He watched House Party and ate Apple Jacks, sold Sega games while his cousin sold crack, pumped Reeboks while his uncle pumped packs. Since his introduction to the world, Kendrick Lamar has been the good kid from an ugly city.
He embraced his roots, accepted being a boy from the hood, painting himself as Tre instead of Doughboy. Since birth, he was inducted into the madness.
Heard the tales of his homies, how he witnessed their departure into darkness. Somehow, he stayed away from the gangs. Kept his head in a notebook instead of rolling up papers. He left Compton untainted, a survivor, and told the world his story.
What if something traumatic happened that changed his life? I wanted Rob to dig deeper. What, exactly, had he done to tear down his community? As soon as you even allow yourself to ponder the idea, to consider even the hypothetical scenario that Kendrick has truly murdered another man, your brain starts to shut down. If these were Bobby Shmurda lyrics there would be no doubt. They would match his image, a young man that turned his reckless lifestyle into rap music.
When Bobby said Mitch caught a body a week ago it was more than a catchy lyric, we all believed him. The police believed him.
