The next morning, DJ Casino inspects our outfits in the hotel lobby. “Nice one, gents. You both went with Sean John. You look like a million bucks. Now, let’s go promote the shit out of your album. We start with a photoshoot, then we attend a few TV promos and radio interviews. Then we check on the printed CDs; I am certain we’ll have the cover by then.”

I bring my hands to my chest. “Thank you so much, DJ Casino. You’re a true gentleman and a man of his word. You’ve delivered everything you promised in the contract. Lead the way, and we’ll follow you to greener pastures.”

“I merely gave you a helping hand. Gadaffi, you’re a talented artist. And I have faith in us, in our team. I think we can go further than any of us initially anticipated. I plan on moving us to the great city of London.”

Waves and I look at each other with wide eyes. “Let’s do this!” I add.

The photographer at Nguni Arts is friendly. He says the camera loves me. We spend three hours shooting.

DJ Casino is happy. “Oh, yes. Nice one, my boy. We’ll use these pictures everywhere. Print media, the internet, TV promos. You’ll be everywhere by afternoon.”

DJ Casino drives us to the Joburg branch of Upload Records’ offices, located in Centurion, for a quick recap. The offices are in an old building, but it’s been renovated to suit modern times, with colourful paint and a graffiti-sprayed balcony.

The staff gives us a warm welcome. DJ Casino leads the way to his corner office.

Sitting on a comfy faux leather couch with fruity cocktails in our hands, the three of us feel invincible.

DJ Casino speaks. “Gents, you’ve made me proud, both of you. For real. I am grateful to be working with you gents, and I know after our tour here in Jozi, you boys will receive your incentive plus a bonus.”

Waves shakes his head. “For real?”

“Of course. Money is not an issue. The investors are happy with you. I am certain the market will reflect the same thing.”

The phone rings. DJ Casino picks it up. “Hello? What? Right now? Shit, ok.”

Waves and I lock eyes and shake our heads.

DJ Casino’s face turns red. He looks sick. He unbuttons his shirt and tries to stand up. He sways side to side and does his best to put one foot in front of the other. “Gadaffi, Amanzi!”

I get up to help him. “DJ Casino, are you feeling okay? Because you don’t look so good.”

He shakes his head. “Yes, I am fine. Just need to get out of here for a minute. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Waves murmurs. “Maybe bad news over the phone.”

I rush to DJ Casino, wanting an explanation. “DJ Casino, what’s wrong? What was that call about?”

“Nothing. Better mind your own business, boy!”

The door opens, and there are three officers standing on the other side, waving an arrest warrant.

An officer cuffs DJ Casino. “Frank Casino. You’re under arrest for money laundering through Upload Records.”

I watch as my saviour gets dragged out in handcuffs. My head is spinning.

 

Everything comes crashing down just as easily as it took flight. I watch in horror as the police strip every piece of furniture from the entire office. By the time they are done, only the fresh paint on the walls remains. Everything else is gone. Upload Records has turned to ash.

 

With DJ Casino behind bars for money laundering and no telling if he’s getting out, I turn freelance artist. I get a few gigs in and around ‘Rova, but nothing concrete.

I know I only experienced a few moments of success, yet that left me wanting more.

Things get a bit better after I run into Mr. Mahlangu at the Main Road.

“Hau, Gadaffi! When did you get back? How come you didn’t come see me?”

I look at my shoes. “Eish, Mr. Mahlangu, I don’t know. Probably shame. I let you down big time.”

Mr. Mahlangu puts his hand on my shoulder. “I shouldn’t have fired you like that. I guess we both made mistakes. Your old job is yours if you want, but this time you’ll be working from Welasi, Extension Four.”

I smile. “Agreed! Thanks, Mr. Mahlangu.”

I stew around in the hood, earning peanuts. Life is hard, especially knowing I signed a multi-million-rand deal. Now here I am, back to square one. I save up what little money I earn to record an EP.

 

Six months later, I catch my first break. Gifties, the producer, tracks me down to my workplace at the new container in Welasi.

We talk outside. “Holy mother of Jesus! Is this you, boy? Gadaffi, in the flesh.”

I smile. “Hey, Gifties, nice to see you, bro. What are you doing on this side of the street?”

Gifties chuckles a bit. “I came to find you. They said you work here now. I wanted to come thank you face-to-face.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“Well, you left quite an impression on me. After meeting you, I went and searched deep in the townships for kasi rappers, and I found them. Now I want you to come make music with us. We’ll offer you a compensation package plus royalties and a twenty-percent stipend on all future gigs.”

“Mhhh. I don’t know. Don’t take me wrong. I want the opportunity, but I don’t wish to let down Mr. Mahlangu again. No, not this time…”

Gifties cuts me off. “That’s the beauty of it. You won’t have to quit your job just yet. You can come into the studio part-time. Or kanjani, Ntjaka!”

“Ngiyabonga, mfowethu,” I say.

 

On my first day back at Kali Studios, I arrive earlier than expected, just to get a real feel of everything.

I find another artist recording in the studio. By the looks of it, he’s having a tough time.

He says, “Sorry, Mfowethu. The name is Skheji, and I’ve been working on this chorus for almost an hour. Do you mind taking over the chorus? Write your own lyrics and rap?”

Gifties taps me on the shoulder. “Okay, Gadaffi, I know you can do this. You were made for these lines…”

I warm up. “Yebo, phela, mfowethu.”

I rehearse outside, listening to the beat and verses.

I come up with a ncaa hook, not to mention the flow. I tell Gifties, “I am ready.”

Gifties gives the signal, and the room gets quiet. Everyone looks at me.

“What now?” I ask.

“What now?” Gifties says. “I suppose now you get in front of the mic and shine like the star you were born to be.”

I walk into the recording booth.

The mic goes live. I hear the beat through the earphones. I take a deep breath and get in the zone. I watch Gifties count me in on his fingers.

Three… Two… He points to me.

“Ukube amabonda ayakhuluma bew’ zo xox’ ndaba ezimbili. Njengo lwimi lwezilima. Ciniso bayal’ juba, phendul’ msila we mbiba…”

 

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