TERO MANDEM Subtitle: From Street Boss to Saved Soul

Chapter 3: Born for War (The Rise Begins)

The day we shot our first video was the day our dream touched flesh.

It wasn’t perfect. The lighting was bad. The camera glitched once or twice. The location stank of engine oil and rust. But we didn’t care. That warehouse behind the scrap yard became our Hollywood.

Problem had a cousin with a Canon 60D — not the best, but workable. Biggie brought the costumes. I brought the lyrics and my soul. We didn’t even have a mic stand — we held the mic with one hand and dreamt with the other.

“Action!”

That word sent chills through my spine. I started rapping the first verse of Born for War, eyes locked on the lens like it was a portal to a better life.

The beat dropped.

And everything around us froze. Even the scrapyard boys stopped welding to watch. Hajia Saskey’s dancers — three rough girls with moves from the Zongo — joined in with fire in their legs and war in their eyes.

Problem jumped in. O Don followed. Then the rest of the gang. The camera shook a bit, but the energy was real. Gritty. Loud. Passionate. We didn’t rehearse much. We just flowed like it was church.

When we finished the last take, we all dropped to the floor, sweaty, dusty, but proud.

“We dey blow,” Problem whispered to me.

And we did.

The video went viral in the street the same week it dropped. Not viral like I*******m-famous. I mean street viral. From kiosks to trotro radios, it was playing. People Bluetooth-shared it. Girls started writing our names with pen on their legs. Boys started copying our style — same Nike sneakers, same chains, same way we held the mic.

Mandem had arrived.

But when the street loves you too much, someone somewhere starts planning your fall.

⸻

At first, it was whispers.

“Dem dey do too much.”

“Mandem boys dey show themselves.”

“Who be Tero kraa?”

We didn’t pay attention. We thought it was just envy. But then a crew we knew — Dark Moon — started showing attitude. They were rappers too, but from New Russia. And ever since our video dropped, they hadn’t gotten a single show.

One of their boys, skinny guy called Snazzy, started moving funny. Spotted him once near our area, staring long, asking questions.

We ignored it.

But we couldn’t ignore what happened at Hansonik, near the taxi station.

We were chilling that evening. The sun was down. Smoke in the air, laughter on our lips. Then Snazzy showed up with two boys. Walked straight to where we sat and said:

“You be Tero?”

I stood.

“You dey drop bar for street, but you no sabi who dey own am.”

Before I could even respond, Problem moved — lightning fast — and punched Snazzy straight in the jaw. The other boy tried to jump in, but O Don picked up a bottle. Biggie pulled his belt. Everything turned red.

I saw Snazzy pull something sharp. I don’t know if it was a blade or just a broken spoon, but I didn’t wait to find out.

I stabbed him. Once. Quick. Clean.

He screamed. Fell backward. Blood on his chest. His boys froze.

We disappeared. Like smoke.

⸻

That night, silence ruled the streets.

Nobody talked.

Nobody played our songs loud.

Nobody even asked what happened.

But in that silence, a truth rose.

Tero was not just a rapper.

He was the boss.

I didn’t plan it that way. I wasn’t chasing power. But in the streets, when you spill blood and don’t get caught, people look at you different. The fear mixes with respect.

From that day, when we walked through Mataheko or Dansoman, people moved aside. Kids pointed but never approached. Older boys nodded low. The gangs respected us.

But that came with a price.

The police started sniffing.

Sirens passed our zone more often. Unmarked cars parked near the bars. One of the scrap boys told us that CID officers were asking about “some rapper boys who beat up a guy near the station.”

We had to lay low.

Change our clothes more often. Split up in public. Even stop moving with knives or anything sharp. Problem said, “From today, we move like ghosts.”

And we did.

But we didn’t stop.

We still made music. Still went to clubs. Still sold — but careful now. Gavuna warned us: “No be every hype you fit survive.”

But my mind was split.

Half wanted the fame. The other half feared the price.

Because I knew the street don’t forget blood.

And Snazzy? Word was he didn’t die. He went quiet. Healing. Waiting. Planning.

But I was waiting too.

Because if there’s anything I learned that month — it’s that when you rise too fast in the ghetto, someone always wants to drag you back down.

Trouble with Police investigations.

By the next morning, the street had changed.

You could feel it in the way people stared. In the way trotro drivers paused longer than usual at the junction, pretending to look at traffic but actually scanning our corner. The air was thick. Something was coming. We just didn’t know what.

Then the sirens started.

Every two days, a patrol car passed our block slower than it should’ve. Blue and red lights flashing in the daylight. One day they stopped completely. Rolled down the window and asked, “Where Tero Mandem dey?”

I wasn’t outside that day. Biggie told them I’d traveled. Problem said I was sick. O Von said I went to church.

They all lied. That’s gang loyalty.

But I knew it wouldn’t last forever.

They weren’t just asking questions—they were hunting. That boy from the taxi station incident? He wasn’t just some street guy. He was connected. His brother worked with CID. We didn’t know that. But the police did. And now, every ghetto whisper was crawling its way to them.

One night, two officers in plain clothes showed up at our hideout near Mataheko. They didn’t knock. They kicked the door. We scattered like rats.

I hopped a wall, cut my knee on barbed wire. Blood soaked into my jeans but I kept running. That adrenaline wasn’t just fear—it was survival.

They caught Biggie that night. Slammed him to the ground, searched him, found nothing—but still locked him in for 48 hours. They asked him about the stabbing. About the drugs. About me.

He said nothing.

When he came out, he was quieter. Not scared… just cold. Like something inside him had frozen.

“You see this life?” he told me, lighting a joint with shaky hands. “It go end bad.”

And I believed him.