He Forgot The Hands That Held Him — Until He Fell Again

By Emeka Chiaghanam

Gunshots crack through the Las Vegas night on September 7, 1996, in Paradise, Nevada. A black BMW 750iL sedan swerves. Seconds’ later blood soaks into leather seats. And just like that, one of music's most powerful voices falls silent, or does it? That man was Tupac Shakur.

Tupac Shakur Amaru Shakur born ‘Lesane Parish Crooks’ wasn't just a rapper. He was a revolution with a heartbeat, a storm of contradictions that America wasn't ready for but couldn't look away from. He was born to a Black Panther mother and raised in the concrete jungles where dreams often wither, Pac didn't just survive, he roared. His music wasn't background noise; it was foreground truth that grabbed you by the throat and forced you to listen.

I first heard "Dear Mama" as a teenager, hunched over a borrowed CD player. The raw emotion in his voice made me forget to breathe. That was Tupac's gift. He didn't perform songs; he performed surgery on society's soul, cutting open our comfortable lies about race, poverty, and power. Then he showed us the bleeding truth underneath.

Some folks call him the greatest rapper who ever lived. Others say he was a thug who glorified violence. Both miss the point. Tupac was human, brilliantly, messily, completely human in a world that wanted him to be a simple stereotype. He read Shakespeare and got "Thug Life" tattooed across his abdomen. He wrote poetry about roses growing from concrete and songs about shooting enemies. In a culture that loves putting people in boxes, Tupac built his career by smashing those boxes apart.

Tupc was born in East Harlem in 1971, Tupac moved like a nomad through America's toughest neighborhoods, from New York to Baltimore to Oakland. His mother Afeni, a former Black Panther, raised him on revolutionary ideas and fierce love. She named him after Túpac Amaru II, the Peruvian revolutionary who fought against Spanish rule. Fighting was in his blood before he spoke his first word.

I recall one of his immortal statements, "The only thing that can kill me is death, that's the only thing that can ever stop me," he once said. Those words haunt us now.

At the age of 25, Tupac had accomplished more than most artists do in lifetimes. Five albums. Eight films. Hundreds of songs, many released after his death. His voice carried both honey and gravel, speaking to ghetto kids and college students with equal power. He could make you dance, cry, think, and fight, sometimes all in the same track.

When All Eyez On Me was released in 1996, it wasn't just an album. It was a statement. He was fresh out of prison, angry and hungry, Tupac unleashed 27 tracks of pure fire. The first major hip-hop double album didn't just break records, it broke barriers. Songs like "California Love" made parties explode while "Life Goes On" made gangsters cry. Nobody was doing both.

But Tupac wasn't content with music. The camera loved his expressive eyes and magnetic presence. His acting in films like Juice and Poetic Justice revealed layers most rappers couldn't touch. Janet Jackson, his co-star in Poetic Justice, said working with him was "like catching lightning in a bottle." The man contained multitudes.

His feud with The Notorious B.I.G. split hip-hop down the middle, creating the East Coast-West Coast rivalry that defined a generation. What started as friendship collapsed into diss tracks, threats, and ultimately, many believe, murder? The beef wasn't just personal; it became geographical, ideological. Choosing sides wasn't optional for fans. It was mandatory.

"I'm not saying I'm gonna change the world, but I guarantee that I will spark the brain that will change the world," Tupac once said. And he did. Ask Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole, or any rapper who came after. His shadow stretches across decades.

Then came that night in Vegas. September 7, 1996. After watching Mike Tyson demolish Bruce Seldon at the MGM Grand, Tupac and Death Row Records CEO Suge Knight headed to Club 662. They never arrived. A white Cadillac pulled alongside their BMW at a red light. Four bullets tore into Pac's body. Six days later, doctors pronounced him dead.

Or was he?

The conspiracy theories started almost immediately. No autopsy photos leaked. His body was cremated the day after death. The quick cremation raised eyebrows. Tupac had previously used the stage name Makaveli, named after Niccolò Machiavelli, who supposedly faked his death to escape enemies. The album released just months after his death was titled "The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory" with cover art showing Tupac crucified. Was it all planned?

Some swear they've seen him in Cuba, where his godmother Assata Shakur lives in exile. Others point to unreleased songs that seem to reference events happening years after his supposed death. The theories thrive because Tupac himself was larger than life. His death feels inconceivable.

The reality is probably simpler and sadder. A young Black man died violently in America, a story that happens daily without conspiracy or mystery. The murder remains officially unsolved, though most investigators believe Orlando Anderson, a Crips gang member who Tupac had beaten hours earlier, pulled the trigger. Anderson was killed in an unrelated shooting two years later, taking any confession to the grave.

What's undeniable is Tupac's cultural impact. Before him, rappers weren't expected to tackle philosophy or politics with such depth. He spoke about Black Panthers and systemic racism when most charts were dominated by party anthems. He wrote "Keep Ya Head Up," a song championing Black women's strength, then followed it with tracks glorifying the player lifestyle. The contradictions weren't flaws, they were his essence.

In death, Tupac sells more records than most living artists. Seven posthumous albums reached multi-platinum status. His estate earns millions yearly. The famous Coachella hologram performance in 2012 showed how technology might keep performers immortal. Tupac's music videos on YouTube have billions of views from fans who weren't born when he died.

But numbers don't capture his significance. When Colin Kaepernick took a knee or Black Lives Matter protesters marched, Tupac's spirit marched with them. His critiques of police brutality in songs like "Changes" sound eerily current. "It's time for us as a people to start making some changes," he rapped in 1992. We're still trying.

Academic courses study his lyrics at universities worldwide. The Vatican included "Changes" on its official playlist. His writings are published in poetry collections. The Tupac Amaru Shakur Centre for the Arts in Georgia helps underprivileged youth find creative outlets, continuing work Tupac himself planned before his death.

Dr. Michael Eric Dyson, who teaches a course on Tupac at Georgetown University, calls him "a hip-hop Picasso, an artist so profound and prolific that we're still unpacking his work decades later." Each generation discovers him anew, finding fresh relevance in words written in the 1990s.

Perhaps the greatest testimony of Tupac's legacy is how many modern artists still sample his voice, reference his lines, or straight-up imitate his style. When Kendrick Lamar ended his album "To Pimp A Butterfly" with an imagined conversation with Tupac, it wasn't gimmicky. It was acknowledging a spiritual mentor.

The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame inducted him in 2017, the first solo rapper to receive the honour. His acceptance speech was delivered by his friend Snoop Dogg, who called him "the greatest rapper of all time." The standing ovation lasted minutes.

So who was Tupac Shakur? A poet, an actor, a revolutionary, a contradiction. A man who could write with tenderness about his mother then threaten rivals with graphic violence on the next track. A visionary who predicted his own early death yet lived each day like immortality was guaranteed.

Some say the world wasn't ready for Tupac. Maybe it still isn't. His unfiltered truth about America's racial wounds makes many uncomfortable. His refusal to choose between intellectual and street credibility challenged how we categorize Black men. He was both the rose and the concrete, both the bullet and the target.

Is Tupac dead? His body may be ash, but his voice still booms from speakers worldwide. His influence shapes artists who never met him. His words still comfort those who feel unheard.

As he once wrote: "I'm not saying I'm gonna live forever. But my music will." On that promise, at least, Tupac Shakur never lied.