The first warning that Saturday was going to be different came with the sunrise. CJ rarely woke before seven, but his eyes sprang open at five-thirty, heart racing as if he'd slept through an alarm that never rang. The dawn light creeping through the curtains looked strange—almost theatrical, pale gold spilling over his notebook like a spotlight waiting for an actor.
He rolled out of bed, careful not to wake his mother, and padded into the narrow hallway. From the kitchen came the soft hiss of the kettle, a familiar soundtrack to every important decision of his life. Esther Wambui never missed a sunrise tea, even on the mornings her cough gnawed at her ribs.
CJ stuck his head around the doorway.
She didn't turn. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Conscience keeping you awake?" she teased.
He half-smiled, took two mugs from the shelf, and poured. "Big meeting today."
"With the crew?"
"And Blanco. Two worlds, one table. Should be fun."
Esther stirred her cup. "Remember what I told you: if two roads call your name, the true one is usually quieter."
He nodded, pretending to understand, though inside he felt like a man asked to read two different maps printed on the same sheet of paper.
---
1. Railway Lot Reunion
At ten, CJ crossed the trash-littered field behind the old railway sheds, the sun already turning Nairobi's corrugated roofs into mirrors. The entire crew was there—Lulu, Charles, Tico, and James—standing in a loose semi-circle as though they weren't sure whether to hug him or interrogate him.
CJ lifted a hand. "Morning."
James gave a fist bump; Charles nodded stiffly. Lulu's greeting was a silent smile that didn't reach her eyes. As for Tico, he merely checked his watch and said, "Blanco's coming?"
"Yeah. Figured we should all talk contracts together."
Charles snorted. "First time for everything."
CJ swallowed. He'd rehearsed apologies on the walk over, but they sounded thin in his head now. Instead of speeches, he reached into his backpack and pulled out five laminated passes, the DIY, hand-cut kind you print on an office machine.
ROOTS UNPLUGGED—An Independent Live Showcase. Venue: Dandora Phase 4 Community Hall. Date: Saturday Two Weeks From Now. Performers Pass.
"We headline as a unit," CJ said. "No managers, no sponsors, just us. One set: four tracks. Half new, half classics. What do you think?"
Lulu's eyes widened. James let out a low whistle. Even Charles's shoulders loosened.
Tico studied the passes. "Why Dandora?"
"Because that's where somebody keeps poking me from," CJ replied, voice tight. "If this G-Kross, Ghost-Text, whatever, wants to test my roots, let's take the music back there first."
There was an almost electric pause—agreement clothed in caution. Then Lulu stepped forward and hugged him. "Okay. Let's build a set list."
As the group clustered around a cracked plastic table to share lyric notebooks and earbud splitters, CJ felt a small weight slide off his chest. Maybe this was what Esther meant by the quieter road: the one without halftime dancers, social-media managers, or branded water bottles—just friends, scribbled bars, and drum loops playing through a phone that kept overheating in the sun.
---
2. Blanco's Bargain
Blanco arrived at noon in a silver Vitz with tinted windows, parking among rusting train carriages as though it were a hotel valet stand. He stepped out wearing mirrored sunglasses, a pastel blazer, and a smile too big for the neighborhood.
"Family reunion," he called, clapping his hands. "I love it."
CJ made introductions—again; Blanco always pretended to forget the crew, a trick to keep power asymmetrical. The manager set down his sleek leather folder on the same battered table the crew used as a drum pad.
"Item one," Blanco said, flipping pages. "CJ has a three-track deal on the table. Non-exclusive, generous splits, marketing push in East Africa and maybe Sauti-Fest if the single pops. Item two: we have a slot for him at the Skyline Sessions live-stream in four weeks. Big corporate money. Glow-in-the-dark set, VR stage, the works."
Charles leaned back. "And us?"
Blanco tapped the folder. "You're welcome as CJ's entourage."
Silence. The same train yard hush that swallowed shouts on windy days now swallowed Charles's anger.
Lulu cleared her throat. "We just agreed on a Dandora showcase—full crew. Any conflicts?"
Blanco waved a manicured hand. "Two weeks out? If the corporate event lands, we might need CJ rehearsing, shaping visuals. Dandora's… cute, but let's be real." He laughed, expecting applause.
No one laughed.
CJ felt the ground shift. He had known Blanco would balk, but not with such open disdain.
He exhaled. "Blanco, we're doing the Dandora show. If Skyline wants me after, cool. But I'm not canceling on my people."
