A Reflection on Legacy and Responsibility
When I first crossed paths with rapper 50 Cent, it wasn’t out of some grand design or plan. It just happened by default—through the connection of being managed by the same team. I had my own book deal, maturing with one publishing company, and at the same time, G-Unit Books was being launched. I can remember Wesley Snipes had started pushing the Urban Lit envelope, but that fell flat; 50 Cent tossed his sauce on the initiative and so G-UNIT BOOKS was born.
Naturally, being recognized as “The King of Urban Lit,” with cover stories, TV news features, and most importantly, the critics of book writing and publishing (The Library Journal & Publisher’s Weekly), all singing 5-star praises, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be recognized by this collective of a blooming hip hop legend taking the steering wheel.
Meanwhile, before, during, and after my contract signings, Violator Entertainment was a powerhouse. Chris Lighty, Mona Scott-Young, and Laurie Dobbins ran that machine, shaping some of the most iconic careers in hip hop. While Chris and Mona were the masterminds behind the vision, I watched quietly as Laurie negotiated, quarterbacked, and blocked. She was the glue that held everything together, making sure the machine ran efficiently. Eventually, Mona Scott-Young went off to do her own thing, taking some of the talent with her. But regardless of who left and who stayed, despite the news of Chris committing suicide, Violator was home to me, and the connections that came with that label felt familial. Shout out to AB Butler, who was instrumental in Chris giving the nod to bringing me aboard the Violator Mega-yacht. Because, being in that circle made me feel wanted, respected, and acknowledged all at once. Here I had worldwide media exposure on one side and on the other, this was one of hip hop’s first powerhouses next to Death Row, Cash Money, and yeah, the now pitiful Bad Boy brand. But, damn, being brought into this equation, I didn’t get that much love in school, in the military, in prison, or even from my own fucking family. But here I was, with access on steroids, bumping fists with some of the biggest names in the game. The office was a revolving door of artists, and I was lucky enough to be a fly on the wall during some of the most intimate behind-the-scenes moments.
I remember being on set behind the scenes at certain music videos for rehearsals. Specifically, I recall Ulysses Terrero and Jessy Terrero, a duo of Dominican-American film and music video directors known for extensive work with 50 Cent, including songs like “Wanksta,” “Many Men (Wish Death),” and “Candy Shop.” I watched filming, whether it was on location, or the casual activities and chats in the office, and even the time when 50 let me into the clothing side of his office. I had free rein, which resulted in me walking out with a few hefty bags of gear—was that too much? LOL. While the King of Hip Hop walked me from one office to the next, I mentioned my book, The Last Kingpin, and without even asking me about the story, as we walked through the hallway, he raised his hand up like he was bidding at an auction, and said, “I wanna buy that!” Indeed, there was something about that access that felt important. Fans would line up outside for book signings, and I would find myself right behind the scenes, in private rooms with his security and the management team. I was in the midst of something big, a world that felt larger than life, like I was part of some presidential entourage as 50’s cavalcade rumbled through Manhattan. I remember one particular night when he did five boroughs in one evening. Five stages, five clubs. We rushed in, performed, and then back out onto the next venue, where the crowd was already established and waiting. The hysteria, the fanatics, and everyone bowing to the King—50. His concerts sometimes felt like a ticking time bomb—thugs, and the women who loved them, mixed with potential chaos, and the constant possibility that “something could pop off at any moment.” The energy in the room was always electric, but more like borderline electrocution. And through all of it, I was just the writer, a silent observer who had a front-row seat to it all. Even now, as I re-live these experiences, my heart pounds like it’s starring in a kung fu movie. The 50 Cent effect… the adrenaline was real.
I remember getting a call from Robert Greene, the author of The 48 Laws of Power, The 48 Laws of Seduction, and The 50th Law that he co-wrote with 50 Cent. In writing The 50th Law, Robert called me for my two cents, my perspective as it relates to 50 Cent, and how I imagined his 50th law of power. Imagine that—New York Times best-selling author, calling me, the lesser-known urban lit novelist, for research.
