I Borrowed Drip to Fake a Rich Rapper Image — I Finally Quit Flexing and Released One Honest EP
I wore borrowed silk, fake gold, and a rented smile, while my bank balance read twelve Rand. Camera flashes exploded as photographers yelled, “Kabelo, Big Kat, show us the ice,” and the bass shook my ribs. I lifted the chain, felt its weight bite my neck, and whispered, “Easy, just breathe,” while hunger clawed my gut.
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An influencer leaned close and said, "You are next up, king," and I nodded as if belief cost nothing. The VIP carpet smelled of cologne, sweat, and ambition, and my silk jacket scraped my skin like punishment.
A promoter grinned and asked, "Champagne or cognac?" and I laughed, replying, "Later, I am pacing myself tonight."
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I ignored it, knowing the alert carried nothing but unpaid reminders. Someone slapped my back and said, “You made it,” and the lie echoed louder than the music.
A firm hand suddenly gripped my shoulder, steady and certain, cutting through the noise and heat. A calm voice said, “We need a word, brother,” and the camera lens froze inches from my face. Everything shifted in that moment when I realised the person holding the camera wasn't a fan, but a debt collector.
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My reputation in the Johannesburg underground was built on a foundation of razor-sharp metaphors and a refusal to sell out. I spent three years haunting the pavements outside of YFM and Metro FM, jumping into every freestyle cypher I could find.
"Kabelo, that verse on the corner yesterday was legendary," a young kid once told me outside a pop-up shop. "I heard the big labels are terrified of your pen," he added with wide, admiring eyes. "They should be, kid," I replied, adjusting my backpack to hide the fraying straps.
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I became the rapper that other rappers quoted, the "anti-industry" hero of the Tembisa streets. People assumed I was comfortable because the older legends would nod at me in the street.
"You're the next one up, Kat," a veteran producer told me over a shared cigarette. "I'm just waiting for the right timing," I lied, leaning against his expensive German sedan. "Don't wait too long, the streets have short memories," he cautioned.
I stopped correcting people when they assumed I was getting paid for my guest verses. The weight of their respect was the only thing keeping my head above the rising tide of poverty.
"Kabelo, why aren't you driving yet?" my cousin asked me at a family braai. "The lifestyle is a distraction from the message," I told him, sounding like a prophet. In reality, I didn't even have the taxi fare to get back to my flat.
Streaming platforms sent me monthly statements that looked like insults, paying only cents for thousands of plays. Radio spins were frequent, but the royalty cheques were buried under layers of administrative red tape.
"Your song is a hit in the clubs," Neo, my stylist friend, told me one afternoon.
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"Hits don't put pap on the table, Neo," I muttered, looking at my bare fridge. "Then let me fix your look," he said, "perception is the only currency that matters."
I accepted his offer because I was tired of being the talented ghost whom everyone admired but no one hired. We struck a deal: he would lend me his high-end samples, and I would tag him in my photos.
"If you look like a million, they’ll pay you a million," Neo promised, draping a designer scarf over me. "And if they don't?" I asked, looking at my reflection in his floor-length mirror. "Then at least you’ll look good while you’re starving," he laughed, though his eyes remained cold.
The deception became a full-time job that required more creativity than my actual music. I started taking Bolt rides to every gig, even if the destination was only three blocks away. I would wait until the driver pulled up to the main entrance before stepping out with an air of bored importance.
"Keep the change," I would say to the driver, handing him my last twenty Rand note. "Bless you, my brother," he’d respond, unaware that he now had more money than I did.
I’d walk into the venue, and the sea of faces would part like I was royalty. The texture of the borrowed clothes against my skin felt like a lie that was slowly becoming a second skin.
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"Hey Kabelo, we want you for the festival next month," a promoter shouted over the music. "Send the contract to my manager," I shouted back, knowing full well I was my own manager. "Is the fee the same as last time?" he asked, squinting through the smoke.
"My rate just went up, check the buzz online," I lied, walking away before he could negotiate.
I turned down small, paid gigs at local bars because I thought they would "damage my brand." I preferred to perform for free at high-profile events where the "exposure" was supposedly worth more than cash.
"Why didn't you take that show in Soweto?" my mother, Zanele, asked over the phone. "The stage wasn't right for my sound, Ma," I explained, pacing my small room.
"The electricity bill is due, Kabelo, and the cupboard is nearly empty," she sighed. "I have a big deal coming through next week, just hold on," I promised.
The silence on the other end of the line felt heavier than the designer boots I wore to the mall. I avoided going home to Tembisa during the month-end because I couldn't face the neighbours. They saw me on TV and expected me to be the son who finally made it out of the township.
