The air inside Dandora Phase 4 Community Hall had turned electric, like the sharp, metal tang just before a thunderstorm. Phones were held aloft like lighters at a funeral. Everyone — from the front row of barefoot children to the bloggers hugging the walls — knew they were about to witness something bigger than rap.
This wasn't about bars. This was about identity.
G-Kross stood to the left, mic resting casually at his chest, sweat catching the glow of the overhead bulb that flickered like a faulty conscience. CJ stood center-right, shoulders squared, his crew standing close behind him like the ghosts of his past and the echoes of his foundation.
The beat dropped — raw and stripped. No synths. Just kicks, snares, and tension.
Neville's voice came from the corner: "Sixteen bars. Two rounds. Crowd picks. Keep it clean. Keep it real."
The hall fell into a vacuum of silence.
Then G-Kross stepped forward.
---
G-Kross – Round One
> "I wrote verses by kerosene, where roaches shared the mat,
While you posted studio pics with filters hiding facts.
You were born with flame, I was raised by smoke —
Don't confuse hungry for desperate, I ain't broke.
I spit for the kids who dodge bullets on the way to class,
Whose mothers turn tears into rent with a borrowed flask.
You wear pain like costume jewelry, staged and trimmed —
I bleed syllables, you rhyme like your roots been dimmed."
The crowd didn't roar — it held its breath. Like a congregation unsure whether to say amen or run.
G-Kross stepped back slowly, mic at his side, expression unreadable.
CJ gave a single nod.
His turn.
---
CJ – Round One
> "You talk kerosene, but I lit that match too,
Wrote bars in the dark while Mum fought flu.
I ain't polished — I'm practiced, scarred by hustle,
Learned to rhyme before I could wrestle muscle.
You see filters? Nah, I built lenses to see,
So my crew could dream beyond Phase 3.
Don't play martyr while you throw your darts,
'Cause I fed my boys when I could've chased charts."
A ripple surged through the room. Lulu exhaled sharply. James whispered, "He's warmed now."
Charles stared at G-Kross, noting how the rival clenched and unclenched his fists.
Neville nodded from the side. "Even."
Then Round Two began.
---
G-Kross – Round Two
> "I'm not here for your crew, they're pawns in play —
I want the king, the crown, the part you betrayed.
You rise, but every bar feels market-tested,
While I spit truths that got my phone confiscated.
You perform; I confront. You rehearse; I live.
You collect awards. I give what I got to give.
You think this is beef? I call it correction —
I'm not your rival — I'm your reflection."
This time the crowd didn't hesitate — they exploded.
Phones shook. A bottle cap flew through the air. Someone shouted, "Yo, he came for his throat!"
CJ didn't flinch. But he felt the weight. Every line had hit where it hurt.
He looked at Lulu. She mouthed, "Finish him."
---
CJ – Round Two
> "Reflection? Boy, you pixel-deep in smoke,
Wearing rage like a brand, but your truth's a joke.
I climbed with crew, not on corpses or clout,
And when doors closed, we freestyled our way out.
You ain't correction — you a mirror cracked,
Hating my light 'cause your path turned black.
We both from struggle, so stop this disguise —
If you're my shadow, then watch me rise."
The final line echoed like a gunshot.
Silence.
Then a roar — unified and raw.
The crowd surged. Some chanted "CJ! CJ!" while others started chanting "Kross! Kross!" Security moved toward the front. Neville held a hand up, calming the tension.
No clear winner. Just divided loyalty.
G-Kross stepped forward.
Not to fight.
But to speak.
"No hate," he said into the mic. "But I'll be back. When the glam dims. When the city picks its next prince. I'll still be here. Bars don't fade — only attention does."
He dropped the mic — gently. Not in mockery, but in defiance. Then he turned and walked out, leaving a silence louder than the crowd's cheers.
---
The Aftermath
After the crowd spilled into the street — buzzing, debating, posting clips — the crew sat on the edge of the stage, gulping warm soda and staring at their feet.
CJ wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve.
"I thought I lost it," he whispered.
"You didn't," said Lulu.
"You almost did," Charles muttered. "But you found it again."
James nodded. "You didn't just battle him, bro. You battled yourself. And won."
CJ stared at the door G-Kross had exited through.
"I don't hate him," he murmured.
"Good," Tico replied. "Because he's not your villain."
"Then what is he?"
"Your warning."
---
Elsewhere That Night...
In a cybercafé in Eastleigh, G-Kross removed his hat and placed it on a cracked desk beside a half-eaten samosa. He loaded YouTube.
The clip of the battle was already trending. Someone had edited it with cinematic slow-motion, added subtitles, even layered background music over the crowd reaction.
CJ's last line — "If you're my shadow, then watch me rise" — was already a TikTok sound.
G-Kross didn't scowl.
He smiled.
"Good," he whispered. "Let them love you more. The higher you rise, the louder the silence when you fall."
But he didn't press "Upload" on his latest track. Not yet.
He'd wait. Let the next storm brew naturally.
Sometimes, revenge was sweeter when disguised as preparation.
---
Back at Home
CJ entered his flat quietly, shoes in hand.
Esther Wambui sat on the couch, mug of tea in hand. She had watched the battle on someone's Instagram Live.
"You're limping," she said.
"Metaphorically," he replied.
She smiled softly. "You spoke like my son tonight."
CJ looked up. "Did I win?"
"Does it matter?"
He paused. "No. But I didn't lose."
"Good. Now help me with the dishes."
As CJ stood beside his mother at the sink, the weight of fame melted for a moment. He was just a boy with soap on his hands, standing beside a woman who had carried both his hunger and his hope for eighteen long years.
---
Online, the City Debated
@Bar4Bar254: "CJ still king. Kross brought fire but lacked grace."
@UndergroundFlames: "G-Kross is the future. Raw. Unfiltered. The last street disciple."
@LuluLines: "That battle wasn't a clash. It was a conversation."
@PulseLive: "New Era of Kenyan Rap Begins… but Who Leads It?"
---
A Week Later
CJ and the crew sat in a cramped office — a community-run recording co-op in South B. A man in his thirties with a thick dreads and a crisp white shirt passed them a contract.
"Local label. Five-track EP. No filters. No Blanco. We push Roots Unplugged as a concept series — rotating community venues. Each project centers a different local sound. Full creative control."
CJ blinked. "Why us?"
The man shrugged. "Because you made the city pause. You reminded people what sound sounds like without sponsors editing the soul out of it."
Lulu looked at the others. "We in?"
James said, "We never left."
They signed.
---
Final Scene
Weeks later, a new flyer appears on poles in Kibera, Kayole, Githurai, and Mathare:
> ROOTS UNPLUGGED: KIBERA EDITION
One stage. No brands. Just bars.
Guest performer: ???
(But the streets already whispered the name.)