Rap in the City: A short Story

 

“Five minutes to stage time Balloz,” said his promoter.

            He stared into the dressing mirror with the make-up artist being right next getting his final additions done. He was in New York for the unveiling of the 2026 Super bowl. He was Kenyan and it was an honor for him to represent the sons and daughters of the land of Kenya in international stages. He was the ape in the game of rap at home. Having graduated and forging a career in music while at it, Balloz was an enigma both locally and internationally. The make-up artist was done and it was time to ignite the crowd.

“Time’s up Balloz,” said the promoter edging his head at the door.

“I will be out in 30 seconds, is the stage set?” Balloz said putting on his chain and vest.

“Of course, you should be hearing the fans echo out your name. They dig Kenyan.” Mkolomanzi said.

“Ha-ha, always for the fans Mkolomanzi, always do it for the fans, let’s rock this Super bowl,” said the rapper.

            The show was scheduled for fifteen minutes and the playlist was already ringing in Balloz’s mind. The chronicles, the big bad wolf, angel’s cry, and the momentum were among some of Balloz’s greatest hits, and he could not wait to set foot on the stage. Balloz entered the stage, was at first perplexed by the massive crowd screaming, and shouting at the top of their lungs, hand in mic, he said a quick prayer, and the stage was his for the taking. His first performance, 

“Yeah, yeah

Ayo, kenyans, it's time.

It's time, kenyans (aight, kenyans, begin).

Straight out the blue dungeons of rap.

 

The ballot drops deep as does my catch.

I never endorse, 'cause to endorse is the mother of hatch.

Beyond the walls of helicopters, life is defined.

I think of faith when I'm in a nairobi state of mind.

 

Hope the dispatch got some patch.

My match don't like no dirty snatch.

Run up to the scratch and get the hatch.

 

In a nairobi state of mind.

What more could you ask for? The white ballot?

You complain about dirty politics.

I gotta love it though - somebody still speaks for the pallet.

 

I'm rappin' to the politics,

And I'm gonna move your affix.

Big stomachs, small farmers, vast land, like a fairy

Boy, I tell you, I thought you were an itinerary.

 

I can't take the dirty politics, can't take the unemployment.

I woulda tried to vote I guess I got no deployment.

I'm rappin' to the affix,

And I'm gonna move your politics.

                                              Yea, yaz, in a nairobi state of mind.

 

When I was young my mother had a palette.

I waz kicked out without no shallot.

I never thought I'd see that pallet.

Ain't a soul alive that could take my mother's palate.

By now, the crowd was lit and was singing along with Balloz, a trickle of sweat trickled down his forehead, adrenaline pumped up he stole the show for the rest of the fifteen minutes. He even removed his vest and sang to the tunes of the beat, allowing his soul to bleed in the synchrony of the fans, the music, and his mind. It was an exciting career for him as opposed to the medicine course he took at the university. By the time, he performed the momentum, the crowd was blazing hot, or so he could say. And the Super bowl commenced. Balloz made his money and was scheduled on a flight back home. At the VIP lounge, he met other artists and promoters whom praised him for his startling performance.

“You are one good of a performer Balloz,” one promoter said. “You should try and mingle with other artists while you are still here in New York; word is, at home, there is a storm brewing.”

“How comes, and I made a debut performance at the Super Bowl, a fete no Kenyan artist has so far not accomplished?” He asked.

“I am promoter, and by the stance you just made on that stage, I do not think you deserve what is waiting for you at home,” the promoter said.

“What is waiting for me at home except for the many fans who just watched me perform on either live TV or form streaming channels?” Balloz said taking a sip of champagne.

“Word is, the recording label that signed you wants all the money from the concert,” the promoter said. “They claim that your song the chronicles is malicious.”

“How come it is malicious and they paid for me to get on that stage, or are you a rumor monger like the rest of them promoters?” he said taking another sip.

“I like your enthusiasm, and what an electrifying performance, but, this is the United States of America. Ask a random fan your name and you will be surprised,” the promoter said.

