Tupac: greatest rapper live

By 1987, I was 17 years old, and life felt like it had hit fast-forward. In just a few years, everything had shifted—my love life, my music, and even the way I saw the world. It wasn't just about surviving anymore; it was about carving out a future, one rhyme, one beat, one dream at a time.

I had matured a lot by then. The streets that once felt like a trap now felt more like a lesson—a harsh one, but a lesson nonetheless. I was learning how to navigate my two worlds: the gritty, unfiltered reality of my neighborhood and the hopeful, creative sanctuary of the studio. The gang life that once consumed me was starting to fade into the background. I couldn't completely escape it, but I was making choices to prioritize my music over the streets.

Love was different, too. Back when I was younger, it was all about infatuation—fleeting crushes and stolen moments. But at 17, I began to understand what love really meant. It wasn't just about attraction; it was about connection, loyalty, and understanding. I had started seeing a girl who got me—not just the rapper or the hustler, but the dreamer, the poet. She'd challenge me, make me think, and inspire me in ways I hadn't experienced before.

Music wasn't just a hobby anymore—it was a full-blown mission. Dre was still in my corner, pushing me to evolve, and I was finally finding my own sound. My lyrics were sharper, my delivery more confident. I was writing about what I saw and felt—the struggles, the hopes, the injustices. I didn't just want to make music; I wanted to make a statement.

That same year, I sat down for what would become one of the most famous interviews of my young life—a clip that still floats around the internet today. In the video, you can see me, just a kid with big dreams but a heavy heart.

The interviewer asked me about my music, my life, and what I wanted for the future. I remember leaning forward in my chair, my hands clasped together, speaking with an intensity that caught even me off guard.

"I'm not just trying to be a rapper," I said, looking straight into the camera. "I want to be a voice. I want to speak for the people who feel like they ain't got one. This world—it's messed up, man. But through music, I can tell the truth. I can shine a light on what's real."

When they asked about my inspirations, I talked about my mom, the poets and artists who came before me, and the people I saw struggling every day.

"This isn't just about me," I said. "It's about us. About making sure we're seen and heard."

The video captured a raw version of me—full of passion, determination, and vulnerability. My hair was neatly cut, my eyes bright with ambition, and my voice carried that mix of wisdom and youth that only comes from growing up too fast.

That year, 1987, wasn't just a turning point in my life—it was the foundation of everything that came after. The streets were still there, and the struggle was still real, but I could feel something shifting. For the first time, I believed that my music could be my way out, my way up.

The tension at home had reached its peak. After Pops died, Mom had been fighting her own war with addiction. The woman I admired, the one who taught me to stand tall against the world, was now crumbling under the weight of her struggles. I tried to be strong for her, for Sekyiwa, but there were nights when it all became too much.

One night, it all boiled over. The house was quiet except for the muffled sound of the TV in the living room. I had come home late from hanging out with friends, and as soon as I stepped inside, I saw it: the small bag on the table. My stomach sank.

"Mom, are you serious?" I blurted out, slamming the door behind me.

She looked up at me, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Pac, I'm trying," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"That's not trying!" I snapped, pointing at the drugs on the table. "You promised, Mom. You told me you were done."

Her defenses went up instantly. "You don't understand what I'm going through!" she shouted, her voice trembling with anger and pain.

I shook my head, my hands clenched into fists. "No, I don't. But I do know this is killing you. It's killing us. Sekyiwa needs you. I need you!"

The argument spiraled, our voices echoing through the small house. I could see Sekyiwa standing in the hallway, her eyes wide with fear. That was the moment I realized I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't keep fighting this battle.

That night, I sat in my room, staring at the few belongings I had. My notebooks filled with rhymes, my tapes, a couple of shirts. I packed them into my backpack, the weight of my decision pressing down on me.

I wasn't angry at Mom—I was heartbroken. I loved her more than anything, but I couldn't save her. Not like this. If I stayed, I'd get trapped. Trapped in the cycle of pain, addiction, and hopelessness that had swallowed so many people in our neighborhood.

