Share
MidReal Story
Music Or School
Scenario:this is the year of 2019 in danish language in denmark a story about music and explicit nudity and bdsm and sexual content and drug and alcohol use and love and drama and violence and fame and tours and interviews and fans and my name is mohamed abdi and i am 18 years old and i am a new upcoming rapper and singer and i have dark skin and braids and i wear a black tracksuit and i have black braided cornrows and i just graduated from high school and i want to persue music but my dad his name is abdinur abdi and he has dark skin and he is 43 years old and my mother layla she is 41 years old and she has dark skin and my sister munira she is 15 years old and she has dark skin and she is in high school first year and she supports me and mahad is 16 years old and he supports me and he has dark skin and he is in high school and my parents are against me making music and doing music and we are a muslim somali family i am the main and central pov character and i am the narrator and this story
Create my version of this story
Mohamed Abdi
rebellious, and ambitious. Mohamed struggles with his parents' disapproval of his music career while balancing school and work. He faces financial issues, dealing with a broken relationship, and trying to make a name for himself in the music industry. Despite his family's traditional values, Mohamed is determined to pursue his dreams, inspired by his idol Tupac Shakur.
Abdinur Abdi
conservative, and pragmatic. Abdinur runs a small shop selling African food and household items while struggling to make ends meet. He disapproves of Mohamed's music career, viewing it as unrespectful and unfeasible for their somatic culture. His strict parenting aims to maintain tradition and family dignity despite their financial challenges.
Azul
bold, and confident. Azul was flattered when Mohamed asked her to join him on stage for a performance after the recording session. Their shared moment sparked interest from the crowd, but it ultimately remained just an idea as they parted ways amicably.
My name is Mohamed Abdi.
I am 18 years old.
I live in Denmark, and this year is 2019.
I have dark skin and braids.
I wear a black tracksuit and have black braided cornrows.
I just graduated from high school, and I want to pursue music.
My dad's name is Abdinur Abdi.
He has dark skin and is 43 years old.
My mom's name is Layla Abdi.
She has dark skin and is 41 years old.
My sister's name is Munira Abdi.
She has dark skin and is 15 years old and in high school first year.
My cousin's name is Mahad, and he is 16 years old.
After graduating, I am with my classmates in Copenhagen.
We are riding in a truck filled with beer.
It is June, and the sun is setting.
We are driving around the city, blasting music.
I am drinking beer and smoking a cigarette.
My friends are cheering and laughing.
I feel free and happy.
But I also feel worried about my future.
I don't know what I will do now that I graduated.
I don't have any plans.
I pull out my phone and record a video of myself freestyling over the music playing in the truck's speakers.
The video is raw and unedited, but it captures the energy of the moment.
I post it online, and it gets a lot of views and comments.
"Hey Mohamed, did you see the comment from that producer?" my friend Jonas shouts over the music.
"No, what did it say?" I ask, trying to sound casual but feeling a jolt of excitement.
"He said he wants to meet you and talk about a collaboration," Jonas replies, grinning widely.
Leaning against the railing of the truck, I watch as the streets of Copenhagen blur past while I scroll through the comments on my video.
The producer's message stands out among the rest: "Let's make something happen."
My classmates pass around more beers, their laughter mingling with the Danish pop song blasting from the speakers.
Jonas nudges me, pointing at my phone screen where the view count continues to climb.
The late evening sun casts long shadows across the city as we cruise past Nørrebro's graffiti-covered walls.
My hands shake slightly as I type out a response, agreeing to meet next week.
In the dimly lit studio, I sit nervously across from producer Marcus Jensen, his eyes scanning the lyrics in my worn notebook.
He nods along as I flip through the pages, my words about life in Copenhagen and the struggles of being a young immigrant.
He presses play on a few beats he has lined up, and they match perfectly with my words.
We spend hours recording take after take, my voice growing hoarse as I rap in both Danish and English.
Marcus tweaks the sound levels while I pace the small control room, listening intently to each version.
When we finally nail the final take, I clutch my notebook tightly, hands shaking with exhaustion and pride.
I arrive early at Little Vega, clutching my phone with the lyrics pulled up.
The security guard checks my ID and waves me through the staff entrance.
Backstage, the dimly lit hallway stretches out before me, lined with doors leading to dressing rooms and the stage.
I pace nervously, muttering verses under my breath.
That's when I see her by the water cooler, wearing silver hoop earrings and a black crop top.
She's reviewing her setlist, humming softly to herself.
Our eyes meet, and she smiles.
"You're the guy from that viral freestyle," she says, walking over.
My hands feel sweaty as I introduce myself, trying to sound confident despite my racing heart.
"Yeah, that's me," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
"I'm Nadia, opening act tonight," she says, extending her hand with a warm smile.
"Nice to meet you, Nadia," I say, shaking her hand and feeling a strange sense of calm wash over me.
I grip the microphone tightly, my heart pounding in my chest as the intro music starts.
Through the curtain, I see the packed crowd at Little Vega, their faces lit by phone screens.
Nadia gives me an encouraging nod as I walk past her.
The stage lights blind me for a moment when I step out, and the bass vibrates through my chest.
My mouth goes dry as I scan the audience, recognizing some faces from school.
The beat drops, and muscle memory takes over as I launch into my first verse.
The crowd's energy surges, and I feel it lifting me as I hit the chorus.
Nadia leans in from the side of the stage, her voice barely audible over the music.
"You're killing it out there," she shouts, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
Sweat drips down my face as I deliver the final bars of my set, my voice growing stronger with each word.
The crowd moves in sync, hands raised, phones recording.
Nadia dances at stage left, mouthing along to my lyrics.
I grab the microphone off its stand and stride to the edge of the stage, feeding off the energy of the first row.
The bass reverberates through the floorboards as I build toward the song's climax.
I grip the microphone tighter as the final chorus builds, the crowd's energy pulsating through me.
The bass vibrates the floorboards beneath my feet while dozens of phone lights illuminate faces in the darkness.
My heart pounds as I edge closer to the stage lip, making eye contact with the front row who reach their hands up toward me.
Nadia gestures encouragement from stage left as I take two steps back for momentum.
The music peaks and without thinking, I sprint forward, extending my arms wide as I launch myself over the barrier.