“Away with America, what I know is I am not leaving without my money, plus, am a celebrity, not every single person ought to know my name, it is part of the creative process,” Balloz said turning his head to some groupies on the other table. “Let us finish this conversation later, I understand promoters and I value them, I will talk to my manager.”

            In Kenya, it was true a storm was brewing of how a local celebrity could get such a high acknowledgement, an acknowledgement higher than that of a politician. Further, a do, the song was battering their reputation on matters concerning international relations. Kenya for quite some time enjoys international commentary especially from the media. The Super Bowl exceeded them in matters of coverage and audience presence. And it was unlike a Kenyan artist to hit such a mega deal internationally.

“Hello Balloz,” one of the groupies said with a grin so wide you could see her molars.

“Howdy, welcome and let us share this drink, bring your friends with you,” he said now into his third glass.

            At the back of his mind, he knew the dirty politics back home, and for him as an artist, a lot was at stake. He remembered writing the chronicles, he wrote it specifically for such purposes, and he did not regret a single word. He decided to enjoy New York leaving all the matters to his manager and promoter.

“So where are you girls from?” Asked Balloz pouring the remaining contents of the champagne bottle into the last glass.

“I/m from North Carolina, my other two friends are from New York,” the tall blonde answered back.

“And your names are,” Balloz asked.

“Well, my friends are Kimberly and Ashley, I am Amber. Nice performance, I cannot believe we are seated next to you Balloz (this one knows his name),” Amber said.

“Thank you, I appreciate the ambience, you guys are not watching the games?”

“No, we came here to party, can we take a selfie,” Ashley asked.

“Yeah sure,” Balloz said standing up and moving closer to the Americans, to him he was in awe.

            They took the selfie and enjoyed the night. The Los Angeles Rams won the title but by that time, Balloz and his friends were in a stupor and they talked about their culture, their administrations of power and authority, and the great city of New York. At one point, Kimberly asked the rapper to take a cruise with them, an offer he politely declined. They talked more of the Los Angeles Rams. After the game, Balloz himself became a fan with the spectacular emergence of almost half of the stadium came down to the playing field to congratulate the players and the coach. There were colors of blue and yellow all over the stadium with smoke guns being the order of the day. Balloz at a point forgot he was an artist by the cheering and jeering he made as he took down four bottles of champagne together with his friends. He talked about Kenya and the beauties of the land. He advocated for a visit to national game parks and reserves making the girls tilt with emotion. After five and a half hours of partying, his manager called him backstage. He bid farewell to the newfound friends and got down to business.

“I hear there are problems with the payment,” Balloz asked his manager one foot in the air in an attempt to find balance.

“I have sorted it out, it was the embassy,” Mutua his promoter said.

“The embassy says the performance was in contradiction to the International relations of the country,” Kirova, his manager added.

“What was the issue,” Balloz asked.

“The audience exceeded the expectations of the sponsors. They wanted to re-negotiate the contract,” Kirova said.

“Oh, I see, and what did you tell them,” Balloz asked.

“I told them we made a 300% profit margin, and they are content with their share of the money,” Mutua said. 

“Say what!” Balloz exclaimed.

“300% profit margin,” Mutua said fist bumping the rapper. “All in fifteen minutes.”

“We are going home richer than rich,” exclaimed the rapper.

“Yeah, let us head back to the hotel, we have a flight to catch tomorrow,” Kirova said anticipating the energy the rapper had for the life of the party. He was in deed the life of the party.

            Back stage, they were congratulated once they left the dressing room. It was Ayes and OH’s from the witnesses of the baddest rapper in Nairobi. His show was electrifying, (If only it was in video, he-he). He slapped the exit of the backstage and said a quick prayer of thanksgiving. At the parking lot, they were welcomed by escorts and drivers to their massive SUV trucks.

“Welcome Sirs, enjoy your ride to the hotel,” said one hotel assistant to one of the crew members of Balloz.

