I followed the changes I’d made to my body by working to strengthen my mind. I was devouring books. A lot of self-help, inspirational stuff. Tony Robbins. Deepak Chopra. Malcolm Gladwell. James Allen. The biographies of Pimp C. and Jimi Hendrix. Mike Tyson’s autobiography.
I got an MP3 player from the prison commissary and started downloading instrumentals from the BOP’s music server. Then I got back to writing raps, something I hadn’t done much of since my incarceration. I’d been too jaded. Resentful. Mad at the industry. Mad at the world. Mad at every person I could point my finger at and blame my misfortunes on. For so long I’d felt like I’d been dealt a bad hand.
But prison is a humbling experience. It was hell in there and over time that made me start to appreciate all my blessings on the outside. I had a damn good life waiting for me.
I had a career that people still cared about, maybe now more than ever before. And I had so many things I still wanted to do. I wanted a platinum record. I wanted to tour the world. I wanted to direct and act in more movies. I wanted to have my own clothing line. I wanted to discover and groom more talent and become the next Berry Gordy. It wasn’t too late. And all of that was still attainable. It was all within reach.
I had Keyshia, my first real love. The first woman I ever wanted to bring to a red carpet and let the world know this was my lady. Not just “This is Gucci’s girl and she’s pretty” but as my partner, my equal. She held me down the whole time I was locked up and showed me what it means to have somebody you can truly count on. I wanted to be able to return the favor.
I had Bam, my little boy. He needed me. Before I got sent to Indiana he came to see me in Lovejoy and that visit was not easy. I could see him trying to make sense of why there was glass between us, why we were talking through a phone, why his daddy couldn’t have his hands on him. He was too young to understand it, but he knew it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I can’t get taken away from them again.
What good is fame if I can’t enjoy it? What good is money if I can’t spend it? How long will Keyshia stick around if I keep going back to jail? Or if I’m so gone off the lean I’m having seizures? Or if I’m taking chances that could end with me getting shot up and paralyzed? Or killed?
I can’t put myself through this shit anymore.
For all the promising things I had waiting for me outside this prison there was just as much danger waiting if I wasn’t on point. I wasn’t invincible. I was hearing about other artists overdosing on drugs. I was hearing about Bankroll Fresh and Chinx Drugz and Doe B, young niggas who were on their way to making it and getting killed in some street shit. Beasley, who’d helped me set up my studio and was like a sister to me, had gotten shot and killed outside of her restaurant right on Bouldercrest in front of her kids.
Unlike a lot of the guys in this place, I was getting another chance. My last one. I couldn’t drop the ball again. I needed to do more than pray. I needed to make better decisions.
?
On the morning of July 12, 2015, I walked into the common room where a bunch of inmates were gathered around the TV. They seemed excited. Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán, the head of Mexico’s notorious Sinaloa cartel, had broken out again. This guy was a damn escape artist. His partners dug a mile-long tunnel that went under the prison and up to his cell. All Chapo had to do was go down the hole in his shower stall. A dirt bike was at the bottom, waiting for him. He did it again. Unbelievable. Legendary.
Now I was excited. Chapo was my guy. I’d done a song in his tribute years back. I’d always had an interest in the stories of the narco kingpins, just as a fan of history. Chapo, Escobar, Griselda Blanco, the Félix Brothers. I fucked with all of ’em.
My mind was off to the races. What move could I pull with this news? I’d already used my ten minutes of phone time that morning, but maybe tomorrow I could do an “El Chapo” freestyle on the phone and have Sean record it on the other end. Or maybe he could just put some old songs together, get a dope cover made, and we could drop an El Chapo mixtape. At the very least my Twitter should have something to say about this.
Later in the day I was typing away on CorrLinks, the Bureau of Prison’s e-mail system for inmates. I’d spent all day thinking up ideas for the El Chapo mixtape and we needed to move on it ASAP before someone else did. Halfway through writing that e-mail I stopped.
I wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. I’d spoken to my lawyer a few days earlier. He was in the middle of negotiating with the BOP to get my release date sorted out. We were aiming for an early release and for me to serve the end of my sentence on house arrest in Georgia. Maybe glorifying El Chapo’s escape from behind bars wasn’t going to help my case there. Maybe this just wasn’t the best idea after all.
I logged out of CorrLinks and went back up to my cell so I could change into my exercise clothes. I had a workout class that was starting up shortly. I wanted to be ready for it.
?
In February 2016 we got everything sorted out with the BOP. For a while my release date had been listed as March 2017, because they weren’t giving me credit for time served prior to my sentencing. I knew eventually we’d get that fixed.
My new release date was September 20, 2016, but I would get to come home in May and serve the last four months on house arrest. Just three more months.
I couldn’t wait to get home. To see Keyshia. To see Bam. To see my brother. Mother dearest. The rest of my family and my close partners.
I couldn’t wait to get back to work. With the help of Todd I’d patched things up with Atlantic and they were ready to roll out the red carpet for my comeback album. They wouldn’t have to wait long for it. I couldn’t wait to get back to work. I’d gone through all the songs I’d written and I knew which ones I wanted for this album. They just needed beats. So I told Zay and Mike Will that I needed them as soon as I came home. They were ready to join me on house arrest and lock in. The New York Times wanted to come interview me. Fader magazine wanted me on their cover. XXL wanted me on their cover. The clothing brand Supreme wanted me for their fall collection and Harmony was going to shoot the video for it. I was nearly finished writing my memoir. Believe it or not, I even had a couple of book deal offers on the table.
There was a lot to look forward to and I couldn’t wait to show every person who counted me out how mistaken they were. That my story wasn’t one to be pitied or laughed at but one to be inspired by. But I still had to prove that. Along with all the great things waiting for me out there was my biggest test. Keeping sober and working out and not letting this prison swallow me up had been the easy part. Soon I’d have to take my real stand.