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MidReal Story
Gold Digger
Scenario:this story is a story in the 1990s era and the year of 1991 in los angeles about retro and vintage and gangsta rap and 90s hip-hop era and music and fights and sex and profanity and nudity and strippers and prostitutes and seduction and gold diggers and cheating and drug dealing and adultery and ghetto and and politics and prison and violence and hardcore and gangsta rap music and pregnancy and music and family and fights and murder and torture and racism and sexism and police and fame and poverty and gangs and slang and my name is mohamed abdi and i am 20 years old and i have tattoos on my arms and neck and legs and abdomen and i want to be a rich and famous rapper because i am poor and i am raised in the ghetto with gangs and drugs and prostitutes and i live with my sister munira abdi she is 14 years old and my parents my father abdinur abdi he is 39 years old and he is a store owner and my mother layla abdi she is 37 years old and she is a stay at home mother and my brother mahad abdi and he is 19 years old and we are a poor family and i have my friends malcolm jackson and marcus johnson and devon richards and they have dark skin and i have been best friends with them since we graduated 2 years ago in 1989
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Mohamed Abdi
He is a 20yearold aspiring rapper from the ghettos of Los Angeles. He is determined, passionate, and rebellious. Mohamed grew up in a poor family with gang ties, dealing with poverty and violence. He has a closeknit group of friends, including Malcolm, Marcus, and Devon. He aspires to be a wealthy and famous rapper like his idol Ice Cube. Mohamed struggles with his father's conservative views and his own troubled past.
Abdinur Abdi
He is Mohamed's 39yearold father and a store owner in Los Angeles. He is conservative, traditional, and stern. Abdinur abides by strict Muslim rules, often scolding Mohamed for his reckless behavior and musical ambitions. He values family and wants the best for his children, despite struggling financially himself. Abdinur tries to maintain discipline within the family but often finds himself at odds with Mohamed's rebellious nature.
Devon Richards
He is part of The Pack alongside Mohamed’s friends Malcolm, Marcus, and Jason (whose surname is not mentioned). He is reserved, intelligent, and ambitious. Devon manages to balance his laidback demeanor with strategic thinking. Unlike the more impulsive members of the group, he considers longterm consequences before acting impulsively. Devon contributes significantly to the group dynamic with his unique blend of humor and pragmatism amidst their challenging lifestyle.
It was the 1990s, and I was living in South Central Los Angeles.
My name is Mohamed Abdi, and I was twenty years old.
I had tattoos on my arms, neck, legs, and abdomen.
I was a rapper and wanted to be rich and famous like my idol Ice Cube.
I had been friends with Malcolm, Marcus, and Devon since we graduated from high school two years earlier in 1989.
We were hanging out in our usual spot, which was at the corner of 120th Street and Vermont Avenue.
The street was busy with people walking up and down the sidewalk.
Cars were driving by, and some of them were playing music loudly.
There was a group of girls standing across the street, talking to each other and laughing.
They were wearing tight jeans and low-cut shirts.
Some of them had big hair, and others had braids or ponytails.
Malcolm, Marcus, Devon, and I were standing near a liquor store.
We were drinking beer and talking about what we wanted to do with our lives.
Malcolm wanted to be a lawyer, Marcus wanted to be a doctor, and Devon wanted to be a teacher.
I told them that I wanted to be a rapper and make lots of money.
I said that I wanted to buy a big house and a fancy car.
I also said that I wanted to travel around the world and meet new people. As we were talking, we saw two groups of men walking towards each other.
One group was wearing red clothes, which meant that they were part of the Bloods gang.
The other group was wearing blue clothes, which meant that they were part of the Crips gang.
The two gangs did not get along with each other, and they often fought over territory and respect.
As the two groups got closer to each other, we could see that they were looking at each other angrily.
One of the men in the Bloods gang yelled something at one of the men in the Crips gang.
The man in the Crips gang responded by yelling something back at him.
The two groups started arguing with each other, and it seemed like they were about to fight. We watched as the two groups continued to argue with each other.
We knew that things could get out of hand quickly, so we stayed back and observed from a distance.
As we were watching, a police car drove by slowly.
The officers inside looked at us for a moment before continuing on their way.
They did not stop or try to break up the argument between the two gangs. The argument between the two gangs continued for several minutes before it finally died down.
The men in both groups walked away from each other without fighting.
We breathed a sigh of relief when we saw them leave because we did not want any trouble. We finished our beers and threw away the cans before leaving the area ourselves.
"Man, that was close," Malcolm said, shaking his head.
"Too close," Marcus replied, glancing over his shoulder.
Devon leaned in, lowering his voice, "You know, I heard they got a new leader, someone who's planning to unite the gangs."
I pulled my worn notebook from my back pocket, flipping through the pages filled with lyrics.
I had written a few new rhymes the night before, and I wanted to share them with the guys.
Malcolm crushed his empty beer can in his hand and tossed it into a nearby trash bin.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the cracked parking lot of the liquor store.
Marcus leaned against the wall, nodding his head to some unheard beat in his mind.
Devon kept watch, scanning the streets for any signs of more gang activity.
The tension from earlier still lingered like smoke in the air.
I cleared my throat and began to recite my latest rhymes:
Marcus nodded along to my flow, tapping his foot on the ground.
Devon kept his eyes on the horizon, watching for any signs of trouble.
Malcolm listened intently, his brow furrowed in concentration.
When I finished reciting my rhymes, they all nodded their heads in approval.
"That's fire," Malcolm said, giving me a fist bump.
Marcus nodded, "You're getting better every time."
Devon turned to me, "You know, you should lay those tracks down in a studio. You could make some real money off that."
I smiled, feeling a surge of excitement at the prospect of making music professionally.
"Man, I wish I could," I replied, tucking my notebook back into my pocket.
"But studios cost money, and I ain't got none."
Malcolm clapped me on the back, "Don't worry about it. We'll figure something out."
Just then, a police helicopter flew overhead, its searchlight sweeping across the streets below.
We all looked up instinctively, shielding our eyes from the bright light. The helicopter circled around for a few minutes before flying off into the distance.
We watched it disappear into the night sky before turning our attention back to each other.
"Well," I said, gesturing towards my cousin's makeshift recording studio three blocks over, "let's hit the studio. I got some new beats to lay down."
The guys nodded in agreement and followed me as we walked off into the night.
The city lights twinkled around us like stars in the sky.
And in that moment, I knew we were chasing more than just dreams—we were chasing survival.
My cousin's basement studio was a cramped, hot room with egg cartons stapled to the walls for soundproofing.
An old microphone hung from the ceiling by frayed wires, connected to a secondhand mixer and tape deck.
Malcolm adjusted the equipment while Marcus and Devon sprawled out on the torn couch in the corner.
I gripped my notebook tightly, my heart pounding in my chest as I stepped up to the mic.
The familiar smell of weed and stale cigarettes filled the air.
When Malcolm gave me the thumbs up, I cleared my throat and pulled the headphones over my ears.
"Alright, man," Malcolm said, fiddling with the knobs on the mixer.
"Just give me a sec to get this set up."
I nodded, watching as he worked.
Marcus and Devon sat quietly on the couch, their eyes fixed on me.
The anticipation in the room was palpable.
Finally, Malcolm gave me a thumbs-up.
"Okay, you're good to go," he said.
I took a deep breath and adjusted my headphones before nodding to Malcolm.
He pressed play on the tape deck and the heavy beat of the instrumental filled the room.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over me before I began to rap:
When I finished rapping, Malcolm turned off the tape deck and gave me a high-five.
"That was dope," he said.
Marcus and Devon nodded in agreement.
"Definitely one of your best tracks yet," Marcus said.
Devon added, "You should call it 'Survival.'"
I smiled and nodded my head in agreement.
"Yeah, that's a good name for it," I said.
Malcolm went over to his equipment and started rewinding the tape.
"I'll make a few copies of this track," he said.
I sat down on the couch next to Marcus and Devon and waited for Malcolm to finish.
After a few minutes, he came back over to us with a stack of CDs and cassette tapes in his hand.
"Here you go," he said, handing them out to us.
We each took one of the CDs and one of the cassette tapes and examined them.
The cover art was simple but effective - a picture of me standing in front of a graffiti-covered wall, with the title "Survival" written in bold letters across the top.
"Thanks, man," I said to Malcolm.
He smiled and nodded his head.
"No problem," he replied.