I sat in my darkened apartment, scrolling through Instagram, watching my own face trend on the local "ones to watch" lists.
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I felt like a hollowed-out statue, gold-plated on the outside but crumbling into dust within.
"Why aren't you dropping the album?" a fan commented on my latest post. "Quality takes time. Strategy over speed," I typed back, my fingers trembling. The truth was that I couldn't even afford a two-hour session at a decent recording studio.
I went to visit Neo at his studio to return a pair of luxury sneakers I’d worn for a weekend shoot. The room smelled of expensive cologne and new leather, a scent that now made me feel physically ill.
"The streets are talking about your new look, man," Neo said, checking the soles for scuffs. "The streets aren't paying my rent, Neo," I replied, sitting on his velvet sofa.
"You just need one more big push, one more high-fashion link-up," he insisted. "I'm tired of faking the 'ice' while I'm freezing, bro," I said, my voice cracking.
He looked at me with a mixture of pity and professional detachment, his eyes scanning my tired face. "In this city, the truth is a luxury you can't afford yet," he whispered, handing me a new jacket. "Put this on. There's a listening session in Braam tonight. Everyone who matters will be there."
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I took the jacket, the heavy fabric feeling like lead weights pulling on my shoulders. I knew I was reaching a breaking point, but the momentum of the lie was too great to stop.
I arrived at the venue in Braamfontein, the neon lights of the city reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement. The soundscape was a chaotic blend of sirens, deep bass, and the shrill laughter of socialites. I walked in, my chin tilted up, ready to play the role of the successful artist one more time.
"Kabelo! My man! You look like a bag of money!" a blogger yelled, thrusting a microphone toward me. "I'm just staying blessed and highly favoured," I replied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
"Any word on the global collaboration rumours?" she pushed, her eyes searching mine. "We're in talks. Everything is moving at the right pace," I said, sliding past her into the VIP section.
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I found a corner near the bar, watching the industry players navigate the room like sharks. I saw a group of label representatives huddled together, their expensive suits a stark contrast to the streetwear of the artists.
One of the artists, a man known for "breaking" the biggest acts in the country, gestured toward me. I felt a surge of hope, thinking this was the moment the lie would finally become a reality.
"That's him, right? The lyrical saviour?" one of the younger reps asked, nodding in my direction. "Yeah, that's Kabelo," the senior executive replied, swirling his whiskey.
I leaned in slightly, pretending to check my phone while straining to hear their verdict. "The kid has a great pen, honestly. Some of the best bars I've heard in years," the executive continued.
I felt my chest swell with pride for a fleeting second before his next words shattered the air around me. "But he's got zero market value. He's all image and no infrastructure. We know he's playing dress-up."
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"So, no deal?" the younger man asked. "Why buy the cow when the milk is free? He'll keep showing up for the clout until he burns out."
The room seemed to tilt on its axis, the music becoming a distorted, underwater drone. My skin felt cold, the physical sensation of the borrowed silk suddenly feeling like a shroud. They knew. They had always known, and they were laughing at the performance I was killing myself to maintain.
The executive’s laughter cut through the bass like a serrated blade, mocking the very air I breathed. I stood frozen, my hand still gripping a glass of premium vodka I hadn't paid for. The smell of expensive tobacco and expensive lies suddenly made me nauseous, swirling in the heated air of the lounge.
I looked down at my sleeves, noticing a tiny, frayed thread on the "designer" cuff Neo had lent me. To the world, I was a king in waiting; to the men holding the keys, I was a court jester in stolen robes.
"Kabelo, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost," a fellow rapper asked, leaning into my space. "I'm fine, just the lights," I muttered, my voice sounding thin and hollow in my own ears.
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"Man, I saw your latest video. That car was insane. You're really living it, hey?" he grinned. "It’s all part of the vision, bro," I replied, the lie now sticking to my throat like dry sand.
I left the club without saying goodbye, walking out into the biting cold of a Johannesburg midnight. I didn't call a Bolt this time; I didn't have the funds, and the performance was over. I walked toward the taxi rank, my expensive boots clicking rhythmically against the cracked pavement.
Every shadow felt like a witness to my humiliation, every streetlamp a spotlight on my fraud. The transition from the velvet ropes of Braamfontein to the grease-stained seats of a minibus taxi was a violent shove back to reality.
The true breaking point didn't happen under the neon lights, but in the quiet, dim kitchen of my mother's house. I had travelled back to Tembisa two days later, still wearing a face of feigned exhaustion from "touring."
My mother sat at the small wooden table, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, her face etched with a weariness I had ignored for too long.
