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MidReal Story
My Name Is Muhammad Abdi
Scenario:this story is a story in the year of 1991 in los angeles about sex and nudity and strippers and prostitutes and seduction and gold diggers and cheating and adultery and ghetto and and politics and prison and violence and 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 i never knew my real father but my stepfather marcus jackson he has dark skin and he is 38 years old and he is a activist and former black panther member and my mother layla abdi she is a activist and former black panther leader and she is 37 years old and she is a stay at home mother 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 and my aunt ayan who is 40 years old and my mothers sister is a activist and former black panther member and she is in cuba now after being treated badly by racist police so she shot police officers and fled to cuba to escape persecution and she also commited bank robberies, kidnapping, and attempted murder but our family has her back
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Mohamed Abdi
He is a 20yearold aspiring rapper from the Los Angeles ghetto. He is passionate, determined, and rebellious. Mohamed grew up in a troubled environment with a absent father and a volatile stepfather, Marcus Jackson. He formed close bonds with his friends Malcolm, Marcus, and Devon. Despite facing poverty and gang activity, Mohamed aims to become a famous rapper like Dr. Dre. He struggles with relationships, including a potential romance with his 14yearold sister, Munira, which is forbidden due to their shared family history.
Ayan
She is Mohamed's 40yearold aunt and a former bank robber fleeing persecution in Cuba. She is adventurous, daring, and outspoken. Ayan’s fiery personality shines through as she navigates her life postCuba with defiance. Her history with racism and police targeting led her to Cuba seeking refuge and freedom. Ayan’s story reflects the challenges faced by many African Americans and their resilience against systemic oppression as she continues to engage with politics and social activism.
Devon Richards
He is one of Mohamed's friends from their school days since 1989 . He is impulsive, brash, and loyal . Devon has been involved in several scrapes with rival gangs , which brings notoriety but also danger . His reckless nature sometimes puts himself and others at risk . Despite this , he remains an integral part of Mohamed’s circle , contributing humor and intensity to their friendship dynamics .
It was the year 1991, and I was living in South Central Los Angeles.
I had just turned 20 years old, and my life was looking good.
I had my mother, Layla Abdi, who was 37 years old, and she was a former Black Panther leader.
She was a very strong-willed woman and smart.
My mother had me when she was 23 years old.
She had me with some dude who didn’t want to take care of me.
So she left him and went to live with my grandparents.
When she got there, they didn’t want me to be there, so they kicked her out.
She was in the streets with no money and no place to live.
She met my stepfather, Marcus Jackson.
He was a former Black Panther member and activist.
He had dark skin and was 38 years old.
He was very handsome and charismatic.
He was a very good man and took care of my mother and me.
He was also a Black Panther leader.
He was always there for us.
He would take me to the park and play catch with me.
He would take me to the store and buy me candy.
He was like a real father to me.
I loved him very much, and I still do.
I was hanging out with my homies Malcolm, Devon, and Marcus.
We were all sitting on some old couches that were outside.
We would hang out there every day.
We were in our usual hangout spot, which was in South Central.
We were all talking about what we wanted to do with our lives.
Malcolm said he wanted to make music and be a music producer.
Devon said he wanted to be a street hustler and make lots of money.
Marcus said he wanted to be an activist like his father and help the community.
I said I wanted to be a rapper and make music that would change the world.
We were all sitting in a room that was set up like a studio.
It was a rundown room with cheap equipment and empty bottles of liquor everywhere.
Malcolm, Devon, and Marcus were passing around a bottle of cheap liquor.
I got up from the couch and went into the booth.
I put on my headphones and started rapping.
I was rapping my debut gangsta rap song called "Headshot."
I was rapping about racist cops, the ghetto, and the gang violence that was going on in South Central.
I was rapping about how I felt about the system and how it was treating us.
I was rapping about how I wanted to make a change and how I wanted to be a voice for my community.
After I finished rapping, I stepped out of the booth.
