CJ stood at the edge of the stage at the Phoenix Lounge, breathing in the humid, electric air. The crowd was a thick, sweating organism of anticipation, packed tighter than ever before. The last few battles had transformed him from a neighborhood underdog to a name people began to whisper about in barber shops, bus stops, and online forums. But tonight wasn't just about fame. It was about proving—once and for all—that the streets hadn't raised him in vain.
Charles, Lulu, Tico, and James stood behind him like a human wall, eyes scanning the packed club. All of them wore different flavors of anticipation: Lulu was bouncing slightly, hyped; Charles had that serious face that made people assume he was older; James was mumbling lyrics under his breath, fists balled; and Tico—well, Tico was steady, his stillness almost eerie.
The lounge lights dimmed, and DJ Flame stepped into his booth. The crowd roared, phones lifted like torches in the night. This wasn't just a local competition. It was The Pulse Battle Royale—the semi-annual cypher hosted in Nairobi that attracted everyone from street poets to big label scouts.
"Y'all ready?" DJ Flame's voice blasted through the speakers. "This ain't your cousin's mixtape. This is war on wax. Let's get it!"
A bell rang. First round. Opponent: Rekta, an older rapper known for slicing opponents open with metaphors so tight they left scars.
CJ nodded to Charles. "I got this."
He stepped forward into the circle as Rekta strutted in from the other side. Rekta wore confidence like cologne—loud and unmistakable. The beat dropped, hard and minimalist, all drums and tension.
Rekta didn't waste a second:
> "I eat kids like you for breakfast—bars on my spoon,
Your rhymes die fast like June in a monsoon,
You think you're tough 'cause your crew roll deep,
But I'm the nightmare that don't let dreams sleep."
The crowd "ooooohed." Rekta smirked, stepping back like he'd already won.
CJ stepped up, heart pounding, but mind sharp. He took a breath and fired:
> "You say you eat kids? Then I'm poison on your plate,
Laced with ambition that your ego can't debate.
You spittin' nightmares? I write 'em while I'm chillin',
My bars build futures—yours stuck in villain."
"Yeeeeaaaaahhh!" Lulu screamed behind him. The crowd swayed, caught in the momentum.
The DJ scratched, transitioning into the next beat. The judges nodded slightly—neutral, but listening hard.
After two more rounds, the bell rang.
"Make some noise if you think Rekta won!"
Applause. Some decent claps.
"Now make some noise if CJ took this battle!"
The room exploded. People stomped, chanted, hands raised in unity.
CJ didn't smile. He simply gave Rekta a head nod and walked off the stage.
---
Backstage, Tico handed him a towel. "Stay cool. That was only the first. Two more to go."
CJ sat, towel over his head. The voices around him blurred, but one cut through.
"You holding up?" Lulu asked, kneeling in front of him. "You zoned out."
CJ looked up. "I'm good. Just thinking about my mom."
Esther Wambui. Her name rang like a bell in his chest. She'd worked late every day to make sure CJ had food, shelter, and enough light to scribble lyrics in his school notebooks. Her voice, firm but loving, always reminded him to "finish what you start."
He whispered to himself, "I'm finishing this."
The next opponent was Baby Chrome, a fast-talking rapper from Mombasa known for weaving Swahili and English in a hypnotic rhythm. His style was flashy, but his bars hit like brass knuckles.
On stage again. Second round.
Baby Chrome opened with fire:
> "CJ in the building? I thought this was a cypher—
Not a school kid spitting bars out a typewriter.
I'm coast-born, storm-bred, voice of the tide,
You just a math student trying not to divide."
The crowd chuckled. Even CJ winced slightly—Baby Chrome's flow was smooth.
But he stepped up, eye steady:
> "Chrome so shiny, but still soft like foam,
Got no edge when I zone—my voice break bones.
I'm no school kid, I'm the bell that rings ends,
Of weak kings wearing crowns they just pretend."
James shouted from the crowd, "YEAH CJ!"
Chrome tried another verse, but stumbled slightly on a word. It was enough.
After a short deliberation, CJ moved to the finals.
---
Now it was him versus Spitta G—a tall, silent rapper from Nakuru with a shaved head and eyes like ice. Spitta had destroyed his last three opponents, including a former Pulse winner. His silence made him terrifying—he never celebrated, never cracked, never reacted.
As they stood on opposite ends of the stage, DJ Flame spoke into the mic.
"This is it. The crown. The bragging rights. The deal. Spitta G vs CJ. Two beasts. One mic."
The beat dropped—a slow, haunting boom bap.
Spitta G went first. No flash. Just heat.
> "No need to yell when your silence is deadly,
I spit pain like rain till your hopes ain't steady.
I saw you cry once—bet your tears wrote that rhyme,
But pain don't make poets, boy—it makes time."
CJ blinked. He felt that. It wasn't a diss—it was a challenge.
He stepped up. No games now.
> "You say pain don't make poets? Then why we both here?
With verses carved from scars and voices soaked in fear.
I cried, yeah. But I used tears like ink—
Wrote my way out the dark, even when life made me sink."
The crowd was dead silent. Hanging. Feeling it.
He continued:
> "You Spitta G, and I respect your calm storm,
But I'm CJ—built from every night I felt torn.
I ain't just fighting to win, I fight to be seen—
For every kid with a dream who's caught in between."
Spitta nodded slowly. A rare gesture.
The bell rang. Judges talked. The crowd stayed silent, waiting.
Then Flame stepped up.
"The winner of Pulse Battle Royale 2025 is…"
A pause. A breath.
"CJ!"
The roof came off.
---
Later that night, outside the club, as Nairobi's night buzzed around them, CJ stood alone for a moment, his trophy under one arm.
Tico joined him. "You changed tonight."
CJ exhaled. "Not changed. Just arrived."
From his pocket, he pulled out his cracked phone and dialed.
"Hallo?" came his mother's voice, sleepy.
"Mum. I won."
Silence. Then, tears.
"Oh CJ… I always knew."
He swallowed hard, gazing at the stars. "I did it for you."
Behind him, Charles shouted, "CJ! They want pictures!"
He turned, walking back toward his crew. Toward the lights.
This was just the beginning.
---