We spent the rest of the evening listening to the track over and over again, making adjustments and tweaks as needed.
It wasn't until several hours later that we were finally satisfied with the final product.
"Alright, now what?" asked Marcus.
Devon looked at me expectantly.
I thought for a moment before responding.
"I guess we should send it out to some record labels," I said. "That's a good idea," said Malcolm.
He got up from the couch and went over to his desk, where he started rummaging through some papers.
After a few minutes, he came back over to us with a list of record labels in his hand.
"Here are some labels that might be interested in your music," he said, handing me the list.
I scanned through it quickly, recognizing some of the names from my research online.
"Okay, let's get started then," I said, standing up from the couch.
The guys all nodded in agreement and followed me as I walked over to the desk where Malcolm had been sitting earlier.
I sat down in his chair and began addressing envelopes to each of the record labels on the list.
As I worked, I couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building inside me. What if one of these labels actually wanted to sign me?
What if they offered me a record deal?
The thought of it sent a shiver down my spine.
I couldn't wait to hear back from them and see what they had to say about my music.
It wasn't long before I had finished addressing all the envelopes and was ready to mail out the demo.
I walked over to the mailbox and dropped it inside, feeling a sense of accomplishment wash over me.
"Alright, now we just have to wait," I said to the guys as we walked back to Malcolm's house.
"Yeah, but how long will it take?" asked Marcus.
"I don't know," I replied.
"It could be a few days or a few weeks. We'll just have to be patient."
Devon nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, you're right. We can't rush these things."
Malcolm added, "Besides, we have other things to worry about right now. Like getting our next track ready."
I smiled at him and clapped him on the back.
"You're right, man. Let's get back to work."
The days went by slowly as I waited for a response from the record labels.
I checked the mail every day, hoping that there would be a letter from one of them waiting for me.
But each day, there was nothing.
I tried not to get discouraged, but it was hard not to feel frustrated when it seemed like no one was interested in my music. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I received a letter in the mail from one of the record labels.
My heart raced as I opened the envelope and pulled out the contents.
It was an offer from Death Row Records, asking me to come in for an interview with their CEO, Suge Knight.
I couldn't believe it!
Death Row Records was one of the biggest labels in the industry at that time, and they were interested in signing me!
I immediately called Malcolm and told him the news.
He was just as excited as I was and offered to drive me to the interview himself.
The day of the interview arrived quickly, and I found myself standing outside the office building where Death Row Records was located.
I took a deep breath and stepped inside, trying my best to look confident and professional.
As soon as I entered the lobby, I was greeted by a receptionist who asked me who I was there to see.
"Um...Suge Knight," I stammered nervously. She looked up at me with a smile and nodded her head.
"Right this way," she said, leading me down a hallway that felt like the start of something I couldn't yet imagine.
We reached a door at the end of the hall, and she knocked twice before opening it and gesturing for me to enter.
Suge Knight sat behind his desk, looking up at me with a serious expression on his face.
"Have a seat," he said, motioning towards a chair across from him.
I sat down and waited for him to speak.
His eyes scanned over me, taking in my worn-out shoes and faded jeans.
"So, you're the one who's been sending us demos," he said finally.
"Yes, sir," I replied nervously.
He nodded thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair.
"We're interested in signing you to a record deal. We think you have potential."
I felt my heart leap with excitement at his words.
"Really?" I asked, barely able to contain my enthusiasm.
He nodded again and smiled slightly.
"Yes, really. But first, we need to discuss some details."
I nodded eagerly, ready to hear what he had to say. "Okay," I said.
Suge leaned forward and placed his hands on top of his desk.
"We want you to make three albums for us. After that, you can choose whether or not you want to stay with Death Row Records or move on to another label."
I thought about it for a moment before responding.
"That sounds fair," I said finally.
Suge nodded in agreement and stood up from his chair.
"Good. Now, let's talk about money."
He walked around his desk and came over to where I was sitting.
"I'm sure you're wondering how much you'll be paid if you sign with us," he said, looking down at me with a serious expression on his face.
I nodded again, feeling a little intimidated by his presence but also excited about the possibility of making some real money.
"Well, let me tell you something," he continued.
"If you sign with Death Row Records, you'll be making more money than most people can even imagine." "What do you mean?"
I asked curiously.
Suge smiled again and placed a hand on my shoulder.
"If you sign with us, we'll make sure that your albums sell millions of copies. You'll be famous and rich beyond your wildest dreams."
My eyes widened at his words and I couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building inside me once again.
"That sounds amazing," I said sincerely.
Suge nodded in agreement and removed his hand from my shoulder.
Suge leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.
"But remember, fame and fortune come with a price. Are you ready to pay it?"
I hesitated for a moment, the weight of his words settling in, before nodding slowly. "Yeah, I'm ready."
Suge slid the thick contract across the polished mahogany desk, his gold pinky ring glinting in the dim light of his office.
The two bodyguards standing behind him watched me with cold, unyielding gazes.
I could feel their presence looming over me like a shadow.
Malcolm, who had come with me as a witness, leaned forward in his chair and examined the fine print of the contract.
I signed my name on the dotted line, and a smile spread across Suge's face.
His bodyguards nodded in approval, their faces still hard as stone.
Suge reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of crisp $100 bills.
He counted out $50,000 and handed it to me.
"This is your advance," he said.
"Welcome to Death Row Records."
I took the money, feeling its weight in my hand.
It was more than I had ever seen before.
Suge then placed a gold chain around my neck, adorned with a pendant that read "Death Row Records."
"You're part of the family now," he said, his voice filled with a mixture of warmth and warning.
I looked over at Malcolm, who was still studying the contract.
"Hey, Malcolm's a talented producer," I said to Suge.
"Can you give him a deal too?"
Suge glanced over at Malcolm and nodded.
"Sure thing. We can always use more talent."
Malcolm's eyes widened in surprise as he looked up from the contract.
He quickly signed his own contract, and Suge handed him a smaller advance of $10,000. After signing the contracts, we celebrated with champagne and women that Suge had invited to his office.
I watched as Malcolm flirted shamelessly with one of them, his confidence growing with every sip of champagne.
The music played loudly in the background, mingling with the laughter and conversations of the people around us.
I raised my glass in a toast to Suge and Death Row Records.
"To our new family," I said, clinking my glass against Suge's.
He smiled broadly, revealing a set of gold teeth.
The night was filled with promises, but as I looked around the room, I couldn't shake the feeling that we had just stepped into a world where dreams and nightmares danced hand in hand.
I drive my beat-up Chevy down the street, the worn-out tires screeching as I make a sharp turn.
The envelope with $40,000 in cash sits on the passenger seat next to me, a constant reminder of the deal I just signed with Death Row Records.
As I pull into the parking lot of my parents' convenience store, I can see them through the grimy windows.
My father is restocking shelves while my mother works the register.
I grab the envelope and get out of the car, walking towards the entrance.
The bell above the door jingles as I push it open, and my parents look up to see me standing there.
My father's face is stern, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my presence.
But when he sees the envelope in my hand, his expression softens.
"Son," he says, his voice filled with a mix of surprise and curiosity.
I walk over to him and hand him the envelope.
"This is for you," I say, watching as he opens it and pulls out a stack of $100 bills.
His eyes widen in shock, and he looks up at me with a mixture of disbelief and gratitude.
"Where did you get this?" he asks, his voice filled with emotion. My mother comes over to us, concern etched on her face.
"What's going on?" she asks, looking between my father and me.
"He got a record deal," my father says, his voice filled with pride.
My mother's face lights up with joy, and she hugs me tightly.
"Praise Allah," she whispers in my ear, her voice filled with gratitude.
She pulls back and looks at me with tears in her eyes.
"Tell us everything," she says, her voice filled with excitement.
I take a deep breath and explain how I signed with Death Row Records, how they gave me an advance of $50,000, and how they want me to make three albums for them.
My parents listen intently, their faces filled with a mix of joy and concern.
When I finish speaking, they look at each other and then back at me.
"This is a blessing from Allah," my mother says, her voice filled with conviction.
"But we must also be careful," my father adds, his voice filled with caution. "Suge Knight has a reputation for being ruthless," he continues.
"We must make sure that you are protected."
I nod in agreement, knowing that my father is right.
The next morning, I arrive at Death Row Records early, my heart pounding in my chest.
The building is a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Los Angeles, but as soon as I step inside, I know that I'm in for something special.
