Bonus Chapter: Esther Wambui – The Fire Behind the Flame
The kettle whistled sharply, cutting through the silence in the small kitchen. Esther Wambui moved slowly, her shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her joints aching in familiar places.
She poured the hot water over loose tea leaves, added milk, and stirred slowly.
Her son was becoming famous.
That sentence repeated in her head every morning like a psalm.
My son is becoming famous.
But underneath the pride lived something else. Something harder to name.
She carried the tea into the living room and sat on the edge of the couch, where the fabric had worn thin from years of long evenings.
CJ's voice echoed softly from the old TV—a replay of his radio interview.
He looked confident. Poised. Like a man.
But when she looked closer, she saw it—the shadow beneath his smile. The same one he wore as a boy after his father disappeared. That same subtle sadness that never left completely.
Esther sipped her tea. Warm. Steady. Just like she had taught him to be.
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Her thoughts drifted back to the early years.
She remembered finding him writing lyrics on the back of cereal boxes and homework books, his head always nodding to a beat only he could hear. She'd scolded him once, maybe twice, for wasting paper—but deep down, she'd known:
CJ wasn't like the other boys.
He carried too much in his chest. Words. Dreams. Fears.
She once caught him rapping in front of the bathroom mirror. The moment he saw her, he stopped, embarrassed. She hadn't laughed. Instead, she told him, "Your voice is strong. Use it well."
She wasn't sure if he remembered that. But she did. Every day.
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The coughing had gotten worse lately. She tried to hide it. She didn't want to worry him—especially now, when his light was finally rising above the clouds.
But sometimes, at night, she felt the weight of it pressing on her chest. The silence of her body betraying her.
She had gone to the clinic. The doctor had mentioned tests she couldn't afford.
"We'll know more next week," they'd said.
She hadn't told CJ the full truth. Not yet. He had enough on his plate.
But part of her wondered… Would he come back down for her, if she fell? Would the spotlight blind him to her shadow?
She didn't know. And that uncertainty ached deeper than the illness.
---
Later that day, a neighbor's daughter knocked on her door.
"Auntie Esther, is CJ really performing at the Urban Pulse Festival?"
Esther smiled. "Yes, my son is performing."
The girl's eyes sparkled. "We're watching him on TikTok! He's going to be a star!"
Esther nodded. "He already is. To me."
When the girl left, Esther stood for a long moment by the door, looking out over the estate—the clotheslines, the balconies, the children's laughter bouncing off walls.
It was a hard place to raise a boy.
But she had done it.
She'd fought through shame, hunger, loneliness. Some nights she ate nothing so CJ could have extra ugali. She worked two cleaning jobs. She sold second-hand clothes in Gikomba on weekends. And when he said he wanted to be a rapper, she didn't laugh. She didn't roll her eyes like the neighbors.
She simply asked, "Do you believe in it?"
He had nodded. Serious. Burning.
That was all she needed.
---
That evening, CJ came home briefly. He looked tired.
"Ma," he said, setting down his backpack. "You okay?"
She smiled. "You finally remembered this house exists?"
He chuckled. "I've just been busy…"
"I know. I see it. The world is pulling at you."
She poured him tea, made with cardamom—his favorite.
"You've been good," she said softly.
CJ looked down.
"Too good," she added. "So good, I'm afraid it'll change you."
He blinked. "You think I'm changing?"
"No. I think the world wants to change you. And you're letting it."
He was quiet.
She reached across the table and took his hand.
"CJ," she whispered, "you were born to be heard. But don't let noise replace your voice."
He looked at her, throat tight. "I feel… alone sometimes."
"You won't always feel that way. You just need to remember where your center is."
He swallowed. "Ma…"
She patted his hand. "Go sleep. You need it. Fame doesn't rest—but you must."
---
When he left the room, she sat alone, staring at his trophy on the shelf.
It was beautiful.
Golden.
But it couldn't hug her.
It couldn't carry her shopping.
It couldn't promise that CJ would still be hers when the world finished with him.
So she whispered a quiet prayer. Not for his success. Not even for his safety.
But for his soul.
Because only a mother knows:
Fame is a flame.
And boys—no matter how bright they burn—are still made of soft, flammable things.
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