rappshit

The fluorescent lights of Neville's borrowed studio flickered in rhythm with the low hum of anticipation that filled the room. CJ stood in the recording booth, headphones clamped to his ears, a pen tapping restlessly against a notebook in his hand. His breath steamed faintly against the cool studio glass as he listened to the instrumental loop for the tenth time.

Outside the booth, Charles hovered over the mixing desk, his brows furrowed in concentration. He made subtle adjustments to the EQ, tweaking the high-end just slightly. Tico sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop open on his knees, bouncing between emails and budget projections. Lulu paced the room, notebook in hand, lips moving as she rehearsed her verse in silence. James leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, nodding to the beat, letting it wash over him.

They weren't just recording a track. They were building a declaration.

CJ took a breath and stepped forward. The mic captured his voice, raw and close to the bone:

> "Used to spit verses in alleyways under rusted tin,

With hunger in my gut and pain in my pen.

Now I rhyme for the restless, the uninvited, the bold,

We don't just rap—we testify, we unfold."

When he finished, silence followed. Then Charles raised a thumb and smiled. "We're getting closer. This might be the one."

Neville, perched on a crate in the corner, murmured, "That line about the uninvited? Felt like fire walking into a church."

CJ exited the booth and collapsed onto the couch beside James. Sweat clung to his brow despite the chill. Lulu passed him a bottle of warm soda.

"You good?" she asked.

CJ nodded. "Getting there. We all are."

---

Earlier That Day – Kibera's Edge

They'd spent the morning walking through Kibera, scouting locations for the Reverb Nairobi performance video. The crew wanted authenticity—raw backdrops, honest faces. They met with youth groups, artists, former street dancers, even a local brass band that had gone viral once but never got the funding they were promised.

One young boy, maybe twelve, offered to show them the best rooftop view in the estate. He took them up crumbling staircases to a rusted metal platform. From there, Kibera stretched like a breathing maze, tin roofs catching the sun like a scattered prayer.

CJ stood there, staring.

Lulu came up beside him. "You're thinking about that line again, aren't you?"

CJ gave a weak smile. "Yeah. The one Kross said—'Crowds sway. Truth doesn't.' I can't stop hearing it."

"Then write it into the fire," Lulu said. "Own it."

---

Track Three: "Truth Doesn't Sway"

Back in the studio, this became the title of their next track.

Charles produced a stripped-down beat—no overproduction, just a steady snare and the distant sound of chanting schoolchildren from a recording they'd done earlier in the day.

CJ opened with a whisper:

> "They called us trending. But trends die in silence.

We echo in alleys, in protests, in kitchen-table violence.

I'm not a phase. I'm a prophecy passed down,

From mothers who built kingdoms in shantytowns."

James's verse followed, drawing from his childhood:

> "My father left with a sigh and a broken door.

I filled that gap with rhyme and metaphors.

They say rap is rebellion—I say it's repair,

Stitching wounds with bass and air."

Lulu closed the track with a spoken word interlude:

> "Truth isn't a wave. It's a drumbeat beneath the noise.

You don't follow it. You feel it."

When they listened to the final mix, no one spoke. Not because it was perfect—but because it was honest.

---

Meanwhile – G-Kross's Domain

In a studio off Jogoo Road, G-Kross recorded alone with his producer Otieno.

Kross had been quiet online, letting CJ's buzz swell like a balloon. He preferred it that way. His next release wasn't a diss—it was a reckoning.

> "He spits flame, but I'm the coal, slow-burning truth,

I rhyme for the ones who never got to have youth.

Don't crown me—remember me. That's all I ask.

A verse that outlives applause? That's my task."

Otieno leaned back. "You sure you wanna keep it this personal?"

G-Kross stared at the waveform on the screen. "I don't rap for trends. I rap for permanence."

---

Back to the Roots Room

The next few days were a blur. Rehearsals melted into late-night debates. Neville arranged a jam session with old-school emcees. A jazz trio from Ngara dropped in to add live horns to one track.

They weren't just building a project. They were building a platform.

And with each recording session, the pressure mounted.

---

CJ's Private Moment

One night, CJ stood on the balcony outside his mother's flat, watching the distant city lights flicker like signals in code.

Esther Wambui joined him quietly, her shawl wrapped tightly.

"You haven't slept," she said.

"I can't. The noise won't stop."

"Then speak it. All of it. That's how the noise turns into rhythm."

CJ nodded. "You scared for me?"

She smiled. "I was scared when you started. Now I'm just proud."

He laughed softly. "Even when I get called arrogant online?"

"Especially then. Arrogance is just confidence that hasn't been explained yet."

CJ hugged her. "Thanks, Mama."

---

Final Track: "Legacy Freestyle"

They saved this one for last. Each crew member had one minute. One mic. No edits.

Lulu began:

> "I speak for the girls told to 'lower their voice.'

I speak louder. Not out of rebellion—out of choice."

Charles followed:

> "Producer? Nah. I'm a scientist of emotion.

I stir bass with memory, synth with devotion."

James's verse:

> "They called me backup. Now I'm the base.

The spine of the sound, the pulse in the place."

Tico:

> "I move numbers like chess. Silent but precise.

The strategy behind the spark. The risk behind the dice."

CJ stepped up last. No notes. Just breath and instinct.

> "No label made me. No award shaped me.

I rose from hunger—not to escape, but to elevate we.

I don't want fans—I want echoes.

Don't memorize me. Just… continue the flow."

Neville stopped the tape.

The room was quiet.

Then Lulu clapped. Then James. Then everyone.

The rebellion was real.

---

Announcement Night

They posted the cover art: Roots & Rebellion — no faces, just outlines of hands holding mics, pens, spray cans, and cooking spoons. Symbols of survival.

The caption read:

> "We don't own the truth. We just amplify it.

#RootsAndRebellion #UnmasteredTruth"

Within hours, it trended.

They booked their Reverb Nairobi slot.

G-Kross reposted the flyer without comment.

CJ saw it. Didn't react. Just saved it to his phone.

---

Final Studio Night

The night before they closed mixing, CJ brought in a choir—five teens from Mathare Community Center who'd never been in a studio before.

They sang:

> "We remember. We repeat. We rise."

The hook was layered into the final track.

Neville looked at the crew. "Y'all just built an archive."

Lulu corrected him. "Nah. We just told the truth. Loudly."

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