The rains came down hard that evening, a slow, sorrowful rhythm tapping against the broken windows of the abandoned house we had claimed as a temporary base. Dansoman looked grey, not from the storm, but from the memories it poured back. I sat by the corner, staring at a water stain on the ceiling, thinking about everything—how far we’d come, how deep we’d fallen, and what we were becoming.Problem sat next to me, silent for once, rolling a blunt between his fingers but not lighting it. He was usually the one with wild energy, but even he was lost in thought. O Don leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone, while Lovelone and Biggie argued over whether to take another deal from Gavuna’s people. Things were changing. Fast. And I could feel it—like roots snapping underground.It started with Ruby. After everything with her dad, things between us weren’t the same. Her eyes no longer smiled first. She barely called. She hadn’t shown up at the last show, and even though I tried

The night of the ambush cracked everything wide open.It wasn’t just the bullets. It was the silence after. The kind of silence that eats at your soul.One moment we were in the studio — laughing, vibing, chasing bars like oxygen. Next thing, everything turned black and red.I was in the booth laying down a verse. Lovelone and Problem were arguing over a chorus. O Don was outside rolling one. And then — bap! bap! bap! — glass shattered. Screams. Dust. Shouts. Gunfire.Everything blurred.Six masked guys stormed through like they were sent straight from hell. AKs. Machetes. Full violence. They didn’t come to warn. They came to wipe.O Don got hit first. Bullet caught his leg — clean shot, dropped him cold.Problem dove behind the keyboard stand. Lovelone scrambled under the table. Me? I didn’t even think. Instinct took over. Reached under the desk, pulled the Glock. Safety off. Fired two. One guy dropped screaming, blood soaking his hoodie.That was all I saw.The rest… chaos.It ended

The city never forgets.No matter how many songs you drop, how many fans scream your name, how many street kids salute when you pass by — Accra remembers. And sometimes, what it remembers… comes knocking hard.It was a rainy Tuesday when the past caught up.I was in the studio, laying a verse over a moody beat Problem cooked up — something raw, something real. The words were flowing when O Don stormed in.“Bro. You need to see this.”He handed me his phone.Breaking: CEO of YawTech Group, Mr. Richmond Addison, speaks out against underground violence, says ‘One particular gang is misleading the youth under the disguise of music labels’.Under it, a photo of Ruby’s father.Sharp suit. Cold eyes.I froze.He wasn’t just speaking out. He was naming names. Subtle, but direct. And the media? They were eating it up. Politicians, corporate elites — all backing him. They’d been waiting for someone with status to paint us as the villains.He just gave them the brush.My phone buzzed again. This

Ruby came back under rain.No umbrella. No warning.Just knocked on the studio door in the middle of a thunderstorm, soaking wet and shivering — but standing tall.I opened the door, frozen.She looked me in the eye and said,“I’m not running anymore.”She moved in that night.No drama. No promises. Just… presence.The others noticed the change. Lovelone gave me a smirk. Problem nodded in approval. Biggie, he just said, “’Bout time.”But I knew it wouldn’t be that simple.Ruby wasn’t just any girl. She was Addison’s daughter — and now, she was openly defying him.The city noticed. The blogs started eating it up:“Gangster King and Billionaire’s Daughter — Forbidden Love or PR Stunt?”It didn’t matter.Ruby was home. She helped rewire the studio, organized files, even started managing our outreach.But you could see it in her eyes — a storm was brewing inside.We started receiving threats. Not the usual ones.These were precise.Typed letters. GPS coordinates. Surveillance photos. All

Dansoman’s nights used to be loud with sirens, shouting, and the sound of running footsteps. Now, a new sound started to take over — basslines and hooks pouring from open-air rehearsals, laughter from kids chasing each other around an old basketball court, and the hum of construction as abandoned kiosks turned into something better.The Mandem Music Squad — MMs — was back.But not in the same way.Tero stood on the edge of the renovated court, his hands in his pockets, watching a group of boys and girls pass around a worn-out basketball. The paint on the court was fresh — bright yellow lines cutting through a sea of deep green. Their first project. Their first real mark on the block. The air smelled like fried kelewele from a vendor at the corner and faintly of fresh cement.Biggie came up beside him, holding a bottle of Sobolo.“You see am? This be more than just music, boss,” Biggie said, his deep voice carrying pride. “They dey talk say MMs no just dey drop tracks — we dey drop cha