The sun over Sunrise University was a lying sun that morning.
Golden and pretty from a distance.
But up close, the heat stuck to your skin like unpaid debts.
Fred walked past the heavy golden gate where a giant board read:
> "Where Dreams Are Made."
He almost snorted.
More like:
> "Where Dreams Are Taxed, Beaten, and Sold."
The university lawns were freshly trimmed.
The buildings, polished and arrogant.
Luxury cars — Mercedes, BMWs, Audi R8s — lined the VIP parking lot.
Each car shining like it had something to prove.
Fred felt invisible in his worn-out sneakers and faded jeans.
---
Inside The Sapphire Auditorium, the atmosphere was heavy with perfume, sweat, and fear.
Banners fluttered: "Talent Is Power!"
A red carpet led to the main stage.
Judges sat behind a long desk decorated with gold-trimmed nameplates.
Students crowded in groups, buzzing like a hive:
Rich kids with personal trainers adjusting their costumes.
Spoiled princesses checking their makeup in diamond-studded mirrors.
Shirtless boys flexing their gym-polished abs for TikTok videos.
Fred shrank into a corner.
He clutched his battered guitar — a gift from his late uncle — the wood chipped, the strings slightly rusty.
It was all he had.
And it was enough.
He told himself that.
Over and over.
---
While waiting, Fred's eyes caught someone.
A girl.
No, an angel.
Talia Mwangi — 19 years old — a Journalism freshman, known across campus as "Talia the Untouchable."
She had a soft caramel complexion, stood 5'8" tall, curves that could make statues weep, and wavy black hair that kissed her waist.
Today, she wore:
A white crop top hugging her figure,
A denim mini-skirt,
Black boots that clicked with authority.
Her smile was bright enough to start fires.
Talia was talking — no, flirting — with a judge: Mr. Patrick Maloba, the slick-haired music producer rumored to sleep with half the auditioners.
Fred looked away.
People like Talia lived on another planet.
People like Fred weren't even allowed to visit.
---
Fred signed up at the registration desk.
The bored secretary — a girl chewing blue gum aggressively — looked him up and down and sneered.
> "Name?"
> "Fred Owino."
She wrote it lazily, smirking.
Handed him number #239.
> "Don't hold up the line, poor boy."
Fred said nothing.
He moved to the waiting area.
Sat on a cracked plastic chair.
And prayed silently.
Not for victory.
Just for the courage not to humiliate himself.
---
Fred didn't have to wait long.
A group of spoiled rich boys — including Allan Odhiambo, a second-year Law student famous for bullying — spotted him.
Allan, tall and dark-skinned with a jawline sharp enough to slice egos, leaned against a pillar and laughed loudly:
> "Look, guys! It's Guitar Hero from Gikomba!"
The others howled with laughter.
Fred kept his eyes on his shoes.
He had fought too many battles in silence to lose now.
But Allan wasn't done.
He strutted over, flicked Fred's guitar strings mockingly.
> "I hope you're not dreaming of winning, peasant."
"This competition is for people who matter."
Fred's hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From the effort it took not to break Allan's nose.
---
His number was called.
#239.
Fred stood up.
His knees shook slightly.
He walked past the giggles.
Past the sneers.
Onto the giant stage under blinding white lights.
The judges didn't even look up.
Talia sat among the VIPs, sipping a strawberry smoothie.
Fred placed his battered guitar on his knee.
Took a deep breath.
And started to play.
A soft, aching melody.
A song about lost homes, broken hearts, and dreams too heavy to carry.
His voice was low, cracked at first.
Then stronger.
Clearer.
Real.
---
But The World Doesn't Care
He finished.
The hall was silent for a heartbeat.
And then—
Laughter.
Judge Patrick removed his glasses dramatically and said:
> "Is this a joke?"
The second judge — Miss Vanessa Kariuki, the no-nonsense Creative Arts lecturer — chuckled:
> "Sweetheart, this isn't a village talent show."
Someone from the crowd threw a paper plane that hit Fred's guitar.
Another shouted:
> "Go back to Kibera!"
Talia smirked.
Didn't even hide it.
Fred's heart cracked a little inside his chest.
He bowed stiffly.
Picked up his guitar.
And walked off the stage.
Alone.
As he walked down the steps, he heard Allan call out:
> "Don't forget to leave your guitar at Lost and Found, slumdog!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
Fred's ears burned.
But he didn't turn back.
Because he knew:
If he turned, they would see the tears in his eyes.
---
Fred left Sapphire Auditorium into the cruel sunlight.
Walked through the campus gardens where couples cuddled on benches.
Where luxury cars purred past him.
Where the world whispered:
> "You don't belong."
He walked past a group of girls posing for TikToks.
Past a group of rich boys popping champagne for no reason.
Past the posters promising "equal opportunities for all."
Until he reached the back fence.
The forgotten place.
The place where broken dreams came to smoke cheap cigarettes and cry alone.
Fred sat down.
Put his guitar beside him.
Buried his face in his hands.
And for the first time in months—
He cried.
---