give money

Tupac's POV

Money was finally coming in, real money. And while I was stacking up investments, flipping stocks, and securing my future, I knew one thing—none of this meant a damn thing if I wasn't giving back. That was always the plan.

I wasn't about to walk into schools and hand out cash just for cameras to show up the next day, calling it a PR stunt. That wasn't me. That's why Ma handled the Shakur Foundation. She was the heart behind it. I just made sure the money kept flowing.

And that's exactly what we did.

Education for Every Kid in Compton

First thing first—schools. We dropped $100,000 into every public school in Compton. No more struggling for books, pencils, or damn lunch money. Every kid had their uniforms covered, their materials paid for, and food on their plates. No excuses.

I didn't step into any classrooms to hand out checks, though. That wasn't the point. Ma handled the meetings, made sure the money went where it needed to go. The schools ran smoother, and the kids? They just focused on learning. That was all that mattered.

Word spread fast. Teachers and parents were relieved. Some didn't believe it at first, thinking it was some politician's broken promise. But when kids started coming home with everything they needed, that doubt turned into gratitude.

---

Supporting Families Without Fathers

Next was the families. The ones with fathers locked up, killed, or who just up and disappeared. They were the ones struggling the most. We set up direct financial support—enough to keep food on the table and bills paid. It wasn't just about handing out checks, though. We helped single mothers find jobs, covered daycare costs so they could work, and kept the lights on in homes that were on the verge of losing everything.

I didn't have to be there for that, either. That was Ma's strength. She knew those struggles firsthand. She made sure the right families got the help they needed, no strings attached.

---

Feeding the Streets

The food banks were next. We stocked them up across L.A.—not just in Compton. I knew hunger didn't stop at one neighborhood. Thousands of pounds of food, fresh produce, canned goods, whatever it took to make sure people weren't going to bed hungry.

Ma organized it all, working with local churches and shelters. No one needed to know it was my money behind it. They just needed to eat.

---

Meeting Jordan

Then came the part I wasn't expecting.

Ma called me up one morning. "Pac, there's a kid at the orphanage… I think you should meet him."

I didn't ask too many questions. If Ma said it was important, it was.

The orphanage was quiet when I walked in. I kept it lowkey—no press, no hype. Just me and a couple of my guys. Ma was already inside, talking to one of the caretakers.

And then I saw him—Jordan.

A skinny little dude, maybe ten years old, sitting in a wheelchair with a basketball resting on his lap. He looked up at me, eyes wide, then quickly looked down, gripping the ball like he was afraid I'd take it.

I crouched down in front of him. "What's up, lil' man?"

He mumbled something, barely looking at me.

Ma leaned in. "Go ahead, baby. Tell him."

Jordan hesitated, then finally spoke up. "I wanna play like Michael Jordan."

I smiled. "Yeah? You got that jump shot, huh?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. But I will."

I could see the fire in him. He wasn't just saying it—he meant it.

One of the caretakers stepped up. "Jordan's been battling cancer for a while now. His parents… they left him here. They couldn't handle the medical bills."

I glanced at Ma. She gave me a knowing look.

I turned back to Jordan. "You still got dreams, though. That's what matters."

He nodded.

I patted his shoulder. "Alright, here's the deal. I got you. Whatever treatment you need, it's covered. You're gonna get better, and when you do, we'll get you on that court."

Jordan looked at me, really looked at me, like he was trying to see if I was serious.

"You mean it?" he asked.

I nodded. "Hell yeah. We don't quit on dreams around here."

For the first time, he smiled.

---

Signing Up for Make-A-Wish

That night, I sat in my office, thinking about Jordan.

I had the money, the connections—I could do this for so many kids. That's when I remembered Michael Jackson and how he did the Make-A-Wish thing for sick kids.

Made me wonder… why the hell wasn't I doing the same?

I called up Marcus, my lawyer.

"Yo, look into the Make-A-Wish Foundation for me," I said. "See what it takes to sign up."

"For donations?" he asked.

"Nah, I wanna be involved. If kids got dreams, and I can help make them happen, then that's what we're doing."

Marcus chuckled. "You sure you wanna take on that responsibility?"

I leaned back in my chair. "Man, if I'm out here making millions, what's the point if I ain't making a difference?"

He didn't have an argument for that.

"Alright," he said. "I'll set it up."

---

No Cameras, No Headlines—Just Real Change

By the end of February, everything was in motion. Schools were funded. Families had support. Food banks were stocked. And Jordan? His medical bills were already being handled.

And not a single camera had caught me doing it.

That's how I wanted it. No fake smiles for the press, no headlines talking about how "generous" I was. This wasn't for clout. This was for the people.

Because at the end of the day, I wasn't trying to be some industry puppet flashing money for attention.

I was building something real.

Compton, California

Tupac's POV

By now, Compton wasn't just a place I came to—Compton was my city. The people saw what I was doing. It wasn't about rap anymore. It wasn't about just selling records. It was about something bigger.

I wasn't throwing money at problems just to make headlines. I was fixing shit. Schools had money, kids had food, single moms weren't drowning in bills, and the streets? They felt the difference.

And because of that, the people in Compton had my back.

It started small—whispers, nods of respect. Older heads, gang leaders, dudes who normally wouldn't care about anything outside their block, were talking about me in a different way.

"Pac lookin' out for the kids."

"Pac puttin' food on tables."

"Pac making sure we good."

It didn't matter what set you claimed, what block you were from—if you were from Compton, you knew what was up. And when people see you're real? They ride for you.

The shift was obvious. It wasn't just fans showing love at shows anymore. It was gangbangers, single mothers, OGs, young kids—people who saw what I was doing and respected it.

I could walk through Compton with no security, just my homies, and I knew nothing was gonna happen. Not because I was untouchable, but because I was one of them.

This wasn't just rap to them anymore. This was real life.

I heard people saying it straight up—"Ain't nobody touching Pac. That's our brother."

If something happened to me, it wasn't just my problem—it was Compton's problem.

I wasn't no kingpin, no gang leader, but I was someone they believed in. And in the streets? That's more powerful than anything.

People wanted me to win. Because if I won, it meant they could win too.

I never wanted people to fear me. That's weak. Fear fades. Respect? That lasts forever.

And I had earned mine. Not by force, not by flexing, but by showing up. By giving when nobody else would.

By February 1990, Compton wasn't just a city I was helping. It was a city that protected me.

Author notes

I wanted to focus on more charity part here on the story and I know I am repeating some word from the chapter but I so lazy I don't wanted to do that. I want some to edit for me but I can't find anyone. So in the whole story there are going to be lots of small mistakes.

End