suspicious

It had been more than five months since Straight Outta Compton dropped, and the world was still buzzing. The album had done something that no one had expected—it changed everything. I watched from the sidelines, but I knew the magnitude of what N.W.A had done. It wasn't just another rap album; it was a revolution in sound and thought.

The streets were alive with the music. In the U.S., it had sold more than 8 million copies. But what really got my attention was how the album resonated globally. In places like Mexico and Brazil, where gang culture had deep roots, N.W.A's raw honesty spoke directly to people who lived that same struggle. This wasn't just music; it was a message. The world was waking up, and they were looking to N.W.A to lead them.

But as powerful as it was, the mainstream didn't want to acknowledge it. I saw how the album was rejected by award shows, even overseas. They called it "too controversial" to be part of their elite circles. I couldn't believe it. Here we were, breaking down doors and raising awareness, and they turned their backs on us.

I remember hearing how Straight Outta Compton was submitted for Germany's major music awards, only to be turned away. "Too controversial," they said. That didn't surprise me. The mainstream had always been afraid of what they couldn't control. N.W.A didn't fit their polished image, and that scared them. They didn't want the world to hear the truth about what was really going on in the streets.

But that's when I realized something: this was bigger than any award show. The impact was being felt in the streets, in homes, in communities across the world. That was the real victory.

Despite the industry's rejection, Straight Outta Compton received all the recognition it needed from the culture. The Source called it "a masterpiece," and Rolling Stone hailed it as "the most important album in hip-hop history." Those magazines were starting to shift the narrative. They were proving that you didn't need validation from the establishment to know that you were doing something powerful.

I knew then that the music had transcended everything. It wasn't about getting some golden statue; it was about reaching the people who mattered—the ones living those struggles. And we were reaching them.

On top of that, Eazy's album Eazy-Duz-It had been making its own waves. After just a month, it sold over 1 million copies in the U.S. alone, and it was climbing fast. The success of that album was a testament to the power of independent labels and the hunger for music that spoke to real issues. Eazy had built something solid with Ruthless Records, and he wasn't slowing down. The streets loved him, and he was proving that you didn't need the big labels to win—you just needed the right message.

-

I watched as more and more young people started picking up a pen and writing lyrics, inspired by what N.W.A had done. The album was a blueprint for anyone who wanted to make a statement. I also saw how the mainstream music scene started to shift. Record labels were scrambling to sign the next big thing in hip-hop, recognizing that this wasn't just a trend—it was the future of music.

But it wasn't just about the music. Hip-hop was more than that—it was a movement. It was a platform for the unheard voices, for the communities that had long been ignored. And just like that, hip-hop had gone global.

Straight Outta Compton wasn't just the most important rap album of all time—it was the album that turned the music world upside down. Mainstream awards could turn their back on it, but the streets, the fans, and history knew better. The album had made its mark, and there was no turning back.

I wasn't surprised when the media started talking about the shift in music, and how hip-hop had moved to the forefront of global culture. What surprised me was how fast it had happened. Just a few months ago, we were fighting for respect. Now, we were shaping the future of music.

By this point, I had been with N.W.A for over two years. We'd changed the music industry, made millions of dollars for Ruthless Records, and put the West Coast on the map. But for all the success, I was still struggling. The fame, the shows, the album sales—it didn't add up in my pocket. I wanted to invest back into my community, to give something real to the people who had inspired my music.

So, I reached out to Jerry Heller. I asked for a cut of the money I had earned, not just for myself but to make a difference where I came from. He told me he'd speak to my lawyer and transfer the money to my account. It sounded good, professional even. I trusted him, thinking he understood the value of what I had contributed to N.W.A.

When the money came through, I couldn't believe my eyes—$10,000. That was it. After two years of writing, performing, and helping shape the biggest group in hip-hop, they sent me ten grand. I sat there staring at the bank statement, my mind racing. That couldn't be right. We had made millions for Ruthless Records.

I thought about all the nights I'd stayed up writing lyrics, putting my heart into every song. I thought about the tours, the interviews, the grind. And here I was, barely scraping by. For two years, I had survived by selling weed on the side just to keep food on my table. And now, after everything, they gave me pocket change.

But what hit me hardest wasn't just the money—it was the realization that I wasn't alone. The other members of N.W.A were getting the same deal. They weren't complaining, and maybe they didn't want to stir the pot. So I told myself to stay quiet.

I thought about Eazy-E. He was the reason I was even here. He was the one who gave me the freedom to write my truth, to tell the stories no one else wanted to hear. He treated me like family, like a brother. And for that, I felt guilty. How could I bring up money when Eazy had given me a platform?

So I buried my frustration. I told myself to be grateful. After all, N.W.A wasn't just a group—it was a movement. And movements weren't about money; they were about making history.

But even as I tried to push it aside, the doubt began to grow. Was this loyalty, or was I being taken advantage of? I saw how Jerry Heller operated, always with a smile, always making promises. He controlled the money, the deals, everything. And we trusted him because he seemed to know what he was doing. But now, I wasn't so sure.

I kept quiet because I didn't want to cause problems. But deep down, I knew this wasn't right. We were out there changing the world, and yet, we couldn't even change our own lives.

My all this thought want out side of minded when this happens.

Scene:

The studio was quiet except for the hum of the equipment and the faint beat Dre had been working on. We were both deep in thought, the weight of everything we'd been talking about lingering in the air. Suddenly, Dre's phone rang, cutting through the silence like a knife. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting as he answered.

"Hello?" His voice was steady at first, but as the person on the other end spoke, his face drained of color. His hand trembled, and then, without a word, he dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a sharp clatter, and we both froze.

"Dre?" I said, standing up, my heart racing. "What happened?"

For a moment, he didn't move. Then, like something snapped inside him, he turned to me, his voice urgent and panicked. "Pac, start the car. Now."

I didn't ask questions. The look in his eyes said it all—something was wrong. I grabbed the keys off the table and bolted out the door, Dre right behind me. As we jumped into the car, he muttered something under his breath, almost too quiet to hear.

"What is it, Dre?" I asked as I started the engine, my hands gripping the wheel.

He hesitated, his voice breaking. "We gotta get to the hospital. Now."

The urgency in his tone was enough to send my heart racing even faster. I hit the gas, the tires screeching as we sped off into the night. Dre sat beside me, staring out the window, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

I didn't know what was happening, but the fear in his eyes told me it was bad—really bad. As the city lights blurred past us, my mind raced with possibilities, but Dre didn't say another word.

We pulled up to the hospital, the bright lights cutting through the darkness. Dre jumped out before the car even came to a full stop, leaving the door open as he sprinted toward the entrance. I parked and ran after him, my chest tight with dread.

But before I could catch up, Dre disappeared into the building, and I was left standing there, the cold night air wrapping around me like a shroud. I didn't know what was waiting inside, but whatever it was, I could feel it—a storm was coming.

To be continued.

Author notes

Iss Tupac Going to leave the group....

End