Malcolm started mixing the track.
When he finished, he burned it onto a CD.
After he finished, we all listened to the track.
We were all impressed with how it sounded.
I told them that I was going to send it to some record labels.
Malcolm said that he knew a dude who knew someone at Interscope Records.
He said that he would give him the CD and see if they wanted to sign me.
We all agreed that it was a good idea.
So I gave Malcolm the CD and told him to give it to his friend.
A few days later, Malcolm called me and told me that Interscope wanted to sign me for $10,000.
I was shocked and excited.
I told him that I would be right there.
When I got there, Malcolm, Devon, and Marcus were waiting for me outside the studio.
They were all excited and congratulating me on getting signed.
I thanked them and told them that I couldn’t have done it without them. We all hugged each other and celebrated our success.
We decided to go to Interscope Records in Los Angeles to sign the contract.
We packed into Marcus’s old car and headed out on the long drive.
We were all excited and nervous about what was going to happen next.
We drove through the streets of South Central, passing by familiar landmarks like the liquor store and the corner where we used to hang out.
As we drove, we talked about what we were going to do with our lives now that I had gotten signed.
Malcolm said that he was going to keep making music and try to get signed too.
Devon said that he was going to keep hustling and try to make a name for himself in the streets.
Marcus said that he was going to keep fighting for justice and equality in our community. I said that I was going to make music that would change the world and help my community.
After a few hours of driving, we finally arrived at Interscope Records in Los Angeles.
The building was sleek and modern, with large windows and a shiny metal exterior.
We parked in front of the building and stepped out of the car.
The sun was shining brightly overhead, casting a warm glow over everything.
We walked up to the front door of the building and pushed it open.
Inside, we found ourselves in a large lobby with a high ceiling and marble floors.
The walls were made of glass, allowing us to see out into the parking lot and the surrounding city.
The room was filled with expensive-looking furniture and artwork.
There was a large reception desk at the far end of the lobby, where a woman in a business suit sat typing on her computer.
She looked up as we approached.
"Can I help you?"
she asked, eyeing us suspiciously.
We were all wearing our usual clothes - baggy jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers.
Our clothes were worn and faded from years of wear and tear.
We looked out of place in this fancy building, surrounded by people in suits and ties.
My boys were all wearing neck tattoos, which were very rare back then.
I cleared my throat and stepped forward.
"I’m Mohamed Abdi," I said.
"I have an appointment about a record deal."
The woman looked at me for a moment, then turned back to her computer.
She typed something quickly, then picked up her phone and dialed a number. "Yes, I have Mohamed Abdi here to see you," she said into the phone.
"He says he has an appointment about a record deal."
She listened for a moment, then hung up the phone and turned back to us.
"Follow me," she said, standing up from her desk.
We followed her as she walked across the lobby and down a hallway lined with offices.
We passed by several people who looked at us curiously as we walked by.
The woman stopped in front of a large mahogany door marked "Board Room."
She opened the door and gestured for us to enter.
I stepped into the room, my heart pounding against my chest.
There were five white executives sitting in leather chairs around a large table.
They all looked up as we entered the room.
The room was large and luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of downtown LA.
The walls were adorned with expensive artwork, and there was a large crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
The air was thick with the scent of cologne and power.
Malcolm nudged me forward, and I took a deep breath and walked to the head of the table.
My Timberlands squeaked against the polished floor as I moved.
I cleared my throat and spoke in a steady voice.
"I’m Mohamed Abdi."
The main executive, a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses, looked at me for a moment before gesturing to an empty chair at the table.
"Please, have a seat," he said.
The leather chair creaked as I settled into it, gripping the armrests to steady my trembling hands.
The executive smiled at me and introduced himself as Mr. Thompson.
He slid a thick contract across the table to me, and I picked it up, pretending to scan the dense legal text.
Malcolm stood behind me, his presence reassuring.
Mr. Thompson began to explain the terms of the deal.
