rappshit

It was the sound of a drum—a soft, steady thump from somewhere in the alley behind the youth center—that pulled CJ out of his daze.

He had come early to prep for the workshop but found himself wandering, notebook in hand, chasing stray thoughts. Instead, he found that sound. Not on stage. Not in a studio. Just a boy. Maybe ten. Using an old bucket as a djembe, lost in rhythm like it was his first language.

CJ stood silently, watching.

The boy noticed. Didn't stop.

That was the beauty of it: the fearlessness.

CJ approached slowly. "What's your name?"

"Samson."

"Do you always play back here?"

"When I'm not in school. Or helping Mama cook."

"You write too?"

The boy nodded, shy now. "Sometimes. But I don't show anyone."

CJ handed him a small black notebook—the ones they'd had printed for the Roots & Rebellion mentorship sessions.

"Show yourself first. That's how it starts."

---

Later That Morning – Youth Center Courtyard

The courtyard was buzzing with life. Tico had set up chairs in a semicircle, whiteboard behind him, laptops open. Today's session was about "Turning Memory into Metaphor."

Lulu arrived with six girls, each clutching notebooks, most of them visibly nervous. One girl, cheeky and brave, wore her headwrap like a crown and introduced herself as Faith. Another, quiet and slim with an unsure smile, hung back.

"Don't worry," Lulu said to her, "no one's forced to speak. But when you do? We'll all be listening."

CJ joined them just before kickoff. His notebook was filled with half-formed verses, questions, and little doodles of fire, wings, and broken chains. James followed soon after, carrying a crate of bottled water and a boombox.

By noon, the courtyard had become a circle of stories.

A girl shared a poem about watching her older brother go to jail. A boy rapped about being the middle child in a house that never noticed him. Another used metaphors about mango trees and cracked windows to describe anxiety.

Every time someone spoke, CJ felt his chest tighten. Not from sadness. From recognition.

This is what they built it for.

---

Elsewhere – G-Kross's Apartment, Nairobi West

G-Kross stared at the blinking cursor on his laptop. He was supposed to send Otieno a track list for the solo tape. But the words weren't flowing.

Not because he had nothing to say. But because he'd seen CJ at Reverb. And something had shifted.

He opened a blank note.

> To the ones who broke away,

To the ones who stopped following and started leading—

I see you.

He deleted the paragraph.

Then rewrote it.

He couldn't admit it out loud, not yet. But there was admiration under the rivalry. Maybe even a little envy.

He picked up his phone and texted CJ again:

G-Kross: "Real talk soon?"

This time, CJ replied.

CJ: "Come by the center tomorrow. 3PM. No cameras."

---

Roots & Rebellion HQ – Downtown Studio

The new studio space above a shuttered cybercafé wasn't pretty, but it buzzed with the same energy they'd once only dreamed about. The graffiti outside had grown from tags to full murals. One read: "Unmastered Truths." Another showed a girl holding a mic that bloomed into flowers.

Charles had transformed the second room into a sound lab. Padding, preamps, interface—the works. He taught a pair of siblings from Kayole how to record vocals without distortion.

In the main lounge, Lulu hosted a spoken-word circle with teen girls. One had recently lost her mother. She read a letter to the sky.

James, meanwhile, used an empty backroom as his storytelling dojo. His methods were wild—blindfolds, sensory games, even beatboxing in Morse code—but the kids loved it.

Tico managed it all like a mad genius—grant charts on one side, student submissions on the other.

CJ watched from the window.

"This is more than rap now," he murmured.

---

That Afternoon – The Conversation

G-Kross arrived five minutes early.

He wore a simple hoodie and carried nothing but his phone.

CJ met him at the gate.

The handshake was firm. Honest. Not performative.

They walked in silence, passing through corridors lined with kids' drawings, old flyers, and quotes from African poets. They stopped under a mural of Maya Angelou and Fela Kuti.

"You helped build this, you know," CJ said.

Kross scoffed. "I pushed you away from it first."

CJ shrugged. "Same difference."

They sat on a weathered bench beneath a jacaranda tree in the center's courtyard.

"I saw you. At Reverb," said G-Kross.

"I saw you watching."

"You leveled up."

"Not alone."

Kross sighed. "I hated you for a while. Because I thought you'd abandoned the grit. The hunger."

"And I thought you abandoned growth."

"But we were both just figuring it out."

CJ nodded. "That's what fire does—it consumes first. Then lights the way."

"I want back in. Not the crew. The mission."

CJ studied him. "You ready to teach?"

Kross looked around. A boy was writing a verse under the tree. Two girls were laughing over a rhyme scheme.

"Yeah. I think I am."

"Then show up. Wednesdays. We don't pay. We just amplify."

Kross smirked. "As long as I get to make 'em sweat."

CJ smiled. "That's the whole point."

---

Letters and Legends

That evening, after everyone left, Lulu handed CJ a folded note. "It's from Nia. The girl who read the poem about her mother."

CJ unfolded it:

> Dear CJ,

I didn't know voices like mine were allowed until you rhymed.

I'm still scared. But I'm louder now.

Thank you for building us a page to speak from.

CJ folded it again and slipped it into his notebook.

Neville called as he packed up.

"They're asking for another EP."

CJ smiled. "Not yet. Let's let the silence breathe for once."

Neville chuckled. "You're changing, kid."

"No," CJ said. "I'm just finally listening."

---

Later That Night – Rooftop Reflections

CJ sat under the stars, same rooftop, same skyline. Only now, it all looked... reachable.

He opened his notebook and wrote:

> "We lit a fire,

Not to warm ourselves,

But to burn the silence

That covered so many mouths."

He looked up. Nairobi blinked below him—alive, messy, beautiful.

He whispered:

"Let's keep the fire burning."

---