            They were settled in the vehicles and off they went to their hotel reservations. Balloz by now was thinking of his wife back at home. He had just gotten a new-born second daughter. Her name was Sasha. Black Prime Entertainment was all about business. The company that Balloz owned a stake, had run for a consecutive five years and they had reputation from all over the country. They were used to quick stage shows abroad and their visit to New York was not much of a fuss. They were the best of the best in the music industry. Now, all they could think of was a warm night and foreclosure of the deal in the very wee hours of the morning.

“They said the estimates tripled?” Asked Balloz getting out of the car, they had arrived at Windcosour Hotel. It was 5:45 a.m.

“Yeah, we bagged the whole lot this time,” Mutua said.

“So, how much are we talking about?” Balloz asked walking to the hotel’s entrance.

“Close to $100,000 USD,” Kirova shot back.

“What, that is close to 12 million back home! All in fifteen minutes! God am glad to be a rapper,” Balloz said. “I am going to do wonders back home.”

“Yeah, and you gave us jobs too!” Mutua said laughing. “Let’s sleep it out; we will handle the paperwork tomorrow.”

“It’s already tomorrow my man, let’s get some sleep,” Kirova told Balloz.

            At the reception, they were met by a beautiful Spanish lady. She gave them the ley cards to their rooms and they were good to go. They dragged their wares to the elevator. It was a nice trip, they made Kshs.12 million in 15 minutes.

            Back at home, Black Prime Entertainment was shooting up with ratings. Charts had the chronicles on number 1. And the country was all over the company. It was a reason the government was against their pay at the Super Bowl. It was board managed and by now, they were holding interviews locally on their recent performance in New York. Local stations could not hold back since Balloz was already a brand in their studios. In some, the performance was Live and they broadcasted this to their audiences across the country. A move the government wanted to lynch and hold the artist’s pay through the embassy.

“How much did they make?” Mr. Azul asked his colleague.

“I heard they made Kshs. 12 million in 15 minutes,” he responded.

“It is a sad affair, the President cannot be gotten a hand of, he is annoyed by what the artist made abroad,” Mr. Azul told his colleague.

            Black Prime Entertainment made a breakthrough as the pioneer company to outdo restrictions by the national government to sell their rights and music internationally. Regardless of their fete, many other companies had tried to pull this but to no avail. Balloz was an exceptional rapper. He was like 2 Pac Shakur of the famed West Side in the USA: All about the music business and always a step ahead of his competitors. Now, the government could not stop that, it was evident that through his music he championed for a right order for society. Through this, his fame was a soundproof affair similar to that of 2 Pac. His words were an echo to the society and the government did not like that.

“When is their flight landing?” Asked Balloz 2^nd manager Patel.

“At around 3:15 p.m.” answered the events manager.

“I hope he is ready for a whole load of interviews, that man Balloz,” said Patel.

“He always ready,” said the events manager.

            At the government office, Mr. Azul could not make sense of the artist getting such a huge amount of money. He believed in a robust education system that nurtured children into responsible adults. However, with artists with big names like Balloz, then the kids would follow his example, a bad thing for Mr. Azul. He was working in the Ministry of Youth and Gender Affairs and it was he an unlikely fan of music. He turned back to his colleague.

“When are they flying back?” he asked.

“Tomorrow perhaps.”

“They should at least pay the government some levies,” Mr. Azul said bulging his eyes.

“Yes, that would make them broke though,” his colleague said.

“They should be broke, how on earth can one person make 12 million Kshs in 15 minutes?” Azul said.

            At the hotel, Balloz and his team were fast asleep, it was minutes to dawn, and everything in New York was returning to normal after a wild night of partying in celebration of the Rams winning the Super bowl. The hotel attendants had already placed their breakfast at the entrance to their respective lounges. Mutua was the first man to wake up amongst the other two, followed by Kirova and Balloz was last. They had now to get down to the paperwork before their scheduled flight. Kirova called the event organizers and set up a meeting spot in the streets of the magnificent city. It was intentional for Kirova to make the two walk to the stipulated café. They had to see the ambience of the city of angels as it was commonly referred to as by people across the world.