Suge greets me at the door and leads me down a winding hallway lined with gold records and framed photographs of the label's biggest stars.
We pass by a state-of-the-art recording studio where Tupac and Snoop Dogg are laying down tracks for their latest single.
I can hear the thumping bass and catchy hooks as we walk by, and I can't help but feel a sense of excitement at the thought of working alongside such legends.
We reach a large lounge area where Dr. Dre is sitting on a leather couch, sipping on a drink and nodding his head to the beat.
There's a fully stocked bar in the corner, and several women are lounging on the couches, chatting and laughing with each other. Suge leads me over to Dr. Dre and introduces me as Death Row's newest artist.
Dr. Dre looks up at me with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, his eyes scanning over my outfit and taking in my nervous demeanor.
"So you're the new kid," he says, his voice deep and gravelly.
"I've heard good things about you."
I nod nervously, trying to play it cool despite the fact that I'm standing in front of one of my musical idols.
"It's an honor to meet you," I say, extending my hand for a handshake.
Dr. Dre looks at my hand for a moment before finally reaching out to shake it.
His grip is firm but not crushing, and I can tell that he's sizing me up to see if I've got what it takes to make it in this industry.
"So what do you got for us?" he asks, gesturing towards the recording booth in the corner of the room.
I swallow hard and try to remember all of the rhymes that I've been practicing in my head.
"I've got a few songs that I think you'll like," I say confidently.
Dr. Dre nods and motions for me to step into the booth.
"Let's hear what you've got," he says, his voice filled with anticipation. I step into the booth and pick up the microphone, feeling my heart pounding in my chest as I prepare to spit my first bars.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let the music carry me into a world where only the rhythm and my words exist.
I step into the recording booth, my heart pounding in my chest.
Dr. Dre gives me a nod and cues up the beat.
I start rapping, letting the words flow from my lips like a river.
I talk about growing up in the hood, about the gangs and the violence that surrounds me.
I talk about the struggle to make ends meet, about the long hours and hard work that it takes to survive.
Dr. Dre nods his head along with the beat, his eyes fixed intently on me as I rap.
When I finish, he gives me a nod of approval.
"That's good," he says.
"Let's do it again."
We spend the next few hours in the recording studio, laying down track after track.
Dr. Dre works his magic behind the boards, adding beats and melodies that bring my lyrics to life.
By the time we're done, I've got a collection of songs that I'm proud of.
Dr. Dre presses a single onto CDs and tapes while Suge watches over his shoulder.
"Let's call this one 'Ruthless,'" Dr. Dre says, handing Suge a copy of the single. Suge nods in agreement and takes the single into his office.
A few minutes later, he emerges with a stack of CDs and tapes in his hand.
He hands them to one of his assistants and tells him to send them to all of the major radio stations in Los Angeles.
The assistant nods and quickly leaves the room to carry out Suge's orders.
A few hours later, we're sitting in Suge's office listening to "Ruthless" play on the radio for the first time.
Suge grins from ear to ear as he listens to my lyrics flow over the airwaves.
"This is going to be huge," he says confidently.
"I can feel it."
And he's right.
I sit in my bedroom listening to Power 106 FM, the local hip-hop station, as they play "Ruthless" for the fifth time today.
The radio DJ comes on after the song and announces that it's now number 15 on the local charts, up from 23 last week.
I smile to myself as I hear the news, knowing that my hard work is starting to pay off.
Suddenly, my bedroom door bursts open and Malcolm rushes in with a stack of Billboard magazines in his hand.
"Yo, you won't believe this," he says excitedly, holding up one of the magazines.
I take it from him and see that my name is listed under the hip-hop charts, right next to Tupac and Snoop Dogg.
My eyes widen in surprise as I read through the article.
"Man, this is crazy," I say, handing the magazine back to Malcolm.
He nods in agreement and puts the magazines down on my bed.
"I know, right? You're really making moves now."
Just then, my little sister Munira runs into my room with a huge smile on her face.
"Guess what?" she asks excitedly.
"What?"
I reply, curious about what she has to say.
"I heard your song at school today," she says proudly.
"All of my friends were talking about it."
"That's awesome," I say, giving her a hug. Just then, my phone starts ringing.
I pick it up and see that it's Suge's assistant calling.
I answer the phone and hear him tell me that "Ruthless" is selling out at local record stores and that they need to press more copies ASAP.
I hang up the phone and look over at Malcolm, who is still smiling from ear to ear.
"This is crazy," he says again.
"I know," I reply, shaking my head in disbelief.
I reach into my dresser drawer and pull out the gold Death Row chain that Suge gave me when I signed with the label.
I hold it up to catch the afternoon light streaming through my window and watch as it glimmers against the backdrop of my bedroom wall.
I pace my bedroom while holding the phone, my heart pounding in my chest.
The gold Death Row chain swings against my chest with each step.
The tattoos on my arms are visible under the sleeveless shirt that I wear.
I can hear the sound of Tupac's voice coming from the other end of the line, his words filled with encouragement and support.
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down, knowing that I have to be focused if I'm going to make this album.
"Alright, let's do this," I say finally, hanging up the phone and walking into the recording studio.
Dr. Dre is already there, sitting behind the soundboard with a pair of headphones on his head.
He nods at me as I walk in and cues up the beat for "Ready to Die."
I step into the recording booth and start rapping, letting my emotions flow freely as I spit out my lyrics.
Tupac is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette and listening intently to every word that comes out of my mouth. When I'm done, Dr. Dre gives me a nod of approval and tells me to do it again.
We spend hours in the recording studio, laying down track after track until we're satisfied with the final product.
By the time we're done, it's late at night and everyone is exhausted.
But we know that we've created something special, something that will change the face of hip-hop forever.
"Ready to Die" is a song about living life on the edge, about being ready for anything that comes your way.
It's a song about embracing death and living each day like it's your last.
I sit in my cousin's basement, staring at the magazine that he handed me.
The headline reads "Ready to Die Tops Billboard Hip Hop Chart."
My phone starts ringing nonstop as friends and family call to congratulate me on the success of my single.
I answer the phone and hear my mother's voice on the other end, her words filled with pride and joy.
"Son, you did it," she says.
"You really did it."
I smile to myself as I listen to her words, knowing that all of my hard work has finally paid off.
Just then, Munira bursts into the room, a CD in her hand.
"Guess what?" she asks excitedly.
"What?"
I reply, curious about what she has to say.
"Ready to Die just sold out at every record store in the country," she says proudly.
"That's amazing," I say, giving her a hug.
She smiles and hands me the CD.
"This is for you," she says.
I take the CD from her and examine it closely.
The cover features a picture of me standing in front of a city skyline, looking out over the world with a sense of confidence and determination. I drive my car down the street, the music playing loudly through the speakers.
I pull up to Death Row Records and park my car in the parking lot.
I get out and walk inside, where I'm greeted by Suge's assistant.
He leads me to Suge's office and knocks on the door before opening it for me to enter.
Suge is sitting behind his desk, a stack of papers in front of him.
He looks up as I walk in and smiles broadly.
"Hey there," he says, motioning for me to have a seat.
I sit down across from him and wait for him to speak.
"So, you've heard about 'Ready to Die'?" he asks, leaning back in his chair.
"Yeah," I reply, nodding my head.
"It's doing well."
Suge nods in agreement and leans forward again.
"It's doing more than well," he says seriously.
"It's number one on the Billboard charts. It's selling out everywhere."
He hands me a check for $10,000. "This is for you," he says with a smile.
"A little something extra for all your hard work."
I take the check from him and examine it closely before putting it in my pocket.
"Thanks," I say sincerely, standing up from my chair.
As I leave his office, the weight of the check in my pocket feels like a promise and a warning all at once.
At Death Row Records' studio, I work tirelessly with Dr. Dre to finalize my debut album "Death Trap."
We spend hours in the recording booth, perfecting each track and making sure that every beat and lyric is just right.
Suge's bodyguards stand guard outside the door, their eyes scanning the room for any sign of trouble.
Finally, after weeks of hard work, we're ready to shoot the cover photo for "Death Trap."
I stand nervously in front of the camera, surrounded by Suge's bodyguards and a team of photographers.
The lights are blindingly bright, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.
"Relax," the photographer tells me, his voice calm and steady.
"Just be yourself."
I take a deep breath and try to calm down, but it's hard when there are so many people staring at me.
