CJ stood at the center of the DeepSound studio, eyes closed, headphones on, letting the beat throb through his bones.
It was a darker, more polished sound than he was used to—trap drums over a haunting piano, the kind of instrumental that whispered fame in one ear and warned of danger in the other.
Neville, the engineer, nodded through the glass. "You ready, bro?"
CJ didn't answer. He just stepped to the mic.
> "Fame feel like fire in a cold room,
Bright lights, but I'm shadowed by my own crew.
They said we'd rise together, that was the theme,
But I feel more alone at the top than in the dream…"
Neville paused the recording.
"Whew. That line gonna sting," he muttered.
CJ pulled off the headphones. "It's the truth."
"Truth always stings, bro," Neville replied. "But careful—you don't want to turn your crew into fans who feel forgotten."
CJ didn't reply. His phone vibrated. Again.
He glanced down: 4 missed calls from Lulu. 1 from Charles. 1 from Mum.
His stomach tightened. He hadn't called home in two days.
---
Outside, the city was alive with a weekend pulse. People in snapbacks and sneakers stood in long queues at matatu stages, music leaking from phones and stalls. But CJ's world felt quieter than ever.
He walked fast, hoodie pulled low. Still, someone noticed.
"Yo! It's CJ! The Pulse guy!"
A group of teens surrounded him, phones out.
"Drop a line! Just one bar, bro!"
CJ gave them a quick smile and spat a freestyle. It wasn't his best—his mind was elsewhere—but they cheered anyway.
Fame, he was learning, had no brakes. Once it started rolling, it didn't care if you were ready or not.
---
Back at his apartment, his mother sat on the couch, blanket over her lap.
"You look tired," she said, studying him.
"I'm fine," he lied.
She tapped the empty seat beside her. He sat.
"I saw your radio interview."
CJ turned to her, surprised. "You did?"
"You speak well. Like your late uncle."
She poured tea into chipped mugs. "You're rising, CJ. But remember—eagles fly alone. And sometimes, they forget how to land."
He took a sip, unsure how to answer that.
"You miss your friends?" she asked.
"Yeah," he admitted quietly. "But it's like we're speaking different languages now."
"Maybe they're waiting for you to translate."
---
Meanwhile, across town, Lulu sat on her front step, phone in hand, still no reply from CJ.
She scrolled through his page—new photo shoots, captions with tags she didn't recognize, comments from artists she used to admire.
James arrived, two sodas in hand.
"He's not coming back, is he?" Lulu asked.
James passed her a soda. "Not unless something pulls him back."
"What would?"
James looked away. "Sometimes... failure."
She winced. "Don't say that."
"I'm not hoping for it. But fame moves fast. One wrong move, one scandal, one flop single... and boom. You're back here. With us."
They both sipped in silence.
---
The next day, CJ had a meeting with Blanco at a rooftop café in Westlands.
"Your freestyle is blowing up," Blanco said, scrolling his phone. "The one outside the studio? We're at 250k views."
CJ nodded, eyes tired.
"We should capitalize on this energy. You're performing at the Urban Pulse Festival next Friday."
"What?" CJ blinked. "That's in a week."
"You'll headline the underground stage. Mufasa K is closing the main one. It's time you step into the big boy shoes."
CJ sat back, overwhelmed.
"And about the contract," Blanco added. "I've got a light version here—non-exclusive, three songs. We just shape your brand. We help you launch properly."
He slid the contract across the table.
CJ stared at it. His hand twitched. He thought of Lulu's eyes. Charles's disappointed silence. His mum's voice.
> Eagles fly alone... but they forget how to land.
He didn't touch the paper.
"Can I take it home?" he asked.
Blanco smiled, thin and tight. "Of course. But don't wait too long. Spotlight shifts fast."
---
That night, CJ climbed the rooftop.
The one he used to freestyle on with Lulu and the guys.
It was empty now. The wind whispered between broken rails and concrete blocks.
He pulled out his notebook.
The one Lulu gave him when he couldn't afford new pages.
He opened to a fresh sheet. For the first time in weeks, he didn't write for fans or followers. He wrote for them. For himself.
> "The mic gave me wings, but silence gave me sight,
Fame gave me fire, but my crew gave me light.
I ran from the roots, chasing high acclaim—
But what's a crown worth, if I forget my name?"
He closed the book. Sat there in the wind. Breathing.
Tomorrow, he'd call them.
Not to explain.
But to listen.
Because maybe the only thing harder than rising… was learning how to rise without leaving the ground behind.
---