“It’s time to go,” said Mutua picking up his jacket, they had convened at Balloz’s lounge after the two had gulped down their delicious breakfast.

            The crew walked out to the elevator and out through the lobby, the streets were full of people busy with their minds in their business. There were camera flicks across the streets and this gave Kirova an idea.

“Guys, come let’s take a selfie,” he said rounding up the two people.

            Click! The camera flashed, and there they were in the streets of New York on memory. Kirova shared the photo on his social media. Within an hour’s walk in the magnificent city, there were at the café, Balloz could see the organizers taking a cup of coffee. As they entered the door to the café, Kirova told Mutua his social media was exploding, and all Mutua could do was laugh. He knew back home their fans were waiting eagerly for their superstar to arrive home. More so, at the back of his mind, Kirova had the mind of a performance to celebrate their success abroad. It could work, especially with the response they could see on their social media.

“Hallo, you people are just in time,” said one of the organizers pulling a chair for Mutua.

“Yes, we have a flight to catch in the afternoon,” said Kirova seating down.

            Balloz sat and looked on to find the waiter. He was thirsty for some fruit juice. It was indeed a fun time for him in New York. He enjoyed the white women passing by walking with small dogs. At one point into the meeting, he wondered if a fan could spot him and maybe ask for a selfie. They discussed the incident with their home embassy and the contradictions the money they made had caused. Balloz was talented and he is a nominated star in several award platforms, he deserved every penny of that money. It was the ceremony that got to most of them Mutua thought to himself.

“The money was transferred into your accounts before we came to the café, we actually came to congratulate Balloz the artist on making the Super Bowl memorable,” said the tall Italian man with a moustache and a waxed beard with big dark sunglasses.

“Oh, the money is already in? Let me check,” said Mutua removing his phone and going to his Absa Mobile App. “This will take just a second.”

“Balloz, next time, your performance will inspire many more people,” said the Italian. “Yesterday I had the time of my life, I even met a woman at the bar.”

“Thanks, I aim to inspire more people from across the different parts of the world.

“Here is a gift for you,” the Italian said handing him a boxed bottle of Hennessy. It seemed the gig was a success primarily because of the performance by the Kenyan artist.

“The money is credited,” Mutua, said putting his phone back in his pocket. He should have received a notification from the bank.

“So, Mr. Pascal, should we expect more gigs from you guys? Us as Black Prime Entertainment,” Kirova asked the Italian eyes crossed.

“We are not sure, but it depends on how you engage the market back at home. I know at home everyone is mentioning this fine rapper of ours over here. If you put up a show, then we might work again, this time on a larger platform than the Super Bowl,” said the Italian sipping his coffee.

“Thanks for the Hennessey Pascal, I will enjoy this one,” Balloz said putting his gift in a bag.

“Alright, final signing of a job well done guys,” said Pascal distributing unsigned papers to the three men in the music business. 

            The three men signed their papers and gave them back to the Italian event organizer. The deal was done, they got their money, and both parties had signed contracts notifying their satisfaction. They shook hands and the deal was done, they were now strangers.

“How about we get a taxi back to the hotel,” Balloz said. “Walking with close to Kshs 12 million is as risky as counting money in the streets of Nairobi, plus am now a millionaire, am not walking.”

“You are funny, who could walk with such money in their pockets! We are getting a taxi straight to the hotel and another one straight to the airport. We will rest at the airport,” said Mutua hastening his pace.

            These guys knew they had hit the jackpot, they did not even talk to each other with each of them fearing they could spill the beans. It was a ten-minute drive to the hotel. Upon arrival, they went, packed, and left immediately. Mutua had planned a thirty-minute rest at the airport as they waited for their flight to Kenya.

“It’s like I am missing the life in Nairobi, the hustle that dash from the hotel to hear is similar to a stage performance,” Balloz said putting his bags down.

