he mic is on. Headphones bump a beat into Empereur’s head. “Laaaapopete” (he’s back) he raps, sweat dripping down his face. There’s no AC in here. No luxuries. And nowhere to get any. Not really. “Obina omalaba” (you know you’re hot) he continues in his raspy tone. Around here, Empereur is a leader, a chief. But it’s rugged and dangerous types that follow. A gang. “Laaaapopete, laaaapopete”. Empereur sticks his head out from the booth, more sweat, more flow. In the bare bones studio box is a dreaded and confident figure sitting behind a computer, looking back at Empereur, smiling. Around him a ragtag collection with ripped shirts sing back, “ndongo” (pepper). Laaaapopete. Ndongo! Laaaapopete. Ndongo! Painted on the wall is a collection of shirtless figures, names scrawled beneath in black ink. Israel… Dione… The session is packed. Joyful. Crowded. Outside of the studio is a dirt alley. Throughout the alley is a series of sheet metal cells packed with beds and contraband. Around those cells is a 2 meter high wall. Atop the wall is the ensnared grip of barbed wire and a sign reading “Prison Centrale de Douala”. Around this sign is New Bell, a working class, immigrant neighborhood of Cameroon’s economic capital. Back in the middle, the chanting continues, the mic is still on, recording. This is Jail Time Records.
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