TERO MANDEM Subtitle: From Street Boss to Saved Soul

CHAPTER 4: THE FALLOUT

You know what they don’t tell you about the street?

It doesn’t break all at once. It fractures little by little—until one day, you blink, and everything’s different.

That’s what happened after Biggie got arrested.

The heat didn’t calm down. It got worse.

Cops weren’t just driving past anymore—they started searching. Slapping boys at junctions. Dragging people into vans, asking about our gang, our names, our movements. Even our music became evidence. They said our lyrics were confessions, that “Gone to War” wasn’t a metaphor but a threat.

We couldn’t walk freely anymore. We changed locations like underwear. One night in Lapaz, next in Sukura. Always sleeping on concrete. Always with one eye open. Even laughter became suspicious. Every smile felt forced.

The unity we used to feel—it started to fade.

Lovelone was the first to go quiet. He stopped showing up. Started talking more to his girl than to the gang. Problem said he was folding under pressure. O Don said we should watch him. But me? I understood. Fear was no longer something you could hide with weed and jokes. It was in our bones now.

⸻

One night, we gathered in a hidden spot behind a mechanic shop in Darkuman. Oil drums, broken gearboxes, and the stench of burnt rubber surrounded us. We were supposed to plan the next drop—some drugs Gavuna wanted pushed to Kasoa. But the energy was off.

“Where Biggie?” I asked.

O Von scratched his head. “Say ein uncle make wild. Dem send am go Kumasi small.”

Problem sucked his teeth. “Kumasi? Nah bro, Biggie no go just bounce like that. Something fishy.”

We all felt it.

That same night, I got a call. Unknown number.

“Tero Mandem,” the voice said. Calm. Dangerous.

“You dey run, but you go fall soon. The boy you stab—he no die. But ein mouth dey sharp.”

Then it cut.

I stood there frozen, phone still at my ear long after the line had gone dead.

⸻

The fallout didn’t stop there.

A week later, Hajia Saskey—O Don’s sister, the one who used to hype our music—got picked up. CID took her phone. They claimed she was laundering for us. It was madness.

O Don broke down. Punched a wall till his knuckles bled. Then blamed me.

“You be the reason. You dey move wild! You dey attract heat. We just wan do music, not war!”

I didn’t reply.

But it cut deep.

Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

⸻

The pressure turned us into strangers.

Lovelone stopped replying to messages. Problem started keeping more of the drug money for himself. Even O Von started acting slippery—saying he had to “cool off” in Kasoa for a while.

I walked alone more now. No gang. Just me and my shadows.

Sometimes I stood at the same street where I had first recorded Born For War. I’d watch kids freestyle under the same broken lamp post, trying to be like us. Wanting our shine. Not knowing what it cost.

I wanted to tell them to stop.

But who was I to preach?

⸻

Then came the real blow.

One afternoon, a black pickup pulled up to the ghetto spot in Mataheko. Men in plain clothes jumped out. It wasn’t a raid. It was a warning.

One of them pulled me aside. Showed me a picture.

It was Biggie—seated in a room, eyes puffy, talking to someone. He was holding a bottle of water, and beside him on the table was a folder with our faces.

“He’s cooperating,” the man said. “And soon, you’ll be alone.”

I didn’t say a word.

Just walked away.

But inside, something broke.

Biggie? After all we been through?

After the nights we starved together? After the hustles and hideouts?

I didn’t want to believe it.

But it made sense.

⸻

The fallout was complete.

Gavuna stopped picking my calls. He said we brought too much heat. He cut ties and told me to “clean up my crew.”

We had no money now. No backing. No unity.

Just threats.

And songs.

We had plenty of songs, unreleased tracks buried in dusty laptops. Tracks that no longer felt like dreams—but reminders of what we lost.

⸻

Then came the night I almost snapped.

I was alone in a cold room in Russia Zone, lights off, stomach empty, mind heavy. My gun was beside me—loaded, cleaned, and realer than any of my so-called brothers.

I kept thinking: Is this it?

Is this how it ends?

Not with a bullet… but with silence? With betrayal? With loneliness?

But then something crazy happened.

From a distance, I heard one of our old tracks playing. Somebody was blasting “Askarigota” from a car. A chorus we made in a tiny room with no foam on the walls. Just vibes.

I closed my eyes.

And I cried.

Not because I was weak—but because I missed who I used to be.

⸻

That was the moment I decided.

Something had to change.

I wasn’t ready to die—not like this. Not forgotten. Not hunted. Not betrayed.

Maybe I couldn’t fix the streets. Maybe I couldn’t bring the gang back. But I could rewrite my ending.

I didn’t know how.

But I was ready to start.