“Yeah, I miss Nairobi too, the hustle and the noise,” Mutua said taking a seat.

“I miss home too, st least everything can go back to normal, performing at the Super Bowl by a Kenyan artist is just exemplary, Balloz said.

“Guys, you don’t realize that we have made a million bucks in one single event. Let’s invest in the record label,” Kirova suggested.

“Yes, that is a good idea, we need to source for new talent,” Balloz said. He had a particular interest in the new wave of Generation Z style of music. He had a few years in the game, close to eight or so years with mic in his hand and a voice given by the Almighty. He sang and rapped to the audiences of many diverse cultural backgrounds and they all appreciated his music.

“We shall call for the auditions and scout those who deserve the booth,” said Mutua sipping from his juice box.

            There was an announcement and people started moving into a single file. The flight was ready and people were just about to board.

“Time to go,” said Balloz.

“Get your bags. We are going to the VIP lounge, I upgraded the tickets after the show,” said Kirova.

“That is a good one, I surely do need a drink,” said Balloz.

“I sure do need one too,” Mutua remarked.

            They were guided to their cabin in the aeroplane and were made comfortable; they got their drinks and hot meals. The flight was to take four hours from New York to Nairobi on one route. To Balloz and Mutua, the party had just started.

“To Black Prime Entertainment!” All of them said each popping a bottle of Bellaire. “To Black Prime Entertainment!”

            They landed just in time for the 9:00 o’clock news. The newly branded stars were in town. At Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, their fellow members with much sheer and joy welcomed them. They were nostalgic to hear of the successful trip to New York. Balloz convinced them there wood news and some new ventures they had thought about on their way home. They drove straight home with them agreeing to meet at the office the following day.

            The sunrays split through the glass window of Balloz’s office. He was in his chair when his secretary walked in carrying a file.

“Sir, someone from the National Treasury dropped this yesterday,” she said handing him the file.

“What is it about?” Balloz asked.

“Just check what is inside Mr. Artist of the Year. I saw your performance on TV, it was ecstatic like never before. Where did the energy come from?” She asked.

“Guess it was the crowd and the noise, mostly the cheers from the fans,” said the artist.

“Okay then, take your time with the file, it looks important,” the secretary said closing the door.

            Once opening the seal of the envelope out slid four documents each with the government symbol. His spine sent a cold chill. It could be about the money they were paid overseas. He picked one and read:

Government of Kenya,

Office of the Minister of Finance

20/2/2025

Black Prime Entertainment,

Balloz Daniel, C.E.O

Warmest regards,

            I hope this finds you well. It is with an important notice of the monies paid to you in New York. Apparently, conversion of the monies to local currency could stall government projects and initiatives set by our Dear President. Please avail yourself to our offices as soon as possible so as to clear the matter.

Thank You,

George Ngweya,

Minister of Finance.

            He could not believe what he was reading. The state wanted a share of the money if that was not the hidden message in the letter. He read through the other three and they narrowed to the same thing. He thought of the idea of starting a talent studio for the potential upcoming in the entertainment industry. Now he was to avail himself to those government offices. Just then, Mutua and Kirova entered the office. The Chief Executive was happy to see them. He handed them the file and watched as their faces turned blue.

“What is this nonsense from the Ministry looks like they want a share of the money too,” said Kirova going through the second piece of paper.

“Are you going down the Ministry Balloz,” asked Mutua.

“I waited for your suggestions, then I would decide whether I was to go or ignore this letter,” the rapper said fidgeting in his huge chair.

“Go and see what is in store for us, I mean with all this money, we could go to another country,” Kirova said handing the file to Balloz.

“We can’t go to another country, I love Kenya I also mean, who knows, we could get a better show than the previous one,” the rapper said. “Plus there is no way I am leaving underground talent behind to score some extra cash someplace else.”

“If you have to go, we will go together,” Mutua said.

“I will go this minute before anything odd happens,” Balloz said standing up. “Who is coming with me!”

