispers of regret,
Crew feel distant, like the sun already set,
Fame don't fix the hunger, just makes it loud,
And silence ain't golden — it's just lost in the crowd…"
He paused. Something moved in the shadows. A flicker. A footstep.
He turned.
A flashlight beam hit his face.
"CJ?"
It was Rita.
She stepped closer, hoodie zipped up, camera bag slung across her shoulder. She had been following their journey since that Phoenix Lounge show — documenting it all for her media school project. But lately, she'd grown bolder. Like she wasn't just recording the rise, but waiting for the fall.
"I saw Charles storm out earlier," she said. "You guys okay?"
CJ sighed. "We're… figuring it out."
She pulled out her phone. "You've got an offer. Big one."
He frowned. "From who?"
She showed him a message on her screen.
> Kulture254 wants CJ for a solo set — opening for Kahz Movement next month. It's a paid slot. They'll stream it live.
CJ's mouth went dry.
Kahz Movement. One of the biggest conscious rap groups in East Africa. Legends.
"But only me?" he asked slowly.
She nodded. "They said it's a solo stage. You're the frontman. Makes sense."
CJ looked away, guilt rushing through his veins like static. He knew what this could mean. Exposure. Recognition. A real career step.
But without Rebel Tongue?
---
The next day, the crew met at Lulu's grandmother's compound in Umoja. It was one of the few neutral spaces left — a place where they'd once written verses under mango trees while sipping cheap juice and talking dreams.
Lulu sat them down on the veranda, her voice firm. "We need to talk. Like properly. No mics. No beats. Just us."
Charles leaned on the railing, arms crossed. Tico kept pacing, occasionally kicking a stone across the grass.
CJ cleared his throat. "I got an offer."
They looked up.
"For a solo set," he said. "Opening for Kahz Movement. They said it's only one slot. No crew."
Silence.
Then Charles muttered, "So you taking it?"
CJ hesitated. "I don't know yet."
Lulu looked straight at him. "You should take it."
Tico stopped pacing. "Wait — what?"
She stood. "He should take it. But don't lie to yourself, CJ. If you go up there alone, it won't just be a performance. It'll be a statement. About who you are without us."
CJ felt the air leave his lungs.
"I'm not leaving Rebel Tongue," he said quickly.
"But you might," Charles shot back. "That's the thing. It's starting to look like it."
The conversation cracked like glass. No one raised their voice, but the weight of every sentence was enough to shatter windows.
Finally, Lulu said, "You need to think hard about what kind of artist you want to be. Because you're building something — either a legacy or a wall."
---
That night, CJ sat on the rooftop again — the same one from months ago, where rain once fell like applause from the heavens. But now, it was dry. Windy. Stars blinked above him like skeptical eyes.
He opened his notebook. Not to write, but to read.
He flipped through pages. His first freestyle. The rooftop rhymes. His mother's note tucked in the corner: "Speak light, even in the dark."
He pulled out his phone and texted Rita:
Not taking it. Unless they want the whole crew. No stage is worth a broken brotherhood.
She didn't reply right away.
But a minute later, three dots appeared.
Then:
> Damn. That's rare. I respect that.
Also… they just replied. They're willing to negotiate.