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MidReal Story
Rapping Up My Heart
Scenario:this is the year of 2019 in danish language in aarhus 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 songwriter and rapper and singer and i can play piano and drums and guitar 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
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Mohamed Abdi
He is an 18yearold aspiring musician in Aarhus, Denmark. He is passionate, determined, and rebellious. Mohamed dreams of pursuing music career despite his parents' disapproval due to their conservative SomaliDanish background. He faces family expectations to follow in his father's footsteps in the fields of law or medicine. Mohamed struggles with the stigma of being a Muslim in Denmark while navigating love and the desire for independence.
Abdinur Abdi
He is Mohamed's 43yearold father from Somalia who works parttime as a mechanic in Aarhus. He is conservative, disciplined, and ambitious. Abdinur holds high expectations for Mohamed to follow in his footsteps and maintain family traditions. His strict views on music and youth culture create tension with Mohamed, but he provides stability and financial security for the family while struggling to understand his son’s aspirations for an artistic career.
Layla
She is Mohamed's 41yearold mother from Somalia who works parttime as a nurse in Aarhus. She is traditional, nurturing, and understanding. Layla balances her career with caring for her family and particularly supports Mohamed's younger siblings. Despite her conservative views on music and dating, she shows empathy towards Mohamed's struggles and allows him space to pursue his passion for music while keeping an eye on his wellbeing.
It was the year 2019, and I was living in Aarhus, Denmark.
I had just turned 18 years old, and I was in my last year of high school.
I wasn't like other teenagers, as I had a dream that most people found weird.
My dream was to become a musician, a songwriter, rapper, singer, and producer.
I could play piano, drums, and guitar.
Most parents would be happy if their child had such a talent; sadly, mine were not.
My dad, Abdinur Abdi, and my mom, Layla, were both from Somalia.
They were Muslims and very traditional when it came to Somali culture.
My father worked part-time as a mechanic, while my mother worked part-time as a nurse.
They had high expectations for me; they wanted me to become a lawyer or a doctor, just like my older siblings who were already studying law and medicine at the university.
Becoming a musician was against their religion and culture; it was haram (forbidden).
They saw music as something sinful and evil.
My only supporter was my 15-year-old sister, Munira.
I walk through Rosenhøj, which is the ghetto in Viby, Aarhus.
It's a rough neighborhood, with fights and a gang that controls the area.
I had quit high school a few months ago, one year shy of graduation.
I was tired of listening to my parents and teachers tell me how stupid I was for quitting school to pursue music full-time.
I was 18 years old and could make my own decisions now.
I meet up with my boys outside the building where we all live.
We are smoking and talking about our plans for the day.
"Yo, let's go down to the basement," says my boy Ali.
"Yeah, I need to work on some new beats," I reply as we walk down to the basement.
The basement is our hangout spot; it's filled with couches, a TV, PlayStation with FIFA, a fridge, and our music studio.
We spend most of our time down here, playing games, watching movies, and working on music.
As I sit at the keyboard, headphones on, I realize this is where I truly belong.
In the dimly lit basement studio, I sit with Mads, my Danish producer friend.
He adjusts the levels on his mixing board as the beat we created pulses through my headphones.
I grip the microphone, nodding my head to the rhythm.
Closing my eyes, I let the words flow naturally.
After finishing "Fokus," I sit with Mads and our friends, both Danish and Somali.
We listen to the track, repeating it a few times to fine-tune the mix.
I watch their faces light up with each play, their nods of approval boosting my confidence.
Mads suggests we create a Spotify profile for me.
We spend hours setting it up, uploading "Fokus" as my debut single.
Finally, we hit publish.
I refresh the page obsessively, watching the stream count climb.
By the end of the night, "Fokus" has reached 3 million streams.
"Three million streams, man, can you believe it?" Mads exclaims, eyes wide with disbelief.
We spend the next few hours in the basement studio, refreshing Spotify and social media every minute.
The numbers keep rising, and I watch in awe as teens all over Denmark dance to my song on TikTok and Instagram.
My phone buzzes constantly with notifications as my follower count surges.
Munira texts me, excited about the video I posted announcing that there's more music to come.
We play FIFA, but our eyes keep darting back to the screens, tracking the numbers.
In the basement studio, I sit with Mads.
In the basement studio, I sit with Mads and our friends.
We're eager to work on my second track.
I pull out my notebook, filled with lyrics inspired by my experiences.
I show them "Er du på," a house party EDM pop song.
We record it, with me singing into the microphone as Mads adjusts the levels.
After finishing, we play it back multiple times, fine-tuning the mix.
Our friends dance and cheer, insisting it should be played in every nightclub in Denmark.
As the night deepens, I realize that this is just the beginning.