"We’re offering you a $10,000 advance," he said.
"You’ll be required to produce three albums for us, and you’ll be expected to tour extensively to promote them."
I nodded, trying to keep my cool.
I had never been in a situation like this before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect.
Mr. Thompson continued talking, explaining the details of the contract and what was expected of me.
I listened intently, trying to absorb everything he was saying.
As he spoke, I couldn’t help but notice the other executives whispering and exchanging glances with each other.
I wondered what they were talking about, but I pushed the thought aside and focused on Mr. Thompson’s words. After a few minutes, Mr. Thompson finished explaining the terms of the contract.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at me expectantly.
"So, what do you think?" he asked.
I hesitated for a moment before speaking.
"I think it sounds like a good deal," I said finally.
Mr. Thompson smiled and nodded.
"Great," he said.
"Now all we need is your signature."
He pointed to the signature line at the bottom of the contract with his gold pen.
I took a deep breath and reached for the pen, my hand shaking slightly as I signed my name on the dotted line.
As soon as I finished signing, Mr. Thompson stood up from his chair and extended his hand to me.
"Welcome to Interscope Records," he said with a smile.
I shook his hand firmly, trying to hide my excitement.
"Thank you," I said gratefully.
Mr. Thompson gestured to one of his assistants, who stepped forward with a briefcase full of money in his hand. "Here’s your advance," Mr. Thompson said with a smile.
I took the briefcase from the assistant and opened it up, revealing stacks of crisp $100 bills inside.
My eyes widened as I stared at all that money - it was more than I had ever seen in my life!
Gripping the briefcase handle tight, I stood and extended my hand to Mr. Thompson one last time.
His handshake was firm, his palm cool and businesslike.
"Remember, we expect your first album within six months," he reminded me.
I nodded, my throat dry.
Malcolm clapped me on the shoulder as the other executives began gathering their papers and filing out of the room.
They were already moving on to their next meeting, their minds shifting away from us like a flicked switch.
My palm was sweaty against the smooth leather of the briefcase as we headed for the door.
In the hallway, the same receptionist who'd eyed us suspiciously earlier now forced a polite smile as we passed her desk.
I held my head high, briefcase swinging at my side, as we strode toward the elevator.
Standing in the elevator with Malcolm, I pulled out my notebook from my backpack and flipped it open.
I stepped into the elevator, clutching the briefcase tightly in my hand.
The doors closed behind us with a soft whoosh, and I pressed the button for the lobby.
As we descended, I pulled out my notebook and began jotting down ideas for my debut album.
"Monster" would be a 15-track gangsta rap album, with explicit lyrics that told the story of life on the streets of LA.
The first track would be titled "Gangsta Shit," with lyrics that spoke to the harsh realities of gang life.
The second track would be "Street Life," a gritty portrayal of the struggles faced by young people growing up in poverty.
As the elevator reached the lobby, I tucked my notebook back into my backpack and stepped out into the bright sunlight.
Malcolm followed closely behind me, his eyes scanning the crowded street as we made our way to our next destination. We walked for a few blocks before arriving at a small studio tucked away in a quiet alley.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside, greeted by the familiar smell of stale air and worn equipment.
Malcolm followed me in, his eyes adjusting slowly to the dim lighting.
We were met by a white producer who introduced himself as John.
He was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a scruffy beard, dressed in a faded t-shirt and ripped jeans.
He shook my hand firmly and gestured for me to take a seat at the mixing console.
"So, what kind of music are you looking to make?" he asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
I took a deep breath and launched into my pitch, explaining my vision for "Monster" and the themes I wanted to explore through my music. John listened intently, nodding along as I spoke.
When I finished, he smiled and nodded thoughtfully.
"I think we can make something really special here," he said.
"Let's get started."
We spent the next few hours working on "Monster," with John helping me refine my lyrics and perfect my delivery.
Malcolm sat on a couch in the corner of the room, watching intently as we worked together.
