2pac: greatest rapper Alive

March 15, 1990

A week had passed since Tupac had pulled off one of the most unexpected moves in hip-hop history. Instead of firing back at N.W.A's 100 Miles and Runnin', he had shifted the entire industry's focus by dropping Mariah Carey's debut album. It was a masterstroke, a business play that caught even the most seasoned industry veterans off guard.

But not everyone was impressed.

The initial shock and admiration of Tupac's strategy began to wear off, and as the days passed, a new narrative started forming. The streets were talking, the radio hosts were speculating, and the fans were debating.

Did Tupac avoid the battle because he knew he couldn't win?

Did he dodge N.W.A's diss because he was scared to respond?

Or worse—was Tupac too weak to defend himself?

The Growing Doubts

Hip-hop was built on competition. From the earliest days of the culture, rap battles and diss records had been the foundation of proving dominance. LL Cool J and Kool Moe Dee. KRS-One and MC Shan. The Roxanne Wars. If you were called out, you had to respond. That was the rule.

And yet, Tupac had chosen silence.

For many fans, that wasn't just unexpected—it was disappointing.

"This dude really ain't got nothing to say?" a caller on The Stretch Armstrong & Bobbito Show asked. "N.W.A just ran him outta town or what?"

"I don't know, man," Bobbito responded. "Pac always had bars, but if he don't respond soon, it's gonna look real bad."

The same kind of discussion was happening everywhere—barbershops, street corners, high schools. Tupac's name had always been synonymous with confidence, with energy, with that unbreakable spirit that made him stand out. But now, some people started questioning if he had lost that edge.

Even The Source ran an article titled Is Tupac Ducking Smoke?, analyzing the situation in depth. It pointed out how every major rap battle had involved direct responses and how Tupac's silence was breaking that pattern.

The Hate Grows Louder

For N.W.A fans, this was the perfect opportunity to twist the knife. If the goal of 100 Miles and Runnin' had been to humiliate Tupac, then his lack of response was giving them all the ammunition they needed.

"Pac ain't built for this battle rap life," one fan wrote in an L.A. Times editorial. "He knows Dre and Eazy would eat him alive."

Radio hosts, looking to stir the pot, started running with the idea that Tupac was afraid. "This is the dude that had so much to say about N.W.A when he left?" a DJ on Power 106 said. "Where's all that energy now?"

And then there was Ruthless Records.

Eazy-E and Jerry Heller had been watching the entire situation unfold. At first, they had been furious that their EP had been overshadowed. But now, seeing the way the public was turning on Tupac, they were beginning to enjoy the moment.

"He played it smart at first," Eazy admitted in a Ruthless Records meeting. "But now? Now people think he's soft."

Dr. Dre, still carrying the most personal resentment towards Tupac, was already back in the studio, working on more material.

"He's done," Dre muttered. "Ain't nobody scared of Pac anymore."

The Pressure Builds

Tupac was no stranger to controversy. He had built his career on standing his ground, on proving his worth against all odds. But this situation was different.

This wasn't just about the industry. This was about respect.

And respect was everything.

Even within Death Row Records, whispers were starting. Some of the newer artists, the ones who hadn't been around Pac long enough to see his true work ethic, were beginning to wonder if their leader had really taken an L.

"You think Pac got a response ready?" one artist asked Lydia, Death Row's business manager.

Lydia shot him a look. "Pac don't lose."

But the question was there. Everywhere.

The Reality Behind the Silence

What nobody knew was that Tupac was in the studio.

Not just recording—crafting.

He wasn't ignoring N.W.A. He wasn't afraid. He was working.

Every diss track that had ever made an impact had something in common: it wasn't rushed. It wasn't reactionary. It was calculated.

Tupac knew that if he fired back too soon, it would just be another piece of the back-and-forth. He didn't want just another diss track. He wanted the diss track. The kind that ended discussions.

And so, he waited.

Lydia, one of the few people who knew what was happening behind the scenes, watched as Tupac fine-tuned every line, every verse, every beat.

"You're really taking your time with this one," she said one evening, watching him scribble in his notebook.

Tupac looked up and grinned. "Ain't about rushing. It's about making sure they never talk back."

The Industry's Impatience

But outside the studio, the impatience was growing.

By the end of March, multiple magazines had begun outright questioning Pac's credibility.

Vibe ran an article: The Man Who Silenced N.W.A… Or The Man Who Backed Down?

The Source doubled down: Tupac's Silence: Strategy or Fear?

Even national publications like TIME started covering the controversy.

"The music industry has never seen anything like this," a journalist wrote. "Tupac Shakur, the biggest rising star in hip-hop, is choosing not to respond to one of the most direct callouts in rap history. Is this genius or a fatal mistake?"

The Boiling Point

By April, it was clear—Tupac had to say something. The silence had lasted too long.

The fans were demanding it. The industry was pressuring him. The hate was growing louder.

Even people who had initially applauded his move with Mariah Carey were now starting to waver.