He’d Be 54 Today: Tupac, the Prophet Who Spoke to the People

I’m going to keep it real—it’s still surreal.

Tupac Amaru Shakur would’ve been 54 years old today.

And that sentence right there?

It doesn’t even sound real. Because, truth be told, Pac didn’t just live—he exploded. On wax. On-screen. On our consciousness.

And the fact that we lost him at just 25 years old?

That’s not just sad.

That’s criminal.

I was just a kid when the East Coast vs. West Coast beef dominated the news. Pac gets shot the first time. Survives. Then Vegas happens—and the culture hasn’t been the same since.

The most powerful voice in rap silenced, not by age or irrelevance, but by violence. Over nonsense. Over ego. Over pride.

And yet, Pac never truly left. His music still speaks. His interviews still circulate. His message still moves. If that isn’t immortality, what is?

Let’s be honest about something: Tupac wasn’t just a rapper. He was a movement. He was poetry and pain.

Fire and freedom. He was a street prophet dressed in bandanas and Timberlands, unafraid to call America out—even if it meant becoming a target.

You think it’s a coincidence that “Dear Mama” is archived in the Library of Congress? That isn’t just a song. That’s Black America’s lullaby. That’s every boy from the block who watched their mama turn miracles out of food stamps and stress.

Pac gave us a voice when nobody else was listening.

He stood up for Black men but didn’t forget Black women. He rapped about pain but didn’t glamorize it. He spit revolutionary bars and radio hits. “Keep Ya Head Up.” “Me Against the World.” “Brenda’s Got a Baby.” 

Pac wasn’t chasing clout—he was chasing change.

And now, all these years later, the accolades still roll in. Diamond plaques. Platinum posthumous albums. A star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. A place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. 

And for the record, that wasn’t just music. That was impact. Cultural permanence. Soul-deep storytelling.

Listen, Biggie may be my personal GOAT, and I’ll stand on that hill proudly. But if you told me Pac was yours? I’d dap you up and say, “Respect.”

Because at the end of the day, Pac and Biggie are yin and yang. Malcolm and Martin. Kobe and Shaq. MJ and Prince. You don’t have to pick one to appreciate both.

So today, on what would’ve been his 54th birthday, I’m raising a glass—not just to Pac the rapper, but to Pac the revolutionary, the storyteller, the flawed human who dared to be vulnerable, powerful, brilliant, and Black—all at once.

He didn’t just spit bars—he spit truth.

Rest in power, Tupac.

You were here for 25 years.

But your impact?

Eternal.