rappshit

The sun over Nairobi's skyline looked like molten fire the morning of the Reverb Nairobi Festival. It bled into the corrugated rooftops of Eastlands, bounced off boda-boda mirrors, and cut into the narrow alleyways where music had always found its first breath.

CJ watched it from his bedroom window, hoodie pulled tight, headphones around his neck. Today was not just a performance. It was the culmination of sleepless nights, unanswered DMs, twisted verses, and risk. It was proof that they had built something with hands, voice, and soul.

He whispered to himself, "It's time."

---

The Grounds – Two Hours Before Showtime

The Reverb grounds were alive.

Vendors were setting up makeshift stalls selling everything from street chapati to branded tote bags bearing slogans like "Rhyme is Resistance" and "Voices from the Underground."

Sound checks echoed through the grounds. Spoken word poets practiced under trees, their voices trailing into the wind. Drummers tuned their instruments by feel, not pitch. Dancers carved out corners of gravel as rehearsal space.

Backstage, the Roots & Rebellion crew claimed their corner—nothing fancy, just a black tarp over a scaffold platform. Tico was plugging in their gear. Charles double-checked his portable mixer and backup drives. James was pacing, stretching his neck, humming to loosen up. Lulu stood still, eyes closed, muttering her verse.

CJ arrived last, hood down, earbuds still in. When he pulled them out, the crew turned.

"Let's go change the temperature," he said.

---

Flashback: One Day Before

The crew had run one last rehearsal in Neville's studio. It wasn't about perfection—it was about connection. They stood in a circle and ran each verse, each transition, and each interlude like it was war. At the end, Neville had simply said:

"Tomorrow, don't perform like it's your big break. Perform like it's the world's last concert."

CJ had stared at the ceiling afterward, heart pounding. Even then, he had felt the shift. This wasn't just music anymore. It was testimony.

---

Backstage: 30 Minutes to Go

The crowd was swelling.

Local legend Mzazi Manasa was on stage, firing up the crowd with a hype set of old-school hits. Her voice cracked with joy.

CJ peeked through the curtain. There were thousands—some dancing, others still, some filming, others praying. And somewhere out there, CJ knew, was G-Kross. Watching. Maybe judging. Maybe rooting. CJ couldn't tell.

The team sat together on plastic crates and duffel bags. They didn't speak much. Energy buzzed between them like electricity about to arc.

"Five minutes," a stagehand whispered.

Lulu turned to the crew. "Remember what we built. Don't rap for likes. Rap for life."

They stood in a circle, hands clasped in. James said, "To those who gave us rhythm."

Charles added, "To those who left us lyrics."

CJ finished: "To those who never got to speak. Let's speak for them."

---

Showtime

The lights dimmed.

A hush fell.

Then the first track rolled in: "Before the Mic."

Charles's piano floated into the crowd like smoke.

CJ stepped onto stage.

> "Dear silence, you raised me gently..."

Gasps rippled. Then silence again. Then cheers.

One by one, the crew joined him.

Lulu's voice wove through his verses like thread in fabric.

Then came "Streetlight Psalms"—the crowd swayed like water. Every line drew deeper attention. Hands began to rise. Phones lowered. People listened.

For "Wrong Side of the News," they projected real headlines. Photos. Names. Faces. A lump formed in CJ's throat when he saw a familiar name—Omari. A boy he once shared a freestyle corner with.

James's solo verse closed that track, his voice trembling but never breaking:

> "They misspelled me too. But I spell myself now. Every line a correction, every beat a vow."

The crowd rose in a roar.

Some people cried. Others cheered until their voices cracked. The music wasn't just art anymore—it had turned into collective healing.

---

Behind the Curtain

Backstage during a transition, CJ leaned against the metal scaffolding, catching his breath. Lulu approached him, her voice low.

"You see that girl in the third row with the black turban?"

CJ nodded.

"She lost her brother in a police raid. She came to hear him through us."

CJ felt the weight of that. "We carry them all."

"Then stand up straighter," Lulu said. "Let's carry them proud."

---

Finale: "Legacy Freestyle"

This was it.

They stood in a line. Each stepped forward, delivered, then stepped back.

No backup vocals. No effects.

Just raw breath and truth.

> Lulu: "I'm not background—I'm blueprint."

> James: "Not echo—I'm eruption."

> Charles: "Not producer—pulse."

> Tico: "Not silent—strategic."

> CJ: "Not your star—your reflection."

The lights cut. Silence.

Then the crowd exploded.

Cheers. Tears. Raised fists. A boy in the front row holding a cardboard sign that read: "I Started Writing Because of You."

Backstage, Neville wiped his eyes. "You didn't just perform. You baptized them."

CJ exhaled, his hands trembling.

---

Elsewhere: G-Kross's POV

G-Kross watched from a shadowed corner beside the press tent.

He hadn't clapped. Hadn't recorded.

He just watched.

Otieno stood next to him, arms folded. "They earned that."

Kross's jaw flexed. "I know."

"What are you thinking?"

"That I was right to go solo. But I was wrong to go silent."

Otieno didn't speak. He didn't need to.

---

Later That Night

They didn't go to the afterparty. They went to Mathare.

Sat on the rooftop with crates of soda and a Bluetooth speaker, playing the EP back-to-back.

Kids came up from the street to listen. Teenagers. Mamas with toddlers. Elders leaning against rusted balconies.

A young boy, no older than 9, sat beside CJ and asked, "When did you know you were good?"

CJ smiled. "When I rapped and someone didn't walk away."

The boy nodded. "I wanna do that too."

Lulu handed him a spare notebook. "Then start."

An old man passed by and said, "That's music that remembers."

CJ looked around at his crew—his family. He raised his bottle.

"To fire that never dies."

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