The photographer starts snapping pictures, and I try my best to look cool and confident.
But inside, I'm still feeling nervous and unsure of myself.
After what feels like hours, the photo shoot is finally over.
I walk back into the recording studio where Dr. Dre is waiting for me with a smile on his face.
"Ready to hear your album?" he asks excitedly. I nod eagerly as he cues up the tracks on his computer.
The music fills the room, and I listen intently as each song plays through the massive speakers.
The bass is heavy and pulsating, while my lyrics cut through like a sharp blade.
When the album finishes playing, Suge walks into the room with a smile on his face.
"What do you think?" he asks me eagerly.
"It's amazing," I reply honestly, still trying to process everything that I've just heard.
Suge nods in agreement and motions for me to follow him out of the studio.
We walk down the hallway towards his office, passing by Tupac's platinum plaques that hang on the wall.
As we enter his office, Suge closes the door behind us and sits down at his desk.
"So, we need to talk about your tour schedule," he says seriously. "You're going to be performing all over the country for the next few months. We'll have security with you at all times, but I want you to be prepared for anything."
I nod my head in understanding as Suge pulls out a stack of papers from his desk drawer and hands them to me.
"This is your itinerary," he explains.
I glance over the itinerary, my eyes scanning the list of cities and dates.
"That's a lot of shows," I say, feeling both excited and overwhelmed.
Suge leans back in his chair, his expression turning serious. "It's your time to shine, but remember, not everyone out there is rooting for you."
I lean forward in my chair, my eyes scanning the dense schedule in my hands.
Thirty cities in forty-five days, starting with Oakland and ending in New York.
My fingers trace the venue names, the dates, and the cities.
The tour is over, and I'm finally home.
I drag my bags into the house, my body aching from months of travel and performances.
My family greets me warmly, but their eyes betray concern.
I can see it in the way they look at me, in the way they ask about the tour.
I collapse onto my bed, surrounded by the posters of Ice Cube and my own album covers that adorn the walls.
My childhood bedroom feels smaller than I remember, but it's still home.
Munira knocks softly on my door before entering with a glass of water in her hand.
"Welcome back," she says, setting the glass down on my nightstand.
"Thanks," I reply, taking a sip of the cool liquid.
"So, tell me about the tour. Was it wild?"
Munira asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
I take another sip of water before answering.
"It was crazy," I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
"We performed in front of thousands of people every night. The energy was electric."
"That sounds amazing," Munira says, her voice filled with excitement.
"And what about the parties? Did you meet any celebrities?"
I smile to myself as I think about the parties we had after each show.
They were wild and crazy, with plenty of alcohol and women.
But they also took a toll on my body and mind. "The parties were fun, but they were also exhausting," I admit.
"There were times when I felt like I was losing myself in all of it."
Munira nods understandingly, her eyes filled with empathy.
"I can imagine," she says softly.
"But you're home now. You can rest and relax."
I nod in agreement, feeling a sense of relief wash over me.
As Munira leaves my room, I take a moment to unpack my bags and settle back into my routine at home.
But as I pull out the tour schedule from my bag, memories flood back into my mind like a tidal wave crashing against the shore.
I remember the rush of adrenaline as I stepped onto each stage, the roar of the crowd as they chanted my name.
I remember the thrill of performing alongside some of the biggest names in hip-hop, feeling like I had finally made it to the top. But alongside those memories are also ones of exhaustion and loneliness.
The next day, I walk into the Death Row building and make my way to Suge's office.
He's sitting behind his desk, a stack of papers in front of him.
He looks up as I enter and smiles broadly.
"Hey there," he says, motioning for me to have a seat.
I sit down across from him and wait for him to speak.
"So, you've heard about the tour?" he asks, leaning back in his chair.
"Yeah," I reply, nodding my head.
"It was a huge success."
Suge nods in agreement and leans forward again.
"I've got something for you," he says, pulling out a check from his desk drawer and handing it to me.
I take the check from him and examine it closely.
It's for $10 million.
I look up at Suge in shock, not believing what I'm seeing.
"Wow," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You deserve it," Suge says, grinning from ear to ear.
"You worked hard on this album, and it paid off. The tour was a huge success. You're a star now."
I smile back at him, feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment wash over me.
"Thanks," I say sincerely, standing up from my chair.
As I leave his office, the weight of the check in my pocket feels like a promise and a warning all at once. I walk out of the Death Row building and make my way to the bank.
I deposit the $10 million check into my account and watch as the number on the screen increases exponentially.
My new balance is $10.2 million.
I walk down a busy street in LA, my face plastered on billboards and magazine covers.
People swarm around me, asking for autographs and selfies.
A young man shows me the tattoo of my face that he got on his arm.
A woman offers herself to me openly, her eyes filled with desire.
I sign a poster for a fan, feeling both flattered and overwhelmed.
As I walk through the crowd, someone shouts, "Mohamed Abdi, the lyrical poet!"
I remember Suge's words after "Death Trap" went platinum: "You're the best thing that's happened to Death Row since Tupac."
I push through the dense crowd outside the club, taking long drags from my cigarette to calm my nerves.
The heavy Death Row chain bounces against my chest with each step.
Fans press closer, their hands reaching for me, while my security team forms a barrier.
The smoke drifts up past the neon signs, and I pause to study my reflection in a store window.
I'm dressed in designer clothes, gold jewelry glinting in the light.
Fresh tattoos adorn my arms, and my name is on everyone's lips.
A year ago, I was nobody.
Now my face is everywhere.
I pull up to Death Row Records in my new 1991 black Porsche, the engine roaring like a beast.
The tires screech as I make a sharp turn into the parking lot.
I park and step out, admiring the sleek design of my new ride.
The car gleams under the sunlight, and I can't help but feel a sense of pride.
I walk into the building, greeted by Suge's assistant.
He leads me to Suge's office, where I'm met with a nod from Suge himself.
His bodyguards stand guard, their guns visible.
Tupac, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg are already there, discussing business.
I join them at the table, feeling the weight of my success.
We talk about upcoming projects, our voices filled with excitement and anticipation.
The atmosphere is tense but focused. "So, what do you have for us?" Suge asks, his voice commanding attention.
I take a deep breath and share my ideas for new tracks.
They listen intently, their expressions serious and thoughtful.
After I finish speaking, we discuss the details of our next project.
It's going to be big, and we're all eager to get started.
As we plan and strategize, I can feel the energy in the room building.
We're all on the same page, united in our pursuit of greatness.
Finally, after hours of discussion, we have a plan in place.
I lean back in my leather chair as Tupac slides closer, his gold chains glinting under the office lights.
He pulls out a crumpled paper from his pocket and smooths it out on the table.
It's covered in handwritten lyrics, his signature scrawl filling the page.
"This is what I've got so far," he says, his voice filled with excitement.
"I want to create a track that blends my West Coast style with your raw street poetry. Something that will shake the foundations of hip-hop."
The room falls silent as all eyes turn to us.
Dr. Dre nods in approval from across the table, while Suge's bodyguards maintain their stone-faced watch.
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I reach for the paper, my fingers trembling slightly.
I lean forward in my chair, studying the words on the paper.
The air conditioning hums overhead, casting a chill over the room.
I can feel the weight of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.
As I read through Tupac's lyrics, a rhythm starts to form in my mind.
It's a slow, heavy bass line punctuated by sharp hi-hats.
I can almost hear the beat thumping through the speakers, filling the room with energy.
I tap out the rhythm on the table with my fingers, feeling it take shape before me.
Tupac watches me intently, his eyes filled with curiosity.
Dr. Dre straightens up in his chair, already reaching for his production equipment.
Even Suge's bodyguards seem to sense the energy building in the room.
I look up at Tupac and nod, a smile spreading across my face.
"This is going to be huge," I say, my voice filled with excitement.
"I can see it now - a powerful beat that complements your raw lyrics. We can create something truly revolutionary."
Tupac grins back at me, his enthusiasm palpable.
"Let's do it," he says, his voice filled with determination.
We dive into the creative process, our minds racing as we work together to bring this track to life.
The room buzzes with energy as we brainstorm ideas and experiment with different beats. Finally, after what feels like hours of intense collaboration, we have a solid foundation for our track.
It's going to be a game-changer.
I can feel it deep in my bones.
As we wrap up our meeting and head out of Suge's office, I can't help but feel a sense of pride and accomplishment.