            They left the offices and in the elevator, the other two executives realized that the rapper was writhing deep. There was silence as they dropped floor by floor. Ching! There is was the ground floor, they walked out and headed for the entrance. Here their driver was waiting in a blue sleek Mercedes Benz. The engine purred like a relaxed jaguar and off they veered towards the government offices.

“Hello I am here to see the Minister Finance,” Balloz said at the reception.

“Your name please,” the secretary asked.

“Balloz Daniel,” said the rapper.

            The hawk-eyed secretary shot her eyes up and recognized the person standing in front of her was famous. She instructed her subordinate to take the guys to Mr. Ngweya’s office. Here again, they went up the elevator and stopped at the 10^th floor. They soon saw his name engraved at the door, ‘Dr. George Ngweya. Minister of Finance’. The lady knocked and walked in instructing the trio to follow her. The instance the Minister saw Balloz, he gestured to the subordinate it was okay for her to leave. His face was beaming with excitement.

“I see you have received the letter,” Dr. George said.

“Yes Sir and quite frankly neither of us is happy,” the rapper said.

“I hope you have not yet spent a penny,” the Minster toyed with the rapper’s mind.

“I have not,” the rapper said taking a seat.

“So what is all this about,” asked Mutua.

“Well, I received a call from the President and was instructed to tax the monies,” said the Minister.

“We have no problem with paying taxes; you will just have to tax the company. Balloz, we are done here,” said Kirova.

“You will pay the taxes as individuals, not as a company That is why you are here to declare your wealth Mr. Balloz. Those letters were addressed to you, not your friends,” said the taxman.

“Meaning, you are going to tax me for the money I got from the show and my other properties that I duly pay tax?” Daniel asked.

“No, only the money from the show,” said the Minister.

“Does paying tax equate to receiving letters from the Minister himself?” Daniel asked again.

“Yes, and I really wanted to see this superstar who made millions on a stage,” said the Minister.

“Well, we will make arrangements to make the payments,” said the rapper.

            At this time, the other two executives could not make what was happening. Were they being profiled? Kirova was the skeptical one in the group and knew these instances. They could have just sent an email if it was such an important matter. Emails are formal, he thought.

“Well, then I am looking forward to seeing you,” said the Minster. “My secretary will give you the account to put the money on your way out, in fact, let me call her this minute…”

            This man is not serious. He literally is taking our money straight out of our pockets into his! Anyway, Balloz thought of the projects he would initiate with the underground rappers in the city and decided to remove the obstacle out of his way. He stood up and shook the Minsters hand. On their way out, the secretary handed them another file.

            Balloz’s wife was breastfeeding their two-year-old son. She was used to him not being at home at night. In fact, she preferred seeing him during the day. It was convenient or her. She works as a software engineer at Microsoft Kenya. During the show, she watched her husband perform in front of a Western audience, a stunt that made her proud of the man he was becoming. She was happy regardless that the show was over and that her beloved rapper was home. Balloz was an ordinary person in real life. Since his come up, he has put effort in his music and his fan base. In addition, he ventured into the business of Black Prime Entertainment in his fourth year of his music career. With his enthusiasm and resilience, the young man achieved to be a national hero with his philosophical rhymes. His favorite dish was ugali, some fish and some sukuma wiki. It was with this that his creativity surged by the day.

“Honey, am home,” Balloz said to Monica.

“Come into the kitchen and grab a bite, I know you are hungry,” said Monica.

“Let me grab a shower first, was at the Minister’s office today, they want me to pay them some money upfront,” said Balloz.

“Why are you even thinking of paying them a cent?” Asked Monica.

“I just want to continue with my projects with the young artists,” said the rapper. “I want to inspire the youth and become a legacy in the music business. I remember my first recording whereby a complete stranger paid it; I am determined to do the same to someone else who needs that opportunity.”

“Babe, it is understandable, but why should they make you send the money?” said Monica with a frown on her face.

“It is the government, plus we made more than we expected at the show in New York,” said Dan. (She liked to call him Dan).

