TERO MANDEM Subtitle: From Street Boss to Saved Soul

Chapter 2: Gutter Dreams

The sun dipped low over Dansoman, casting long shadows over the park where the stage had been set. Speakers were stacked, wires taped down, and floodlights blinked into the dusty dusk. Music events like this were rare — a full-blown youth showdown. It wasn’t just talent; it was rep.

Poets, dancers, rappers, even hype kids with no bars — everybody wanted to be seen. Everybody wanted to be felt.

We arrived quiet.

Me, Problem, Biggie, O Don, and O Von. The Mandem gang. Nobody shouted. Nobody threw hands in the air or came with big energy. We didn’t need noise to announce ourselves. You could feel us when we entered. That silence with presence. That weight in the air.

We settled backstage, near the wooden tables where empty bottles and half-eaten kelewele had been dumped. The stage was already alive.

A group from Sahara Zone had opened the show with acrobatics and dancehall steps. They flipped, spun, shook the floor with energy. The crowd screamed. Phones were everywhere.

Next came the so-called lyrical kings from Russia Junction. One guy with a red durag and another in a tight vest took the mic. Their rhymes were alright — clean enough. But you could tell they’d practiced in their mirror, not in real life. Still, the crowd gave them love.

Then came poets. Girls with waist beads and boys with glasses stood still, snapping fingers to slow metaphors and heartbreak stories. Good stuff, but this wasn’t their night.

Then Sheku Gang came up.

Five of them. Flashy, no rhythm, but loud. They hyped themselves more than the music did. One of them — shirtless, chains swinging — kept yelling, “We run this town!” like it was a prayer. The crowd gave them nods, but no fire.

We watched it all.

Sat still.

Waited.

We were supposed to go on next.

But then, the emcee — this tall guy in a shiny red tee and too much cologne — grabbed the mic and said, “Alright people, that be all for performances tonight! Time to chill and vibe!”

I turned to Problem.

He looked ready to explode.

“What you dey talk?” he barked, standing up. “We for perform!”

O Don tried to pull him back, but it was already tense. I stood and walked to the emcee myself.

“Boss, Mandem dey on the list. Why we no dey perform?”

The guy glanced at me like I was nobody. “We hear say your songs dey promote street violence. We no dey want problem here tonight. This be community show.”

I smiled. Not because it was funny. But because I knew what would happen next.

Problem stepped closer. “So we come from Mataheko to Lapaz just to sit and clap for people? You dey joke, man.”

The emcee shrugged. “Not me, it be organizers.”

We backed off — for now.

An hour later, while the DJ played beats, we moved to the far end of the park. Near the drinks vendor and the old metal bar table, other performers were chilling, boasting, and hyping their own shows.

That’s where it happened.

A rapper in silver shades and a tight shirt pointed our way.

“Be like Mandem dey ghost mode tonight oo,” he joked. “You people dey sing or just dey watch?”

Biggie tilted his head. O Von just smiled.

Problem cracked his knuckles. “Let’s battle. Here and now. No mic. No beat. Just bars.”

Everyone turned.

Phones came out. People gathered.

It became a circle — raw, real. Just how we like it.

Problem stepped up first:

“Your rhymes weak like bad network,

You dey shake on stage — I just work.

Born in gutter, I no fear dirt,

One line from me go make you convert.”

Crowd: “YOOOOO!”

The guy who mocked us? He tried to respond.

“I came to kill with flows so tight…”

But he froze mid-line. His voice cracked. He looked around, lost.

O Von stepped forward:

“You get punchlines? I get gunlines.

You dey rhyme for fun, we rhyme for lifelines.

Every verse I drop be landmine.

Mandem no dey play — we redefine.”

That was when I stepped in.

My heart wasn’t even racing. I was calm. Focused. My Nike shoes still dusty, but glowing.

“I come from where hopes collapse,

Where dreams dey drown in endless traps.

But we still rise, break the maps,

With no studio, still dropping slaps.”

The place erupted.

The crowd roared.

People screamed names they hadn’t even known five minutes ago.

Then Born for War started playing from someone’s Bluetooth speaker.

The crowd — uninvited — began singing the hook. Loud. Word for word.

“We born for war — no retreat, no fear —

Enemies dey watch, but we still dey here.”

At that moment, the emcee ran back in a panic.

He grabbed the mic: “Mandem! Mandem! You people for come stage right now! Let’s go!”

We walked to the stage like royalty. Calm, unbothered.

I took the mic. Looked out over the crowd.

Hundreds of faces. Phone lights like stars.

Then I opened:

“From Mataheko to Lapaz,

From gutter rain to dreams in glass,

We no get sponsors, no class —

But we bring truth, and that truth dey last.”

Boom.

The beat dropped.

We performed Gone to War next. Problem took lead. His voice cut through the speakers like thunder.

Biggie and O Don took harmonies for Askarigota. That was our anthem for the ghetto boys who had dreams but no direction. It hit home.

Last was Mandem Forever. Unity track. Street pride. Brotherhood.

We didn’t need to say much. The crowd was already ours.

By the time we stepped off, people were crowding us, asking for names, for shoutouts, for contact. Even the emcee came and said sorry. Twice.

Hajia Saskey — O Don’s older sister — came from the crowd. She hugged me hard.

“You dey carry something,” she said. “God dey carry you. Don’t lose this gift.”

I nodded, breath still heavy from the last track.

Later that night, we sat at the edge of the stage, sweat drying under the lights.

We didn’t speak much.

But deep down, we all knew something had shifted.

This wasn’t just the night we performed.

It was the night the street felt us.

The night Mandem wasn’t just a name whispered around Mataheko.

It became fire.