We've created something special here today - something that will shake the very foundations of hip-hop and leave a lasting impact on the music world.
And I know that this is just the beginning of something incredible.
"Okay, so we're going to start with your hook," I say, tapping out the rhythm on the table as I read through Tupac's lyrics one last time before we start working on them in the studio.
"We'll layer it over a stripped-down beat that builds intensity throughout."
Tupac nods thoughtfully as he listens to my vision for the track's opening verse.
The future of hip-hop is ours to shape.
I follow Tupac down the dimly lit hallway of Death Row Records, our footsteps echoing off the walls as we make our way to Studio A.
The air is thick with anticipation, and I can feel the weight of our collaboration settling upon me.
As we enter the studio, Dr. Dre is already hunched over the mixing board, adjusting levels and fine-tuning the sound.
The engineers scurry about, setting up microphones and testing connections.
Tupac grabs his notebook and steps into the recording booth first, slipping on his headphones and giving a nod to Dr. Dre through the glass.
I watch intently as he closes his eyes, bobbing his head to the beat that pulses through his ears.
The red recording light flashes on, signaling that we're live.
My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for my turn, clutching my own lyrics tightly in my hand.
I study Tupac's delivery, analyzing every inflection and cadence in his voice.
"Yo, you hear that?" Tupac's voice crackles through the headphones, his eyes still closed as he rides the beat.
"Yeah, man," I reply, leaning closer to the glass, "it's like you're channeling something otherworldly."
Dr. Dre glances up from the mixing board, a rare smile breaking across his face. "This is it, fellas. We're making history today."
I stand in the recording booth, headphones clamped tightly over my ears.
Through the glass, I watch as Tupac finishes his verse, his voice dripping with raw emotion.
Dr. Dre gives me a nod, signaling for me to start.
I grip the mic tightly, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon me.
The heavy beat thumps through my ears, pulsating like a living entity.
I close my eyes, letting the rhythm guide me as I begin to flow.
My words spill out like a torrent, each line building upon the last to create a powerful narrative that echoes through the studio.
Tupac watches intently from the other side of the glass, his eyes locked onto mine as we trade verses back and forth.
The intensity builds with each take, our voices intertwining like two threads in a rich tapestry.
Hours pass as we record, mix, and perfect our track.
We push ourselves to new heights, driven by our shared vision of creating something revolutionary.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, we gather around the speakers for the final playback. The opening hook hits us like a freight train, Tupac's voice booming through the speakers as he delivers his signature flow.
The beat drops, and I feel my heart pounding in time with the rhythm.
My own voice cuts through the airwaves, blending seamlessly with Tupac's in a way that feels almost otherworldly.
The track builds to its climax, each verse layering upon the last in a crescendo of raw emotion and unbridled energy.
As the song fades into silence, we share a look of triumph.
We've created something truly special here - a track that will shake the foundations of hip-hop and leave an indelible mark on music history.
Just then, Suge bursts into the studio, his face splitting into a wide grin as he hears the finished product for the first time.
He listens intently as we play it back for him, his eyes lighting up with excitement. "This is it," he says finally, turning to face us with a look of determination etched across his features.
"We're going to release this ASAP. Get it to marketing now."
With that, he turns on his heel and strides out of the studio, already dialing numbers on his phone as he makes arrangements for our track's imminent release.
As the door swings shut behind him, I realize we've just set a new standard.
I sit in Suge's office, watching as MTV premieres our music video for "Ride or Die."
The song blasts through the speakers, filling the room with its infectious beat.
Tupac and I exchange knowing glances, grinning from ear to ear.
Suge hands us each a check for $100,000, his smile stretching from ear to ear.
"This track is tearing up the radio stations nationwide," he says, his voice filled with pride.
"We're on the fast track to success."
Just then, an assistant bursts into the room carrying stacks of magazines.
Our faces stare back at us from the covers - Rolling Stone, The Source, Billboard.
Phones ring nonstop as interview requests flood in.
Through the window, I see a line of fans forming outside the building, clutching our CD singles and waiting for autographs.
I step through the glass doors of Death Row Records into the afternoon sun, hundreds of fans pressing against the metal barriers.
Security clears a path as I make my way closer, their hands reaching out with CDs, magazines, and photos for me to sign.
"MOHAMED! MOHAMED!" they chant, their voices echoing through the air.
I smile and wave, my gold chain glinting in the sunlight as I approach them.
They hold up posters of my album cover - "Death Trap" emblazoned in bold letters across the top.
Some of them have even drawn their own artwork, depicting me in various poses with Tupac and Dr. Dre.
"Can you sign this?"
A young girl thrusts a CD single into my hands, her eyes wide with excitement.
I take it from her, noticing the song title "Ride or Die" featuring Tupac printed on the back.
The lyrics are explicit, filled with profanity and raw street language.
It's no different from Tupac's own lyrics, or those of Dr. Dre for that matter.
But somehow, seeing them in print like this makes me pause for a moment.
I glance up at the girl, wondering if she truly understands the content of the music she's listening to.
She looks back at me with a smile, her eyes shining with admiration.
I shrug inwardly and sign my name across the cover before handing it back to her.
The fans press closer, their bodies forming a tight circle around me as they clamor for attention.
Security struggles to keep them at bay, but I don't mind.
This is what it means to be famous - to have people looking up to you as a role model. I scan the crowd, taking in their eager faces and outstretched hands.
Some of them have tattoos of my name or lyrics from my songs etched into their skin.
Others wear t-shirts emblazoned with Death Row Records logos or images of Tupac and Dr. Dre.
I feel a surge of pride knowing that our music has made such an impact on their lives.
As I move through the crowd, signing autographs and posing for photos, I notice something else too - the way they look at me with reverence in their eyes.
It's not just admiration; it's almost as if they see me as someone who understands them on a deeper level.
Someone who speaks their language and shares their struggles.
I realize that this is what it means to be an artist - to tap into something universal and connect with others on a profound level. As I continue signing autographs, I catch glimpses of myself reflected back at me from the sea of faces surrounding me.
I'm signing autographs when a teenage fan shows me his forearm, where my face is tattooed in bold black ink.
The crowd presses closer, their hands reaching out with CDs and photos for me to sign.
My security team forms a tight circle around me as I move through the mass of people, their bodies shielding me from the chaos.
The summer heat makes sweat drip down my neck as I try to keep up with the constant requests for autographs and photos.
I follow Tupac, Dr. Dre, and Suge into the strip club, the bass thumping through my chest as we enter.
The dim lighting casts a hazy glow over everything, and the air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
We make our way to a VIP section in the back, where scantily clad women dance around us.
I take a seat on one of the plush couches and accept a glass of champagne from one of the waitresses.
As I sip my drink, I watch Tupac flirt with one of the dancers.
She's wearing a tiny t##g and b#a set that leaves little to the imagination.
She straddles him in his chair, g###g her hips against his as he whispers something in her ear.
Dr. Dre sits next to me, laughing with Suge about their latest track's success on the charts.
I lean back against the couch and let out a sigh, feeling the tension melt away as I relax into the music and atmosphere. The dancer Tupac was flirting with earlier comes over to me, her hips s###g s#####y as she walks.
She leans down close to my ear and whispers something that sends shivers down my spine.
"Your music is so s#y," she purrs, her breath hot against my skin.
"I can't get enough of it."
I smile at her, feeling a surge of excitement run through me.
I reach into my pocket and pull out a stack of cash, tossing it onto the stage for her to collect.
The other dancers cheer and clap as she bends down to pick up the money.
Tupac leans over, a mischievous grin on his face. "You know, they're not just here for the music," he says, nodding towards the dancer.
Dr. Dre chuckles, raising his glass in a mock toast. "Yeah, but it sure doesn't hurt that we're topping the charts."
I follow Crystal to a private bedroom in the back of the club, the bass from the music still thumping in my ears.
We close the door behind us and she turns to face me, her eyes scanning my body.
"You're so sexy," she says, reaching out to touch my tattoos.
Her fingers trace their way over the ink on my neck, abdomen, chest, and arms.
I smile at her and pull off my shirt, revealing more of my tattoos.
She gasps in surprise and reaches out to touch them again.
I pull her close and kiss her deeply, feeling her body press against mine.
We move to the bed and she bends over in front of me, her a#s in the air.
I position myself behind her and guide myself i##e.