Marcus and Devon had come with us too, but they were busy playing video games on their phones while sitting on another couch across from Malcolm's couch.
As we worked, John played around with different beats and melodies, trying to find the right fit for each track.
By the time we finished up, I was exhausted but exhilarated by what we'd accomplished.
I sat in John's cramped studio control room, watching as he pressed play on the final master of "Monster."
The fifteen tracks blasted through the speakers - my raw verses about street life and survival mixed with heavy bass and sharp beats.
Malcolm nodded his head along to the music, while Devon and Marcus played dice in the corner.
When the album finished playing, John handed me a plastic case containing the master tape.
"This is it," he said with a smile.
"It's ready for pressing."
I took the case from him and examined it carefully.
"Monster" was emblazoned across the cover in bold black letters, with a yellow background and a silhouette of a monster lurking in the shadows.
I walked into the record store with Malcolm, Devon, and Marcus by my side.
The first thing I noticed was the large display of "Monster" albums in the front window.
The black and yellow cover stood out against the other CDs on display, and I could see people walking by on the street stopping to look at it.
We walked inside and approached the counter, where a man with a long white beard and thick glasses looked up at us from behind the register.
He smiled when he saw us, and held up a copy of "Monster."
"Congratulations," he said.
"This is selling fast. We can't keep it in stock."
I grinned, feeling a surge of excitement.
"Really?" "Yes," he replied.
"We've had people coming in all day asking for it. You must be famous."
I laughed, feeling like I was on top of the world.
We browsed around the store for a while, looking at the other CDs on display.
As we walked through the aisles, I noticed that people were picking up copies of "Monster" and examining them closely.
Some of them looked up at me and nodded in recognition, while others just stared at me curiously.
After a few minutes, we made our way back to the counter and purchased a few copies of "Monster."
As we were leaving, I saw a Billboard magazine on a shelf near the door.
I picked it up and flipped through it until I found the charts section.
There, at number 18 on the Billboard 200 chart, was "Monster."
I couldn't believe it - my album was already climbing the charts!
As I walked out of the store with Malcolm, Devon, and Marcus by my side, I felt like I was on top of the world. We got back to our apartment and I pulled out the check from Interscope Records that had arrived earlier that day.
It was for $3,000 - not as much as I had expected, but still more money than I had ever seen before.
I handed it to Malcolm and he looked at it carefully before putting it in his pocket.
"That's good," he said.
"We can use this to buy some new equipment for our studio."
I nodded in agreement, feeling excited about what we could accomplish with this money.
Malcolm pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number before handing it to me.
"Hello?"
I said, my voice shaking slightly.
"Hi, this is James Walton. I heard about your album and I'm interested in talking to you about a movie role."
I looked at Malcolm, who was watching me with a curious expression on his face.
"A movie role?" "Yes," he replied.
"I'm a director and I think you would be perfect for my next project. Can we meet somewhere to talk about it?"
I hesitated for a moment before agreeing to meet him at a diner on Sunset Boulevard.
Malcolm and I walked into the diner and took a booth in the back.
The place was dimly lit, with worn vinyl seats and sticky tabletops.
We ordered some coffee and sat waiting for James Walton to arrive.
A few minutes later, a man in an expensive suit walked into the diner and scanned the room until he saw us.
He smiled and came over to our booth, extending his hand to me.
"Hi, I'm James Walton," he said.
"It's nice to meet you."
I shook his hand and introduced myself and Malcolm.
He sat down across from us and pulled out a thick script from his briefcase.
"This is my latest project," he explained.
"It's called 'Power' and it's about a young drug dealer who rises to power in Los Angeles." He handed me the script and I flipped through it quickly, scanning the pages.
It was a gritty crime thriller that followed the story of Marcel Jackson, a ruthless drug dealer who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
As I read through the script, I noticed that Marcel had a few close friends who were loyal to him until he betrayed them for power.
I glanced up at Malcolm, who was watching me with interest as I read through the script.
