2025-08-07 20:00:58
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Chapter 26 - Prophecy’s From The Past
While the media frenzy and Jay’s shadow war heat up, Tero starts hearing whispers he doesn’t want to hear.One night after the comeback show, he slips away from the party and finds himself walking through a quieter part of Johannesburg. Street preachers are gathered at a corner, small crowd listening. He almost ignores them, but one old prophet—eyes blazing—locks onto him.“You,” the man points, his voice cutting the night.Tero stops, annoyed. “Me? Nah, bruh, you got the wrong guy.”The preacher shakes his head slowly. “You’re running, son. But you won’t run forever. You’re not called just for the stage—you’re called for the altar. God will use your voice to heal nations.”The crowd murmurs. Ruby, standing behind Tero, looks stunned. Problem laughs it off, “Ei, pastor, this one be superstar, not preacher.”But the prophet keeps staring. “You’ll see. Fame fades. Spirit lasts. He has marked you.”Tero brushes it off, laughing, but inside, his chest is tight. He hates how the words
Chapter 25 – Shadows After Glory
The after-party glittered like gold, but beneath the lights, I felt the shadows creeping. We had just made history on the stage, but in the corner of my eye, Killer Jay’s smile still burned.Back at the hotel, the suite was chaos. Journalists swarmed outside, labels sent champagne, and promoters begged for meetings. Problem bragged loud, O Don was already calculating numbers, Biggie stuffed his face with wings, and Lovelone sat with his guitar, humming new melodies. Ruby floated in the room like a quiet queen, but I could see the worry in her eyes. She hadn’t missed Killer Jay either.“Terrell,” she whispered when the noise dipped, “what aren’t you telling me?”I froze. For a second, I wanted to lie. But her stare pinned me.“He’s back.”Her face paled. “Killer Jay?”I nodded. “Saw him in the crowd tonight. Same eyes, same grin. He wants me to know he ain’t done.”Before she could answer, the door banged open. Security pushed in a man in a dark suit, slick voice, fake smile. Corpor
Chapter 24 - Fire on the Stage
The air felt different when we touched down in Johannesburg. Thick with heat, noise, and something else—anticipation. The Pan-African Music Festival wasn’t just another gig. It was the stage. The place where legends were either born or buried.As soon as we walked out of O.R. Tambo International, the flashes started. Cameras popped like gunfire. Reporters yelled over each other, shoving microphones in our faces.“Terrell, is this your global breakthrough?”“Is MMS ready for the world?”“What do you say to critics who still tie you to your gang past?”I kept my head low, shades on, the Ghana flag stitched on my jacket catching the sun. Ruby walked beside me, calm as ever, her hand brushing against mine. She was no longer just my girl; she was my balance. Every time the crowd got too loud, she steadied me with a look.Behind us, Problem was laughing, eating up the attention. O Don had his hood up, sizing up the scene like it was enemy turf. Lovelone, always quiet, kept his earph
Chapter 23 – Drums Before the Storm
Days before the Pan-African Music Festival? Man, they just zipped by for Tero.Mornings? Rehearsal sweat and yelling over drum loops. Afternoons?Meetings, phone calls, label drama. Nights? Flat on his back, eyes glued to the ceiling, his brain spinning through setlists, verse changes, and the freakin’ pressure of representing Ghana to the whole damn continent. This wasn’t some regular gig. Nah.This was Ghana’s pulse, on a stage big enough for the world to tune in.Lagos, Nairobi, Joburg, Dakar—everyone with a screen or a radio was gonna be watching.The stakes? Sky-high. One misstep, one botched hook, and it’s not just his pride on the line—it’s the whole crew, the whole rep.MMs’ rehearsal space reeked of hard work—sweat, sawdust, and that weird bite of old microphones. The boys were deep in the zone.Problem hunched over his MPC, twisting knobs, making the beat smack so hard the budget studio windows rattled. O Don pacing around, muttering lyrics under his breath like he was tryi
Chapter 22 – When the Drums Call
Dansoman had a pulse that week. You could feel it under your shoes when you walked, hear it in the way trotro mates shouted their stops, smell it in the grilled meat smoke drifting over street corners. The Pan-African Music Festival wasn’t just coming — it was swallowing the city whole.Billboards with Tero’s face and the MMs’ logo lit up traffic lights, plastered on trotro backs and painted across shop fronts. News stations were running countdown timers in the corner of their screens. The international press was swarming in, booking hotels from Lapaz to Osu, trying to find the best angles for their live broadcasts.Tero should have been floating on that energy, but the closer it got, the heavier it sat on his chest.The MMs’ rehearsal spot had turned into a war room — cables everywhere, speakers stacked like barricades, microphones wrapped in tape like they’d been through battle. Problem and O Don were running through setlists with that militant focus they had when something real
Chapter 21 - Ghosts in the Greenroom
he roar of the crowd from the Pan African Music Festival felt like a living thing. It wasn’t just noise—it was a pulse, thick and warm, pressing through the walls of the backstage corridor. Every beat of the drum outside seemed to land in Tero’s chest like a second heartbeat. The air smelled of hot lights, sweat, and the faint trace of imported perfume from the festival’s VIP lounge.Tero leaned against the wall, sunglasses down even though it was dim. He wasn’t hiding from the light—he was hiding from the eyes. Fame had a way of turning people into mirrors. They looked at him and reflected back the version of himself they wanted to see—savior, rebel, success story. Few could see the man who still counted debts in silence.Ruby was across the room, talking to a small circle of journalists. Her laugh was light, deliberate, almost calculated—like she knew every flash of a camera was another nail in the coffin of his old image. She was dressed in white tonight, a color that caught the s
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