In the dimly lit basement studio, I hover over my laptop while Mads makes final adjustments to "Er du på" on his mixing board.
The track's heavy bass reverberates through the concrete walls.
My hands shake slightly as I navigate Spotify's upload interface.
I stare at the gold record plaque on the wall, a symbol of "Er du på" surpassing 1 million streams.
It's surreal to think that just a few months ago, I was a nobody, and now my music is resonating with thousands.
In the basement studio, I sit with Mads and our friends, discussing the next steps.
We need to create music videos for "Fokus" and "Er du på."
Mads suggests we film them here in the basement.
I propose a simple concept for "Fokus" - us hanging out, drinking soda, playing FIFA, and dancing.
We want to capture the genuine friendship and camaraderie that inspired the song.
For "Er du på," we plan to film in a nightclub setting.
We'll bring in alcohol, beautiful girls, and capture the energy of a party.
We start setting up cameras and props, excited to bring our vision to life.
I sit at my desk, staring at the screen as I review the analytics on my newly released music videos.
The view counts are climbing, and it's surreal to see them surpass 100,000.
My phone buzzes with a notification from my bank - the Spotify payment has landed.
Thirty thousand kroner.
I've never seen that much money before.
I calculate how much I'll have left after splitting it with Mads.
Another message pops up from a local promoter - they want me to perform at Train, Aarhus's biggest venue, this Friday.
My hands shake as I text Mads and my siblings.
We need to start rehearsing immediately.
I pace nervously in the dimly lit backstage area of Train, my black tracksuit a stark contrast to the vibrant lights of the stage.
The dressing room mirror reflects my image, my cornrows neatly tied back.
I run through my verses one last time, my voice echoing in the empty space.
Beyond the concrete walls, I can hear the distant roar of the crowd, their anticipation palpable.
My hands tremble slightly as I sip from a bottle of water, trying to calm my nerves.
The air is thick with the smell of alcohol and weed, wafting from the bottles and joints being passed around by Mads, Guleed, and our other friends.
Suddenly, a venue staff member appears at the door, clipboard in hand, signaling that we have five minutes until showtime.
I take a deep breath, step towards the stage, and embrace the moment that will define my future.
I step through the curtain, blinded by the blinding stage lights.
The intro music starts pumping through Train's massive speakers, and my heart pounds in my chest.
I grip the microphone tightly, scanning the packed crowd that stretches all the way to the back wall.
As the bass drops, I launch into my first verse, my voice surprisingly strong and clear.
The audience begins to move with the beat, hands raised in the air.
When it's time for the chorus, Mads and Guleed join me on stage, hyping up the crowd with their infectious energy.
But it's when the EDM track kicks in that the energy explodes - hundreds of people jumping and singing along.
The bass drops as I launch into "Er du på," my voice echoing through Train's sound system.
Mads cranks up the house beat, while Guleed hypes up the crowd from stage left.
Sweat drips down my face as I bounce across the stage, feeding off the electric energy of hundreds of bodies moving in sync.
The chorus hits and the crowd screams every word back at me, their phones lighting up the darkness like a sea of stars.
As the final beat fades away, I stumble off stage with Mads and Guleed, dizzy from the adrenaline rush.
Stumbling off stage on shaky legs, I follow the venue staff member down the dark corridor behind Train's main hall.
The bass from the next performer thumps through the walls as we make our way to the green room.
My damp tracksuit clings to my skin, and my braids are slick with sweat from the intense performance.
Inside the small, dimly lit room, empty Red Bull cans and snack wrappers litter the scratched coffee table.
The harsh fluorescent lighting reveals makeup-stained tissues and discarded setlists from previous acts.
I lean against the wall, catching my breath as Guleed adjusts his gold chain and practices his verses under his breath.
He paces back and forth across the room, his eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance.
The stage manager pokes his head into the room, signaling it's time for Guleed's set.
We follow him back through the winding corridor, the music growing louder with each step.
As we approach the stage, I can feel the energy of the crowd shifting - fewer phones are up, but they're still moving to the beat.
I take my position at stage left with Mads and our other friends, nodding my head along to the music as Guleed takes the mic.
He launches into his track, his voice raw and gritty as he spits bars about life in Aarhus.
We jump in on the hook, our voices blending together in perfect harmony.
I stand at the edge of the stage, watching Guleed finish his verse.
The bass still pounds through my chest, and the crowd's movement creates waves of body heat rising toward us.
My throat feels raw from performing earlier, but I can't help joining in when the hook comes around again.
Guleed gestures for me to step forward, and I grab my microphone again.
We trade lines back and forth, our voices building energy with each exchange.
The audience responds louder with each call and response, their voices echoing off the walls of Train's main hall.
When Guleed hits his final note, the explosion of cheers makes my ears ring.