Blanco's smile thinned. "You'll lose momentum."
"Then I'll build different momentum."
The manager shut the folder. "Think fast, CJ. The market doesn't wait."
CJ turned to his crew. "We never asked it to."
Lulu squeezed his arm. Charles broke into a grin—small, but real. Tico offered a half-salute. James pressed play on his portable speaker, and a raw beat filled the lot, louder than Blanco's engine as he drove off without another word.
---
3. Side Lives, Side Fights
Lulu
That evening Lulu sat in her one-room bedsitter, door open to let in the corridor's cooler air and the muffled gossip of neighbors. She laid out flyers for Roots Unplugged across her mattress like tarot cards, marking each with bright highlighters—one color for social posts, one for physical handouts, one for barter deals with local food vendors.
Her phone buzzed: @SoulSisters-Poetry DM'd, asking if CJ would share the stage. Lulu typed back: "It's not CJ's stage. It's OURS."
She reread the sentence, a small burst of pride blooming. Maybe, for once, she wasn't somebody's footnote.
Charles
Across town Charles hunched over his aging laptop, headphones cracked at the hinges, layering kicks and snares until the waveform looked like a city skyline. He named the file "Railway Roots v3." It wasn't perfect—bass distorted at high volume—but it thumped with the grit of locomotives at midnight, and that made him smile.
The beat, he decided, would open their Dandora set. A sonic apology and a warning all in one.
Tico
Tico skimmed a spreadsheet in a cybercafé, scribbling a budget on scrap paper: venue fee zero (community hall sponsor), borrowed PA system (thanks to an uncle in church band), refreshments (local kiosk credit), transport (matatu group fare). Total cost came to just under 8,200 Ksh. He underlined the number twice.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he opened a new column: Contingency for "Unknown Rival" interference? A question he'd never had to budget before.
James
James sat on his balcony, freestyle looping under his breath as twilight bled into the alley. He kept stumbling on the same line, a reference to CJ's commercial set at Urban Pulse.
> "When the lights got bright, I saw your outline fade…"
He rewound, tried again, until the words rang right—half-hurt, half-hope.
---
4. First Echoes from the Rival
Three nights before the event, Lulu's phone pinged at 2 a.m. She was half asleep, but the notification preview froze her brain.
> @G-KrossOfficial tagged you in a video.
She opened it: a dimly lit freestyle captured in a single shot. The rapper's face was shaded by a bucket hat, voice low but razor sharp, cadence drilled into the beat like nails into wood. Lines leapt out:
> "Roots Unplugged? I've lived unplugged since the grid cut me off.
They headline in halls; I headline in hearts they forgot."
He ended with a direct call-out.
> "CJ, you ready to remember the streets that raised you?
'Cause I'll be there—front row or front line, your choice."
The clip had 800 views—small, but the comments blazed with speculation.
> "New beef?"
"Kross been grinding for years, this about to get spicy."
"Mathare vs Dandora showdown?"
Lulu forwarded the link to the crew group chat. Within a minute, four typing bubbles popped up.
Charles: "Dude's good."
Tico: "Intentional PR move. We stay calm."
James: "He wants a battle."
CJ (finally): "Then he'll get one. But on our terms."
---
5. Crafting a Setlist for War
The following afternoon the crew squeezed into Neville's shoebox studio—bare concrete walls, foam panels hanging by tape, gear stacked like Tetris. Sweaty, cramped, perfect.
CJ stood at the mic stand, headphones on, as Charles looped Railway Roots v3 through the monitors.
"Track one is raw entrance," Charles explained. "No hooks. Thirty-two bars each. We cycle."
James nodded, already mouthing a rhyme. Lulu flicked through her notebook.
Tico raised a hand. "Demographic shift. Dandora crowd reacts to Swahili punch lines, Sheng mid-verses, local call-and-response hooks. Let's weave that in."
Lulu flipped to a fresh page and began translating key lines. CJ watched her pen fly and felt something loosen in his chest again—a knot of solitary pressure untied by teamwork.
Neville hit record. The room erupted with verses—some jagged, some smooth, but every take carried that undercurrent of shared hunger.
Second track: a story-driven piece about growing up under tin roofs. Third: Charles's instrumental segue, allowing Lulu to perform a spoken-word interlude titled "No Backup Dancers in the Dark." Fourth: a new CJ solo verse, but stitched at the end with James's echoing ad-libs—turning a spotlight moment into a duet.