I start t####g slowly at first, but soon pick up speed as she m##s louder and louder.
We climax together and then collapse onto the bed beside each other. I light a cigarette and take a long drag, watching as the smoke curls up towards the ceiling.
I slip my Death Row chain back over my head and put my gold watch back on.
Crystal's scent still lingers on my skin as I make my way back to the VIP section.
Dr. Dre, Suge, and Tupac are still there, surrounded by dancers.
Tupac looks up and catches my eye, giving me a knowing nod.
Dr. Dre hands me a glass of champagne as I take a seat next to him.
I sip the drink and lean back against the couch, feeling different somehow.
I'm not a virgin anymore.
I sit in Suge's office, discussing the release strategy for my new album "Married to the Game."
He pulls out a mock-up of the album cover, showing me a throne with two soldiers standing on either side of me.
"We're going to distribute it across the U.S. and Canada," he explains, pointing to various cities on a map.
"We'll have 15 tracks, each with its own music video premiering on MTV."
As we finalize the details, Suge hands me a check for $12 million.
"Congratulations, your album hit number one on the Billboard charts."
I leave his office, clutching the check tightly in my hand.
I head straight to the bank to deposit it into my account.
I drive up to the gates of my new mansion, watching as they swing open to reveal a sprawling estate.
The driveway winds its way through perfectly manicured lawns and gardens, leading to a massive stone façade that towers above me.
I park my car in the garage, which is filled with sports cars and other luxury vehicles.
As I step inside, I'm greeted by a grand foyer with a sweeping staircase curving up to the second floor.
The interior is modern and sleek, with marble floors and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
I walk through the rooms, taking in the state-of-the-art kitchen and expansive living areas.
I pull out my phone and dial my parents' number, eager to tell them about my new home.
"Hello?" my mother answers on the first ring.
"Hi Mom, it's Mohamed," I say, trying to contain my excitement.
"Hey son! How are you doing?"
"I just wanted to let you know that I bought a new house," I say, glancing around the opulent surroundings. "Oh wow, congratulations! Where is it?"
"It's in Beverly Hills," I reply, feeling a sense of pride swell within me.
"That sounds amazing. We can't wait to see it."
I hear my father's voice in the background, asking who's on the phone.
"Tell your father that we're coming over this weekend," I say before hanging up.
Next, I call my accountant and instruct him to transfer $5 million into my parents' account.
As I wait for confirmation that the transaction has been completed, I wander through the mansion again, taking in all its finer details.
The master bedroom is enormous, with an en-suite bathroom that rivals any spa.
I unpack my bags and place them in the spacious walk-in closet.
I sit alone in my new Beverly Hills mansion, the silence echoing around me.
The living room is vast and empty, with a big screen TV mounted on the wall.
I watch an episode of "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air," laughing at Will's antics as he navigates his new life in Bel-Air.
The contrast between his struggles and my own is stark, and I can't help but feel grateful for the opportunities I've had.
I get up from the couch and walk to the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water from the refrigerator.
As I return to the living room, I notice how quiet it is here compared to back home in the ghettos.
The only sound is the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional passing car outside.
I sit back down on the couch and pick up the remote, switching off the TV.
I realize that even in all this luxury, the echoes of my past still linger, reminding me of where I came from and what I've yet to achieve.
I walk through the empty halls of my mansion, the silence echoing around me.
I make a few calls, inviting everyone over this weekend.
Malcolm agrees to come, promising to bring some of his famous jerk chicken.
Marcus and Devon both say they'll come too, offering to bring drinks and snacks.
My parents sound hesitant at first, but eventually agree when I insist it's important to me.
Munira squeals with excitement when I invite her, already planning what she's going to wear.
I hire a catering service to provide food for the party, as well as a security team to keep everything safe.
I also rent a DJ booth and speakers so we can have music playing throughout the night.
As I stand in my massive living room, I imagine it filled with familiar faces from back home in the ghettos.
I realize that despite the opulence surrounding me, it's the people who truly make a place feel like home.
I move through the room, pushing the Italian leather couches against the walls to create an open space.
The marble floors echo with each step as I position the glass coffee tables and arrange decorative pillows.
I set up the sound system, placing speakers in each corner and turntables on a mahogany stand.
As I work, I pause at the bay windows, adjusting the velvet curtains to let in the fading light of day.
Outside, I watch as the sunset casts a warm glow over Beverly Hills.
My phone rings, breaking the silence.
It's Malcolm, asking about parking arrangements for the catering trucks.
I answer his questions, giving him directions to the estate.
"Malcolm, there's plenty of space in the back; just tell them to follow the driveway around," I say, glancing out at the expansive grounds.
"Got it, man. By the way, you sure you're ready for this?" he asks, a hint of concern in his voice.
"Yeah, I am," I reply, feeling a mix of anticipation and anxiety. "It's time to show everyone how far we've come."
I meticulously arrange the DJ booth in the main hall, testing each speaker to ensure they're working properly.
I adjust the lighting system to create a vibrant atmosphere, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the walls.
In the kitchen, I direct the caterers as they set up their stations, instructing them on where to place the food and drinks.
Outside, I oversee the security team as they position themselves around the perimeter of my property.
Back in my private quarters, I stand at my marble-topped bar, stocking premium liquor bottles and arranging crystal glasses in neat rows.
The sound system hums to life, filling the space with upbeat music that sets the tone for a lively night ahead.
As I work, Malcolm arrives with his jerk chicken and begins prepping in the kitchen.
"Man, this place is something else," he says, looking around in awe.
"It's a far cry from our old hangouts back in the ghettos."
I nod in agreement, taking a moment to admire my handiwork.
The once-empty rooms are now filled with life and anticipation.
I adjust the temperature controls for each room, ensuring everyone will be comfortable throughout the night.
My phone buzzes constantly with RSVPs and last-minute questions from guests.
I stand in the grand entryway, smoothing my designer suit and adjusting the gold chain around my neck.
In the large mirror that hangs above the fireplace, I check my reflection one last time, ensuring everything is in place.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I see the first cars pulling up to my mansion.
Malcolm's bright red Cadillac stands out against the backdrop of lush greenery, followed closely by Marcus's sleek black BMW.
The security radios crackle with updates as more vehicles make their way up my long driveway.
My heart races with excitement as I realize that soon, my old friends will see my new life for the first time.
I run a hand through my neatly styled hair and glance at my Rolex watch, making sure I'm on schedule.
Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I approach the front door just as the doorbell rings.
I remind myself to stay grounded despite all this newfound success.
I swing open the heavy mahogany door to find Malcolm, Marcus, and Devon standing there in their best outfits, eyes wide as they take in the grand entrance hall.
Malcolm whistles low, clutching his container of jerk chicken.
"Damn, man," he says, stepping inside.
"This place is something else."
Marcus and Devon nod in agreement, their gazes traveling up the sweeping staircase and across the polished marble floors.
I smile, gesturing for them to follow me.
"Come on, let me show you around," I say, leading them deeper into the mansion.
We walk past a wall adorned with my paintings, each one depicting scenes of life back in the ghettos.
The vibrant colors catch their attention, and they pause to admire my artwork.
"That's some deep stuff right there," Devon says, pointing at a piece that shows a child looking up at a graffiti-covered wall with the words "Hope" written in bold letters.
"Yeah, it's from my childhood," I reply, feeling a mix of nostalgia and pride.
As we continue the tour, they marvel at the expensive furniture and state-of-the-art electronics scattered throughout the rooms.
We enter a room filled with platinum plaques hanging on the walls, each one representing a different song or album I've worked on.
Their eyes widen as they read the titles: "Death Trap" and "Married to the Game," both featuring my name, Mohamed Abdi. "Damn, man, you're really making moves out here," Marcus says, his voice filled with admiration.
I nod humbly, grateful for all that I've accomplished since leaving the ghettos behind.
We make our way to the backyard where more friends have arrived.
My parents step out of their car, followed closely by Munira who looks excited to be here.
They're joined by other familiar faces from our neighborhood: my uncle Hassan and aunt Jamila with their kids in tow; Amir and his girlfriend Fatima; even Mr. Johnson from the corner store makes an appearance.
Everyone gathers around as I lead them through the house, pointing out various rooms and features along the way.
We end up in the dining room where tables are set with fine china and crystal glasses.