“If that is the case, then it is fine with me,” said Monica.

“Cook me some eggs, am hungry,” said Dan.

            They lived in Sahure Estate, a posh estate, with lots of influential people, some in government, and some in the corporate scene. Sahure was built on a two-acre plot of land with amenities like schools, malls, gyms, and even a swimming pool. It was quite a scenery if you were a visitor for the first time. Sahure was a spectacle.

“Do you want them scrambled or do you want them spiced?” Monica asked

“Spiced,” said the rapper holding his infant son.

“Coming right up,” said Monica.

            As they left the government office, they decided to give themselves a break of two weeks to clear the jet lag and also time to pay the debt amounting to close to 800,000/- Kshs. It was small money for the company considering that in the first place, they got the gig to perform at the Super bowl, who knew what was in line waiting for them? Balloz planned to pay the monies the following day without delay. He slept a peaceful night next to his wife and his infant son.

            The next morning, Balloz set out to pay his ‘taxes’ and get on to something else. His driver was waiting for him at the gate with his usual vehicle, and off they drove to Haile Selassie Avenue, the location of the government offices. It was a brisk morning with the sunrays being echoed by the tinted glass windows of the G wagon.

“It does not bother you that the government is asking you for a cut?” Asked the driver.

“Why does everyone think of it as a big deal?” Balloz asked his driver ignoring the first question, dead in the eye.

“It was just a question Sir,” the driver said eyes stuck on the road. Balloz looked at the brown envelope and said, “Yes, I have to pay the gorver…”

(A LOUD THUD, TYRES SCREECHING AND THE G WAGON ROLLING IN THE AIR SEVERAL TIMES. SCREAMS FROM ONLOOKERS DEAFEN THE PEOPLE RUNNING TOWARDS THE MERCEDES WRECK)

“Please not today, Father,” prayed Monica as she looked at the rapper’s swollen face, which had tubes up his nose and mouth to pass oxygen and food. He was hurt bad, the driver died on the spot. All Balloz could do was to let out sighs and small coughs in between, he could not talk. Mutua and Kirova looked on as their friend fought his hardest battle, a battle to save his own life.

            Mutua was skeptical at the funeral of the legendary rapper. He knew that the events did not seem natural to the common eye. How did all these happen all of a sudden, a fatal accident in one of his favorite machines, the G Wagon. The police said the exit of the fourth tire from its space was the cause of the fatal crash. How it happened was a difficult affair as the car was now a wreck, a piece of pulp. That is what caused the car to roll in the air severally; luckily, there were no other casualties. The police further added that the surged speed of the driver was a factor in the occurrence of the accident and warned them not to speed in traffic. Mutua tried to remember the conversation between the Minister and his late friend Balloz. He was stuck on why the Minster had to say he had to see him personally instead of sending him an email. In addition, it was as if someone spooked the vehicle while they were in the Minister’s office, but it is not possible, the driver was in the car. It was the fourth tyre so it must have been placed there in a hurry.

“Let dust turn to dust,” said Mutua as he threw a handful of soil into the grave of his friend, business partner, and brother. He walked away slowly sighting the widow carrying her infant. What could Black Prime be without the pioneer artist? He is the one who knew the ropes especially when it came to sourcing for new talent. It was going to be an uphill task regardless of the millions they had at their disposal.

            It was a normal day at the office and Kirova was still in grief. He also could not understand the fact they had lost a brother to a road accident. Unlike Mutua, Kirova believed the police and that was it. He accepted their verdict. As for Mutua, his questions started finding root. From the sources that informed them on the government’s move while they were in New York had to do some dirty work for him and know the true intention behind Balloz’s murder or so did he say. Now, they shared the secretary and the executive office with Kirova.

“Sir, there is another letter from the Ministry,” said the secretary walking towards them. “Here is the letter.”

            Mutua felt as if he could rip the paper into two. “Let me have it!”

            What do they want this time, another life?” Kirova retorted.