By sunset the setlist was locked, exported to four battered flash drives. Neville leaned back. "Y'all realize you just built a mini-album, right?"
CJ wiped sweat off his brow. "Albums can wait. We've got a hall to fill."
---
6. Storm Signals
The day before Roots Unplugged, flyers painted in neon were plastered across Matatu windscreens; the event hashtag began trending on Nairobi Twitter, fueled by local artists eager for an alternative to corporate showcases.
But under every promo post, a shadow appeared: #KrossCheckmate.
Nobody knew who ran the tag, yet within hours it spawned reaction memes and YouTube breakdowns predicting a CJ vs. G-Kross clash. Commentary channels dissected their lyrical styles, body language, rumored backstories. The hype machine was primed—and none of it was in CJ's control.
That night Blanco called.
"I hear you're performing in Dandora with some underground agitator sniffing around. This is messy, CJ."
CJ sat on his balcony, phone to ear. "Roots matter."
"Your roots won't pay streaming promo. Sponsors don't want unpredictable drama."
"Then I'll find different sponsors."
A hollow chuckle. "You think the city's waiting for your moral crusade? You'll learn, kid. The industry picks winners—and they're rarely the ones fighting in community halls."
CJ ended the call, heartbeat racing, hands sweating despite the cool night breeze. Then he texted Lulu: "Tomorrow we go all in. Bring extra mics. Just in case."
---
7. Roots Unplugged – Night of Mirrors
The community hall in Dandora looked bigger inside than CJ remembered—high ceiling strung with blinking Christmas lights, concrete pillars painted with mismatched murals and children's handprints. A borrowed PA crackled as Neville ran sound checks, Tico juggling wires like a reluctant electrician.
Crowds filtered in—local teens, market women, boda boda riders, a handful of bloggers, even a couple of hooded figures live-streaming from shaky phones.
Lulu opened the night with her poem. Her voice filled every corner, soft yet relentless:
> "We dance on cracked cement, wear the sky like borrowed lace,
And every broken streetlight is a microphone in place…"
Applause thundered. Charles hit play on Railway Roots v3. The crew stormed the stage, CJ front and center but constantly passing the spotlight: James tag-teamed lines, Lulu's harmonies cut through the beat, Tico delivered a rare verse—short, surgical, stunning.
The hall vibrated. Sweat dripped from rafters. Phones filmed, heads nodded, feet stomped.
Halfway through the final track, CJ felt something shift—a ripple of whispers near the back. A figure entered, bucket hat low, flanked by two friends with handheld speakers.
G-Kross.
CJ kept rapping, but his pulse raced. He saw Lulu's eyes flick to the newcomer, saw Charles's jaw clench. The beat ended with a bass-heavy flourish. The room erupted.
Before applause died, G-Kross stepped forward, raising a small wireless mic of his own. Feedback screeched. The house lights flickered as if cued by a cruel director.
He didn't greet. Didn't smile. He just rapped:
> "You found your roots, but forgot the thorns,
I rose from rust while your crown got forged,
Two roads diverged in a neon night—
One sold tickets; the other sold fights…"
CJ's adrenaline spiked—part fury, part admiration. The verses were lethal, yet precise. Not cheap shots, but questions posed in rhyme.
When G-Kross finished, silence hung a full three seconds—long enough to feel like a minute. Then the crowd gasped, sensing a moment bigger than the room.
CJ lifted his mic. "Name the place," he said, voice steady but low. "Full battle. No sponsors, no scripts."
G-Kross tilted his head. "The place? You're standing in it, champion."
Neville killed the house track. The hall doors slid shut as if pulled by unseen hands. Phones rose like periscopes.
Lulu touched CJ's elbow. "Be careful."
CJ nodded, eyes locked on the rival. "We start with sixteen each," he declared. "Crew stays behind the line. Crowd decides."
G-Kross laughed softly. "Crowds sway. Truth doesn't."
Then he dropped his first line, and the temperature in the room plunged.
---
8. Cliff-Edge
CJ took a breath, stepping into the verbal arena, heart pounding but mind clear. The chapter ends here—not because the battle ends, but because at the precise moment he opens his mouth, time itself seems to hold its breath, waiting to see whether he'll speak as the polished brand Blanco tried to mold—or as the raw poet his mother raised.
And somewhere behind the roaring anticipation, a quieter question echoes through every concrete pillar and flickering light: Which voice can claim the crown—one forged in industry fires or one hammered in the heat of forgotten streets?
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