The kitchen is filled with trays of food prepared by the catering staff – everything from traditional Somali dishes like sabaayad and hilib ari to American favorites like pizza and mac 'n cheese. In one corner of the dining room stands a bar stocked with champagne for the adults and sodas for the teenagers and children.
As everyone helps themselves to drinks and plates of food, I take a moment to observe my guests mingling and laughing together.
Standing at the head of my dining room table, I grip my crystal champagne flute and look around at the familiar faces.
My parents sit in their finest clothes, Munira beaming beside them.
Malcolm and the guys lounge near the bar, sipping on drinks.
Various neighbors from our old block mingle with one another, marveling at the opulence surrounding them.
The chandelier light catches on my Death Row chain as I clear my throat to get everyone's attention.
The room falls silent, all eyes fixed on me.
I take a deep breath before speaking.
"Everyone, thank you for coming tonight. It means a lot to me that you could make it."
I pause, surveying the room filled with people who have known me since childhood.
"We've all been through so much together – growing up in South Central, facing challenges that seemed insurmountable. But we never gave up on each other. And now, here we are, celebrating in this beautiful mansion."
I glance at my parents, who look proud and a little overwhelmed by their surroundings.
"My parents worked hard to provide for me and my siblings. They sacrificed so much to give us a better life. And without their support, none of this would have been possible."
My father's stern face softens slightly as he listens to me speak.
My mother wipes away a tear that has escaped down her cheek. "To all of you who believed in me when no one else did," I continue, raising my glass high.
"This mansion is not just a symbol of success; it's a reminder that anything can happen if we stick together and believe in ourselves."
The room erupts into applause as I take a sip from my glass.
Everyone cheers and whistles, congratulating me on my achievements.
As I lower my glass, I notice Munira looking at me with admiration in her eyes.
I sit at the head of my dining table, savoring the jerk chicken and Somali dishes.
The champagne flows freely as plates clink and food gets passed around.
The room buzzes with conversation and laughter.
After dinner, Malcolm cranks up the music, and everyone starts dancing in my spacious living room.
Hours pass as we celebrate, but eventually guests begin heading home with warm hugs and goodbyes.
Once the last car pulls away, my three maids emerge to clear dishes and wipe down surfaces.
I sink into my leather armchair, still wearing my designer suit from the party.
Empty champagne glasses and plates of leftover food scatter the dining room.
The cleaning staff moves quietly around me, gathering evidence of celebration.
Through floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch city lights twinkle across Beverly Hills.
I remember Malcolm's animated stories, my mother's proud smile, and Munira's excited dance moves.
My fingers trace the Death Row chain around my neck as I pick up a framed photo from the side table - an old snapshot of The Pack outside that liquor store in South Central.
I drag myself upstairs to my master bedroom, exhausted from the day's festivities.
Peeling off my suit and chain, I slide naked between the silk sheets of my California king bed.
The room is quiet after hours of music and laughter.
My eyelids grow heavy, and I drift off into a deep sleep.
When I wake at 10 AM, thunder rattles my bedroom windows.
Heavy rain drums against the roof of my Beverly Hills mansion.
I stretch and yawn, feeling refreshed after a good night's sleep.
After a hot shower in my marble bathroom, I brush my teeth while studying my reflection in the mirror.
I wrap myself in a plush bathrobe and settle onto my leather couch to watch TV.
I flip through channels until I land on a news segment featuring Tipper Gore, wife of Al Gore.
She's speaking at a press conference, her voice filled with determination as she talks about the need for censorship in music.
She criticizes hip-hop and rock for their explicit content, naming artists like Ice Cube, Tupac, Dr. Dre, LL Cool J, and me, Mohamed Abdi.
She calls our music obscene and demands that it be removed from stores and radio stations.
My blood boils as I listen to her attack our art.
I grab my phone to call Malcolm and discuss our next move against this censorship.
"Look at Me" by Mohamed Abdi from "Married to the Game" is a misogynistic song that degrades women and promotes violence," she claims, her voice filled with indignation.
I pace back and forth in my study, my anger boiling over as I watch Tipper Gore's speech on TV.
She's talking about the need for censorship in music, claiming that hip-hop and rock are corrupting our youth with explicit content.
I storm into Suge Knight's office at Death Row Records, still fuming from Tipper Gore's speech.
"Man, you won't believe what she said," I tell him, recounting the details of her attack on our music.
Suge listens intently, his expression growing darker with each word.
"That bitch is crazy," he mutters when I finish.
"We need to do something about this."
"I know," I agree, pacing back and forth in front of his desk.
"But what?"
Suge leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers together as he thinks.
Suddenly, a smile spreads across his face.
"I've got it," he says, snapping his fingers.
"We'll make a song that celebrates women and all they do for us. We'll show Tipper Gore that we respect them and appreciate their contributions to society."
I nod enthusiastically, loving the idea.
"Yeah, let's do it," I say, already thinking of lyrics in my head.
We spend the morning brainstorming ideas and coming up with a concept for the song.
We decide to call it "Women" and focus on empowering messages that uplift and honor the women in our lives.
Suge calls in Dr. Dre to help produce the track, and we get to work in the studio. As we work on the song, my anger towards Tipper Gore slowly fades away, replaced by a sense of purpose and creativity.
I pour all my energy into writing verses that celebrate women and acknowledge their importance in our lives.
By lunchtime, we have a solid draft of the song and a plan for how to move forward with production.
As we take a break, Suge leans over and says, "You know, this could really change the game for us."
I nod, feeling the weight of his words. "Yeah, it's time we show them what we're really about."
Dr. Dre chimes in, adjusting the levels on the mixing board. "This track's gonna hit different, man. People need to hear this."
I sit in the conference room at Death Row Records, surrounded by Suge and Dr. Dre.
We're watching MTV as they debut the music video for "Women."
The phones ring nonstop, with radio stations calling to request the song.
Suge hands me a copy of Billboard magazine, pointing to where "Women" has reached #1 on the charts.
Then he slides over a check for $4 million, a proud smile on his face.
I deposit the check at the bank while the teller recognizes me from TV interviews defending "Women" against Tipper Gore's attacks.
Outside, female fans approach me, thanking me for creating a song that empowers women.
Back in my car, I check my new account balance: $15 million.
I pull my Porsche into the parking lot of my parents' newly renovated convenience store.
The once-faded sign now shines with fresh paint, reading "Abdi's Convenience Store" in bold letters.
The storefront has been expanded, with large windows revealing a fully stocked interior.
Inside, the shelves are packed with premium products and fresh produce.
My father greets me, beaming with pride as he shows me around the updated store.
He explains how he's implemented a computerized inventory system to track sales and streamline operations.
As we walk through the aisles, he points out new security cameras and improved lighting for better customer safety.
I admire the modernized checkout counters and self-service coffee machines.
My father leads me to the back office, where he shows me the new computer system and explains his plans to expand the business across Los Angeles.
He wants to open more locations in different neighborhoods, creating jobs and opportunities for the community.
I listen intently, impressed by his vision and dedication to growth.
My mother emerges from the office, her face lighting up as she sees me. "Mohamed!" she exclaims, rushing over to hug me tightly.
"How are you doing, my son?"
"I'm good, Mom," I reply, returning her embrace.
"It's great to see you both."
"We're doing well too," she says, stepping back to look at me with pride.
"Your father has been working so hard on this business. We're very proud of him."
"I can see that," I say, nodding towards my father as he works on some paperwork.
"He's always been ambitious."
"Yes," my mother agrees.
"Well, we should get going. We have a new house now, and we want you to see it."
"Sure," I say, following them out of the store.
We drive through an upscale neighborhood until we reach a two-story mansion with a beautifully manicured lawn and sparkling pool in the backyard.
My parents park in front of the house and lead me inside.
We walk through the marble foyer, which opens into a grand living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in plenty of sunlight.
The room is furnished with elegant imported pieces, including plush sofas and a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
There's also a stunning crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the space.
My mother points out various decorative items throughout the room, including intricately carved vases and Islamic artwork on the walls.
We then proceed to the kitchen, which is equipped with state-of-the-art appliances and modern fixtures.
My mother shows me how to use the coffee machine and explains that she's learned to make traditional Somali tea using an electric kettle.
She brews a pot and we sit down at the dining table to enjoy it together.
As we sip our tea, my father joins us and proudly demonstrates the home theater system he's installed in the living room.
He puts on a movie and we watch it together, marveling at the high-quality sound and picture. After finishing our tea, we take a tour of the rest of the house.
