rappshit

Hu

The year had spun forward like a record on full rotation.

From makeshift cyphers in backstreets to sold-out listening parties, from notebooks full of trauma to classrooms full of promise—CJ had seen it all evolve. What began as a rebellion of rhythm had become a community of voices. Now, on the edge of a new year, something deeper stirred.

The sun hung low as Roots & Rebellion hosted their last event of the season: "Legacy Unplugged." A quiet, unplugged performance at the center's rooftop. No cameras. No commercial. Just family, fire, and sound.

---

The Rooftop

The rooftop had been transformed—strings of lights, folded blankets, a makeshift stage framed by crates and an old school banner. Kids from the workshops sat cross-legged with notebooks. Elders in headwraps leaned back in plastic chairs. The air smelled like spiced chai and charcoal.

Charles sat behind a simple MIDI pad, ready to trigger soft backing loops. Lulu stood barefoot, notebook in hand. Tico manned the audio from a laptop with a cracked corner.

James grinned at the front row. "We never wanted fame. We wanted feeling."

CJ took center stage, mic in hand. The crowd quieted.

"We won't perform tonight," he said. "We'll remember."

And so they did.

---

Memory Set: Spoken, Not Sung

Each member of the crew shared something different.

Lulu read a letter to her younger self. A girl who once thought speaking too loud meant punishment. "But you weren't too loud," she said. "The world was just too scared to hear."

Charles played a beat composed entirely of childhood samples—door knocks, chalk on slate, laughter under mango trees.

James told a story about a friend who died before he could record his first track. Then rapped the verse the boy never got to share.

Tico stepped up, surprising them all. He didn't rap or speak. He held up the first ever flyer they printed. Torn. Smudged. But real.

"Proof," he said simply, "that dreams have paper trails."

---

CJ's Final Verse

Then it was CJ's turn. He stepped forward, crowd leaning in.

He didn't pull out his notebook.

He didn't need it.

> "We were once whispers, Unheard and hollow, Raised by echoes and alleyways With no one to follow.

But we sang anyway.

We bled anyway.

We rose with sound, Our scars harmonized, Until the silence had no place left to hide.

And now we speak not to be seen, But to seed.

Not to rise above, But to rise with.

You are not too late. You are not too lost. The beat is still going.

And the mic is still warm."

A single clap broke the silence. Then another.

Then the whole rooftop erupted—not with shouts, but soft cheers, claps, tears, nods.

The kind of applause that felt like understanding.

---

One Month Later

An envelope arrived at the youth center. No return address.

Inside was a USB drive, a note, and a stamped photo of a small poetry club in Mombasa. The note read:

> We heard you. And now we speak too.

The movement had traveled.

---

The Book's Closing Scene

CJ sat alone that evening, back on the rooftop, hoodie up, stars above. He listened to the USB files: kids rapping, girls singing acapella, boys harmonizing protest poetry.

He smiled, tears hot.

Lulu came up and sat beside him. "You okay?"

CJ nodded. "I used to want to be heard."

"And now?"

"Now I just want them to never stop speaking."

Lulu raised her fist gently. "To fires that never fade."

CJ bumped hers with his.

"To fires that never fade."

---

The End.