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"Kabelo, the ladies from the stokvel were here today," she said softly, not looking up. "I told you, Ma, the big payment is still clearing. These things take time," I snapped. "I don't need a big payment, my son. I needed five hundred Rand to keep my place in the circle."
"I'll have it by Friday. I'm 'blessed,' remember? That's what I told the fans today."
She finally looked at me, and the pity in her eyes was more painful than any industry rejection. "I saw your post on the internet. You were wearing a watch that could buy this whole street."
"That’s for the brand, Ma. It’s an investment in the future," I argued, my heart hammering. "You are starving in a gold frame, Kabelo. Do you think I don't see the holes in your socks?"
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the hum of the old refrigerator. "I overheard the labels, Ma. They know I'm broke. They've known the whole time," I whispered.
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"Of course, they know. Only you were fooled by the clothes Neo gave you," she replied. "I thought if I looked successful, the success would eventually find me. I thought it was a bridge." "It wasn't a bridge, it was a cage. You've been hiding from the very people who actually love you."
The weight of the "Big Kat" persona finally collapsed, leaving me standing there as just Kabelo. I realised that the silence I interpreted as respect from the industry was actually cold neglect.
They didn't admire my hustle; they were simply waiting for me to disappear so they could find a cheaper replacement. I wasn't an artist to them; I was a billboard that paid for its own maintenance.
That night, I sat on my old bed and opened my laptop, the screen illuminating the peeling wallpaper of my childhood room. I didn't draft a boastful lyric or a cryptic status about "hustling in silence."
I wrote the truth, every ugly, grinding, pathetic detail of it, and I didn't look away. I typed about the borrowed jackets, the empty bank account, and the shame of failing my mother’s stokvel.
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"I’ve been faking the drip to hide the drought," I wrote, my fingers flying across the keys. "I’m an underground hero who can't afford a loaf of bread. The image is a lie." I hit 'post' before I could lose my nerve, watching the notification bell begin to scream.
The backlash I expected—the mockery and the 'clout-chaser' labels—never truly came. Instead, my inbox filled with private messages from household names, artists I had envied for years.
"I'm in the same boat, brother. I’m three months behind on my car's balloon payment," one wrote. "Thank you for saying it. I'm wearing a five-thousand Rand outfit while my water is cut off," said another.
I didn't go back to the clubs or the VIP carpets of Braamfontein. I took a job at a community radio station in Midrand, working behind the scenes as a producer.
"It's not as flashy as being on stage," my new boss told me on the first day. "It’s a steady paycheck, and that’s the best music I’ve heard in years," I replied. I spent my evenings recording my final EP, The Honest Account, using a basic setup in my bedroom.
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There were no expensive features, no fake jewellery in the promotional photos, and no "luxury" rollout.
I released it independently and told my fans exactly where their money was going: rent, groceries, and my mother.
"Is this the end of Big Kat?" a fan asked during a live stream. "Big Kat was a character I couldn't afford to play anymore," I told the camera.
"Will you ever go back to the 'ice' and the designer life?" someone else typed. "Only if I can buy it twice in cash. Until then, I’m happy in my own skin," I said.
The EP sold more in its first week than all my "hyped" singles combined. It wasn't because of the marketing, but because for the first time, the listeners could actually hear me. I wasn't rapping from a throne I didn't own; I was speaking from the heart of the township.
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I used to think that being an artist meant building a fantasy that people could escape into. I thought that if I admitted to the struggle, I would lose the magic that made me special.
Now, I understand that the most dangerous lie you can tell is the one you tell your own reflection. South Africa is a country of mirrors, where we are all taught to shine even when we are broken. We treat poverty like a contagious disease instead of a systemic hurdle we are all trying to jump.
The applause of a thousand strangers is a hollow sound when you are walking home in shoes that don't belong to you. I wasted years chasing a seat at a table where I wasn't even invited to eat, only to be stared at.
The "drip" didn't make me a better rapper; it only made me a more stressed-out performer. True respect isn't found in a stylist’s kit or a VIP wristband; it’s earned in the moments you choose integrity over optics.
I look at my mother now, and I see the relief in her eyes because she no longer has to pretend for me. We eat simple meals, but the food tastes better because it wasn't bought with a promise I couldn't keep.
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I am no longer the "next big thing," and that is the most liberating feeling in the world. I am just a man with a pen, a job, and a clear conscience.
I see the younger rappers now, posing in front of rented sports cars, and I want to scream. I want to tell them that the flash will fade, but the debt will remain long after the likes stop coming. I want to tell them that your worth isn't measured by the brand on your chest, but by the peace in your heart.
When the lights go out, what version of you is left standing?
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone’s privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you’d like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
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