As the house grew quiet, I stepped out of my room. Sekyiwa was asleep, curled up on the couch. I kissed her forehead gently, trying not to wake her. She stirred slightly, mumbling something in her sleep, and I smiled despite the lump in my throat.

Before I left, I scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table:

Mom, I love you. I'm not leaving because of you. I'm leaving because I need to make something of myself—for you, for Sekyiwa, for all of us. I'll come back when I've made it. I promise.

The streets were quiet as I stepped out into the cool night air. My backpack felt heavier than it should've, not just because of what was inside but because of the weight of what I was leaving behind.

I didn't have a plan. I didn't even know where I was going. But I knew I couldn't stay. I walked through the streets of Marin City, my breath visible in the chilly air, my mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead.

Every step I took was filled with doubt, but also determination. I thought about my mom, about the stories she used to tell me of revolution and strength. I thought about Sekyiwa, her bright eyes filled with hope. I thought about the music—the one thing that had always been there for me, the one thing I knew could save me if I let it.

As I walked, I made a promise to myself: I wouldn't let this be the end of my story. I would fight, hustle, and grind until I made it. Not just for me, but for them.

For my family. For my mom. For Sekyiwa. For the dream.

Afeni's POV:

The house was quieter than usual that morning. It wasn't the kind of silence you'd find on a peaceful Sunday, but the kind that felt heavy—like something was missing. I woke up with a headache, the kind that makes your body feel like it's been weighed down by the night's worries. I started my day like any other, checking on Sekyiwa first, making sure she was okay. I didn't see the letter at first, not until I walked into the kitchen and noticed it lying there, a piece of paper crumpled at the edge of the counter near the coffee pot.

My heart stopped when I saw Tupac's handwriting on the paper. My hands began to shake as I reached for it. Tupac. The weight of his name on the paper felt like a weight in my chest. I unfolded the letter, my stomach twisting as I read the words:

Mom, I love you. I'm not leaving because of you. I'm leaving because I need to make something of myself—for you, for Sekyiwa, for all of us. I'll come back when I've made it. I promise.

I couldn't breathe. My mind raced, thoughts jumbled and frantic. I grabbed the phone, my fingers trembling, about to dial the police. The panic was real—my son, my baby, was gone.

But as I stood there, phone in hand, I couldn't move. I felt something change inside me, something deep and almost familiar. I knew this was not just some reckless act, not just a child running away from home. No. This was Tupac—my Tupac—making a decision. And as much as it tore me apart to think about it, I understood.

I stood frozen for what felt like hours, the phone still in my hand, unsure whether I should call the police or trust my son to find his way. Part of me wanted to scream, wanted to tell them to bring him back, but the other part of me knew... this was him stepping into his own. He was no longer the scared little boy who needed me for everything. He was ready to stand on his own two feet and fight for his dream.

I put the phone down slowly, the decision heavy in my chest. Maybe it was time to stop fighting his choices and let him make them himself. I had already done everything I could. I had given him the tools to survive, to dream, to fight. This was his journey now.

The hours passed, and as the reality of his decision sank in, I started to see it through different eyes. The same Tupac who couldn't walk or talk without help, the same child who had relied on me for every little thing—now he was out there, fighting for something bigger.

I thought about everything I had gone through—the fights, the addiction, the struggles—and yet I had always fought to make something of myself. I had worked hard to give my kids a better life. But now, here he was, standing on his own, wanting the same thing for himself.

I couldn't call the police. I had to let him go. This wasn't just a rebellious act; it was his need to prove something to himself. Maybe, just like me, he needed to fight for his own version of a better life, a life where he could rise above the struggles and create something beautiful.

I looked over at Sekyiwa, sitting quietly in the living room, absorbed in her homework. She didn't know yet. How could I tell her? How could I explain to her that her big brother—her protector, her role model—was now on his own?

But as I looked at her, I realized that maybe this was a chance for both of them to grow, to dream. I wanted to see her dreams come true too. I wanted to see her in college, achieving everything she deserved. I wanted to see both of my kids live lives beyond the limitations of where we came from.