We visit my parents' master bedroom, which has an en-suite bathroom and a private balcony overlooking the pool.
The room is tastefully decorated with elegant furnishings and soft lighting.
I notice a collection of family photos displayed on an antique dresser in one corner of the room.
We then proceed to Munira's room, which is decorated with colorful posters and stuffed animals.
She has a desk in the corner where she can do her homework.
Finally, we come to the guest room, which has a comfortable queen-sized bed and its own bathroom.
My father explains that they plan to use this room for visitors from Somalia or other relatives who may come to stay with them.
We return to the living room and sit down on the couch together.
My mother pours us another cup of tea and we chat for a while longer.
After finishing our tea, my father stands up and says, "It's time for me to go back to work."
My mother nods and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before he leaves.
I watch as he walks out the door and closes it behind him.
My mother turns to me and smiles.
"It's nice to have some time alone with you," she says.
"I know you've been busy lately, but I'm glad you could come visit us today." "Me too," I reply, smiling back at her.
"It's great to see you both doing so well."
"Yes," she says, nodding.
"We're very fortunate.
I'm just grateful that your father was able to find a good job and provide for us all these years. I nod in agreement and take another sip of my tea.
As I look around the room, I notice how different it is from our old apartment.
The furniture is nicer, the walls are painted a lighter color, and there are no more cracks in the ceiling.
It feels like a completely different world compared to where we used to live. My mother notices me looking around and says, "We've made a lot of changes since you left. It's been nice having some extra space to spread out."
"Yeah," I say, setting my cup down on the table next to me.
"It looks really good in here. You did a great job decorating."
"Thank you," she replies, blushing slightly.
"I tried my best. But it's not just about looks – it's also about functionality. We wanted to make sure everything was comfortable and convenient for everyone in the house."
"I can see that," I say, glancing over at Munira as she does her homework at the mahogany dining table.
"She seems happy too."
"Yes," my mother agrees, following my gaze.
"She loves her new room and enjoys spending time with her friends at school."
"That's great," I say, taking another sip of my tea.
"It sounds like she's doing well."
"Yes," my mother says, nodding.
"She is. And so are you, from what I hear."
I look up at her, confused.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you're famous now," she replies, smiling.
"You have a record deal and are making music videos. It's amazing to see how far you've come."
I chuckle nervously and set my cup down on the table again.
"Yeah, it's been a wild ride," I admit.
"But I'm just trying to stay focused on my goals and keep working hard."
"That's good," she says, nodding approvingly.
"You should always strive to be your best self. And speaking of being your best self, I wanted to talk to you about something else."
"Okay," I say, leaning back against the couch cushions and crossing my arms over my chest.
"What's up?"
"Well," she begins, hesitating slightly before continuing.
"I know you're busy with your music career right now, but I think it would be a good idea for you to start looking for a wife soon." My eyebrows shoot up in surprise at her suggestion.
"A wife?" I repeat incredulously.
"Mom, I'm only twenty years old! I don't think I'm ready to get married yet."
My mother sighs and shakes her head.
"You're not getting any younger, Mohamed," she reminds me gently.
"And besides, it's not like you need to find someone tomorrow. Just take your time and look around. You never know who might be out there waiting for you."
I shift uncomfortably on the expensive sofa, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the direction of our conversation.
"Mom, I appreciate your concern, but really – I'm just not ready for marriage right now," I insist.
"There are so many other things going on in my life that need attention first."
My mother nods understandingly and takes a sip of her own tea before responding.
"I know it may seem overwhelming at times, but trust me – finding love will make everything else worth it in the end," she assures me sincerely.
"Just remember that life is short, and sometimes we have to take risks if we want to truly live." "I'll keep that in mind," I promise her, forcing a smile onto my face even though inside I feel anything but happy about this topic of discussion.
"Good," she says, setting her cup down on the table in front of her.
"Now, let's talk about something else. Have you thought about having children someday?"
I shrug my shoulders and look away from her for a moment before answering.
"I guess so," I admit.
"It's just not something I've really considered much yet."
"Well, it's definitely something worth thinking about," my mother advises me.
"There's nothing quite like being a parent and watching your child grow up before your eyes."
"I bet," I reply, taking another sip of my tea.
"But right now, I'm just trying to focus on my music and build a successful career."
My mother nods again and smiles at me.
"I understand that," she says.
"Just remember that family is important too. And who knows? Maybe someday you'll meet someone special and decide to settle down."
"Yeah, maybe," I say, standing up from the couch and stretching my arms above my head.
"Anyway, I should probably get going now. It was nice visiting with you today, Mom." "It was nice seeing you too," she says, standing up as well and giving me a quick hug before walking me to the front door.
"Remember what I said about finding love and starting a family," she reminds me one last time as we say our goodbyes.
"I will," I promise her, opening the door and stepping outside into the cool evening air.
As I walk back to my car parked on the street in front of their house, I can't help but think about what my mother said earlier.
I know she means well and wants the best for me, but sometimes her expectations can feel overwhelming at times.
I'm still young and trying to figure out who I am and where I fit into this world.
Getting married or having kids isn't something that's even crossed my mind yet – not when there are so many other things going on in my life right now. As soon as I get home from visiting my parents, I sit down on the couch in the living room with a cup of tea in hand and take a sip before turning on the TV to watch some music videos.
I'm flipping through channels when suddenly an idea pops into my head – maybe it wouldn't hurt to start looking for someone special after all?
After all, life is short, like my mom said earlier today during our conversation about marriage and kids.
And besides, what do I have to lose by putting myself out there?
I pull up to Suge Knight's mansion in my Mercedes, joining the line of luxury cars parked along the circular driveway.
I take a deep breath and check my reflection in the rearview mirror one last time before stepping out onto the pavement.
My new Armani suit feels stiff against my skin, and I adjust the collar and cuffs as I make my way up the steps to the front door.
The butler greets me with a nod and ushers me inside, where the sound of laughter and conversation fills the air.
I recognize some of the familiar faces from Death Row Records – Dr. Dre stands near a crystal chandelier, talking animatedly with Tupac.
Snoop Dogg catches my eye from across the room, giving me a nod of acknowledgement as he sips his drink.
The butler leads us down a hallway lined with expensive artwork and into a massive dining room, where Suge stands at the head of a long mahogany table.
"Ah, Mohamed, good to see you," Suge says, extending a hand as I approach.
"You're doing great work on your new album. I'm loving the direction you're taking it."
"Thanks, Suge," I reply, shaking his hand firmly.
"It's been a lot of hard work, but I think it's going to pay off."
Suge smiles and gestures for me to take a seat next to Dr. Dre.
"Have a drink, relax. We're just getting started here."
I nod and make my way to the table, where a waiter is pouring glasses of champagne for the guests.
I take a seat next to Dr. Dre, who gives me a nod of acknowledgement as he sips his drink.
"So, Mohamed, what do you think of the new tracks?" he asks, leaning in close so we can hear each other over the noise of the party.
"They're sounding good," I reply, taking a sip of my own champagne.
"I like the direction you're heading with this one."
Dr. Dre nods thoughtfully and takes another sip of his drink before responding.
"Yeah, I think we're onto something here. The beats are tight, the rhymes are solid... it's going to be a hit."
I nod in agreement and take another sip of my champagne as Tupac joins us at the table.
He leans back in his chair and looks around at the other guests before speaking up. "You know, Suge has been telling me about some new ideas he has for Death Row," Tupac says, his voice low and serious.
"He wants to start exploring some different genres, see if we can break into some new markets."
I raise an eyebrow at this news and look over at Suge, who is now standing at the head of the table addressing the room.
"Welcome everyone to my home," he says, his voice booming across the space.
"I'm glad you could all make it tonight. As you know, we've been working hard on some new projects here at Death Row Records, and I'm excited to share them with you."
The room falls silent as Suge continues speaking, outlining his plans for the future of Death Row Records.
I listen intently as he talks about expanding our reach and pushing boundaries in the music industry.
It sounds ambitious, but I have no doubt that Suge can make it happen.
As Suge finishes speaking and takes his seat at the table again, I notice Leon Williams sitting across from me looking nervous.
Leon leans forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Mohamed, did you hear about the rumors?"
I furrow my brow, glancing around to make sure no one else is listening. "What rumors?"
Leon's eyes dart to Suge before he answers. "There's talk that Suge's planning something big, something outside of music."