Looking back, it’s easy to see why people still reach out to me for advice on writing, marketing, and storytelling. I’ve been there, and I’ve lived it. But with all that pleasure of witnessing the rise of legends came pain—pain that I’ve only come to understand as I’ve grown older. At 60, I have a different perspective on life, relationships, and, most importantly, how we treat one another. I’ve recently taken on a project that engages the discussion of violence in hip hop, and specifically, we can’t sidestep how we treat Black women.
As someone who’s seen firsthand the struggles of Black women, I can’t stay silent when I see disrespect toward them. The Black woman has been the pillar of our communities for centuries—enduring suffering, pain, and injustice, often in silence. From slavery to modern-day struggles, Black women have always carried the weight of the world on their shoulders. They’ve fought for their families, their voices, their rights, and their bodies used by their masters—and yet, they continue to be disregarded and mistreated.
I’m particularly disheartened when I see figures like 50 Cent—whom I worked with closely and had a lot of fun with—not using his pulpit to amplify Black women. His comments, jokes, and public stances often seem flippant, like he’s forgotten the importance of lifting up the very women who supported him and so many others. It’s hurtful to see him mock or degrade women who have already endured so much, whether it’s women like Vivica Fox, who’s faced unimaginable struggles. And there are at least two other occasions in 2023 during his final lap tour where he threw a microphone and it hit a woman in the head. Then there was a situation in 2017, also at a concert, where a female grabbed his hand, pulled him off balance, and his reaction was to strike her in the chest and appease her quickly by inviting her on stage to dance. There was one other occasion in 2005 when 50 Cent was accused of punching a woman in the face; he later accepted a plea deal, received a two-year probation, and was required to attend anger management counseling. Look, these concerts can be chaotic, so I understand, and most likely the court in the law understands as well. I don’t see 50 Cent out here being disgusting on Diddy-levels. I don’t see him out here abusing women on Chris Brown-levels.
Now maybe I’m looking too close at this colt and these individual individuals who are a part of it, but I’m the one who can, and so therefore I do.
50 Cent has a pulpit and a voice, and when he speaks, whatever he says is amplified. And so, it’s concerning when I think about the impact he has on the wider community—people imitate what they see, they repeat what they hear, and when someone in his position disrespects Black women, it sends a message that it’s okay to do so.
One of the most recent viral situations I witnessed involved Vivica Fox, who apparently got body enhancements, and 50 Cent leveled his comments in on the action. This was the perfect opportunity for 50 Cent to rise above the negativity and say something super positive. I mean, I’m not a fan of the BBL and the enhancements that women do to their bodies, and I too disagree that she needed any work on her body… but who am I? I don’t have the platform 50 Cent has. And I see a lot of us in the world of social media are grabbing that low-hanging fruit of ridicule, and it’s 50 Cent who could’ve stepped in to lift Vivica Fox up in a way that would have earned her tremendous positive amplification. But instead, it’s just more conversation that’s going nowhere.
We’ve come so far from the days of Violator, and while I still hold a deep love and respect for many of the artists involved—Busta Rhymes, LL Cool J, Missy Elliott, and of course, 50 Cent—I can’t sit by while someone in that circle perpetuates behavior that harms our community. Chris Lighty isn’t here to speak on it anymore, but if he were, I believe he’d be taking us higher, pushing us to be better. We need to do better. We need to lift up our queens, not tear them down.
Look, and this is to you, Curtis Jackson aka “50,” I don’t know how I got into all this hip-hop-shit, with all of the violence and mayhem, with all the rumors and infighting surrounding the genre and all of the wayward boys behaving badly that I have come to deal with in some way, shape, or form. But to you, my brother, 50, you’ve built an empire, but let’s not forget the people who helped you get there—the Black women who’ve always been there, silently carrying the load. We have to protect and uplift them, not use them for clout or jokes. As someone who’s had a front-row seat to this industry, I’m asking you to do better, for the culture, for the legacy, and for the Black women who have stood by us through it all. That’s all.
