In the week leading up to the recent arrest of Tupac's alleged killer, news of a property search in Henderson, Las Vegas, barely registered on my radar. Decades had passed since Tupac's tragic murder, and skepticism clouded any hope for a breakthrough. It seemed like just another attempt at sensationalism, another desperate bid for TV ratings in a saga that had long seemed unsolvable.

How could an icon like Tupac, whose influence resonates through generations, endure such a prolonged absence of justice?

I first became aware of Tupac early in his music career, when "Brenda's Got a Baby" was released from his debut album 2Pacalypse Now. It ignited conversations in the black community about teenage pregnancy and the insidious grip of poverty. The song was art at its best. It was a mirror, albeit a painful one, to a piece of our reality.

"Trapped," another of Tupac's tracks, was a piercing commentary on law enforcement. It echoed the brutality my own family, especially my dear family friend Rodney Glen King, endured. In the lyrics, Tupac recounted a tale confronting the officers who harassed him, invoking Rodney King's name. Cops on my tail so I bail ’til I dodge them / They finally pull me over and I laugh / “Remember Rodney King?” / And I blast on his punk ass / Now I got a murder case / What the fuck would you do? / Drop them or let them drop you? / I choose droppin’ the cop!

Yet, it was with the release of All Eyez on Me in 1996, a monumental double album, that my admiration for Tupac transformed into hardcore fandom. His brilliance, artistry, and unapologetic passion captivated me. Through his socially charged lyrics, I began to comprehend the intricate tapestry of beauty and pain woven into my community, a sentiment I struggled to articulate on my own.

I even met Tupac once — at prom. He was the godfather and date of my schoolmate, Tashauna Howard. Amidst the excited whispers that swirled around the Biltmore Hotel, I mustered the courage to seize the moment: "I'M BRENDA'S BABY!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the clamor.

Tupac's eyes met mine and in a lower tone, I explained, "My mom's name is Brenda. But Pac, I wanna work in TV and film production... Can you help me?" With a smile, he imparted, "Look Hear Productions. Check'em out. They're behind my music videos." This invaluable connection led to my internship; a door opened by Tupac's generosity.

Tragedy struck in 1996 when Tupac was entangled in a brawl within a Las Vegas casino. Leaving with Suge Knight, his label manager at Death Row Records, they became targets on the Vegas strip. The barrage of bullets left Tupac grievously wounded, and he succumbed to his injuries in the days that followed.

The following spring, I attended the Vibe Magazine unofficial after-party for the Soul Train awards at the Peterson Automotive Museum, walking distance from Look Hear Productions. Inside the party was a bevy of celebrities, among them, Sean Puffy Combs, and Biggie Smalls.

The party was lively, but the tension in the air was palpable. Hip-Hop's East and West Coast were still divided by the beef between Tupac and Biggie. The chants of "Bad Boy" erupted when Biggie’s hit single, “One More Chance,” played.

Further into the night, the MC shouted, "Rest in Peace Tupac," while the DJ played “I Get Around.” Afterward, the crowd erupted into a reverberating refrain of “TU….PAC! TU….PAC!" which some could have interpreted as a counter to the earlier “Bad Boy” chant. No matter the interpretation, the embers of something tragic were burning.

After the party ended, the crowd left the museum in a relatively unremarkable manner. But then, within minutes, gunfire erupted, shattering the veneer of celebration and killing Biggie Smalls.

The loss of Tupac and Biggie deaths were seismic events, ruptures that sent shockwaves through our community. We had lost two of our visionaries — our go-to's — for insights into our existence, state of affairs, what we wanted for ourselves, and the challenges that came along with that pursuit.

I, too, have felt the sting of this injustice. A casual encounter turned violent, and I found myself facing a gun, a symbol of hatred, for being true to myself. In spite of the arrest, the perpetrator escaped accountability for his transgressions, although he was later tried and convicted for another. The parallels to Tupac and Biggie's stories were all too clear, a sobering reminder that justice for some remained a distant promise.

Now, twenty-seven years after Tupac's passing, Duane "Keffe D" Davis faces prison in connection to his murder. The news brings a bittersweet sense of closure. It leaves me with just enough hope that justice, though belated, is not entirely elusive. I can't help but wish that Tupac's mother, Afeni, and stepfather, Mutulu Shakur, had lived to witness this moment. Their pain, too, is etched in the fabric of this narrative.

In reflecting on these intertwined tragedies, I've learned to temper my expectations for justice. Its pursuit is often fraught with disappointment, but the arrest of Keefe D is a testament to its potential realization. It rekindles the belief that justice can be more than wishful thinking, that it can be a tangible force for change and even healing.