"So what do you think?" asked James Walton as I finished reading the last page of the script.
"It's really good," I replied honestly.
"I love the characters and the plot is engaging."
"Great," he said with a smile.
"I think you would be perfect for the lead role. Would you be interested?"
I looked at Malcolm, who nodded enthusiastically. "Yes," I said finally.
"I would love to play Marcel Jackson."
James Walton grinned and reached into his pocket for a pen.
"Excellent," he said as he pulled out a contract from his briefcase and slid it across the table to me.
"All you have to do is sign this contract and we can start filming next week."
I gripped the pen tightly in my hand, studying the dense legal text one last time before signing my name on the dotted line.
Malcolm leaned over my shoulder, nodding encouragingly as I read through the contract.
Director Walton slid a thick production schedule across the table, outlining six months of filming that would begin on Monday.
My hand trembled slightly as I wrote "Mohamed Abdi" in careful letters at the bottom of the page.
The waitress came by to refill our coffee cups, her eyes lingering curiously on the stack of papers between us.
When I finished signing, Walton tucked the contract into his leather briefcase and handed me a small advance check.
"Welcome to the team," he said with a smile, shaking my hand firmly.
The final scene of "Power" played on the screen in front of us, the sound of gunfire and screams filling the darkened cinema.
Malcolm shifted in his seat next to me, his eyes fixed intently on the movie.
The credits rolled as the scene faded to black, and suddenly the harsh fluorescent lights flickered on overhead.
The packed theater was filled with industry executives, critics, and fans, all eager to see the highly anticipated film.
Leon leaned over from the row behind us, squeezing my shoulder in approval.
"You did great, Mo," he whispered.
As we filed out of the theater into the lobby, I paused beneath the towering movie poster showing my scowling face gripping a chrome pistol.
The tagline "Rise to Power" was emblazoned in bold letters above my head. The crowd surged forward as we made our way through the lobby, camera flashes bursting like fireworks in the dimly lit space.
I stepped up to the podium at the front of the room, adjusting the microphone stand to fit my height.
I gripped the edges of the podium, scanning the sea of expectant faces before me.
The room was filled with industry executives, critics, and members of the cast and crew.
The bright camera flashes made me squint as I leaned into the microphone.
"Hello everyone," I began, my voice coming out surprisingly steady.
"I would like to thank Director Walton for giving me this incredible opportunity. And to Malcolm, my manager and friend, for always having my back."
I paused for a moment, surveying the crowd before continuing.
"To the entire cast and crew of 'Power,' thank you for your tireless efforts in bringing this film to life. And to my fans, without your support none of this would be possible."
I cleared my throat, glancing down at the speech I had rehearsed in front of the mirror that morning.
"I also want to thank my mother Layla, who instilled in me a love of music and performance from a young age," I said, my voice catching slightly.
I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Growing up in South Central Los Angeles was not easy," I began.
"But it was there that I discovered my passion for music and acting. And it was there that I learned the importance of perseverance and determination."
The next day, I walked into the lobby of Interscope Records, my new gold chains glinting in the sunlight that streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I had just gotten a nose piercing and a few rings to add to my collection.
The waiting room was sleek and modern, with a plush couch and chairs arranged around a glass coffee table.
I sat down on the couch and picked up a magazine from the table, flipping through the glossy pages.
As I turned the page, I saw a familiar face staring back at me - Zoe Williams, my childhood and high school best friend.
She was featured as one of the rising stars in the new film "Set It Off," a gritty black drama about four women who turn to crime to escape their desperate circumstances.
I smiled as I read through the article, proud of how far Zoe had come.
We had grown up together in the same neighborhood, bonding over our shared love of music and acting.
After high school, she had moved to Los Angeles to pursue her dreams, just like me. The article described Zoe's powerful performance as Cleo, one of the main characters in the film.
I couldn't wait to see it for myself and cheer her on from the audience.
As I set the magazine back down on the table, my name was called by one of the receptionists.