Mutua read the letter aloud, “It with a displeasure that we heard of the tragic death of Mr. Daniel Balloz. We have decided to waiver off the tax of Kshs. 800,000 as of immediate effect primarily because of the respect of your beloved CEO. Thank you.” Signed Minister of Finance.

“They waivered the invoice,” said the secretary. “That is some good news I hope.”

“No, it is not, they killed Daniel for money,” said Mutua.

“How so,” asked Kirova.

“I saw a government vehicle at the funeral. They saw me look and they drove off slowly,” said Mutua.

“What is happening?” The secretary asked, her name was Joyce.

“I think the government wants the whole loot!” Mutua exclaimed.

“Wait, what if…what if Balloz was murdered?” Kirova let out a shriek.

“Ever since that show, things have not being usual at Black Prime,” Joyce said.

“Kindly elaborate,” Mutua said.

“I mean, the day before you came back from New York, there was a black SUV opposite the gate. It was parked there for close to three hours with no one coming in or out. This was at around midday. Then, as I left the office, some random man asked me about the tickets to the Super bowl in New York and I told him they were sold out. He further mentioned Balloz and let out a crooked smile. I thought him as a creep and shrugged him off. Little did I know there would be an accident involving Balloz,” she said.

“Please continue,” urged Mutua.

“Then a day after you arrived, a lady came up to the reception and enquired about the same show. She was the one who dropped the file containing the previous letters…”

“Wait, a day after we arrived, a lady came up to the reception,” interrupted Kirova. “We can check the CCTV footage and identify her.”

“Let’s do it,” said Mutua. “It seems they know a lot about us than we do about them. Any leads from our informants?”

            Mutua at this moment went to the window and saw the black SUV as described. He was furious.

“Look! There they are,” Mutua said to the other two.

“Let us go and find out what they now want from Black Prime,” said Joyce.

“Let’s go,” Kirova said standing up from his chair.

            Black Prime was on the sixth floor and the trio had to take the elevator. Walking briskly, they were in the lift and Joyce pressed the ground floor button. She carried with herself a voice recorder just in case things got nasty between them and the government officials. Within no time, they were on the ground floor with their feet briskly tapping the marble floor. They were annoyed. The trio hit the corner to the parking lot and headed straight for the SUV. From afar as they neared the window slid down and there she was, the lady official that dropped the file.

“Hello, I see you almost scuffling to talk to me,” the lady official said to Mutua.

“Yes, and very angry to say the least. What on earth are you doing here?”

“I am here to make an offer,” she said.

“What offer?” asked Kirova. At this time, Joyce turned on the recorder secretly hidden in her coat.

“The minister was sorry for the accident. He said he felt as if the money he asked Balloz to pay cost him his life. We want to have a partnership with Black Prime, specifically for one project only,” said the official.

“What type of a partnership?” Asked Joyce.

“We simply want to honor the international superstar as the government,” said the other man sitted on the passenger’s seat of the black SUV.

“Here is my card, make sure to give us a call or you will be seeing much of this black SUV quite much often,” said the lady official.

“Alright, we shall discuss the way forward with my team and see if it is worth partnering with the government,” said Mutua.

“Nice time and by the way please call off your boys, they are all in our business and that is not good,” said the other man.

“We just want answers, nothing more nothing less,” said Mutua.

“Balloz died in a car accident and that is just it, I would advise, for the sake of grief, stop denying his death was not an accident,” said the lady officer.

“We will think on the offer, and it is my right to believe what I want to believe good Sir,” said Mutua moving back from the SUV.

“Alright, we hope to hear from you guys soon,” said the lady official purring the SUV to life.

            The crew were confused in a way, was it right to work hand-in-hands with the government and promote the brand or should they just bury it under the carpet and pretend that nothing was unusual. But, what about the black SUV? Would Mrs. Daniel affirm of this decision? Damn! Why did they send informants to the Ministry buildings? Mutua and Kirova asked themselves these questions and they could not get straight answers.