🎤“‘I Was Ready for a Setup!’—50 Cent Thought Eminem Was the Feds 🤐 The Insane True Story Behind Their First Meeting!”

Before the charts.

Before In Da Club.

Before the G-Unit empire.

There was a vest, a plane ticket, and a hunch that something wasn’t right.

In 2002, 50 Cent was a man on the run—from the past, from enemies, from death itself.

Just three years earlier, he had survived a nine-shot ambush in front of his grandmother’s home in Queens.

It wasn’t street drama.

It was a hit.

Someone got paid to erase him.

He lived—but the trauma never left.

And neither did the fear.

Columbia Records dropped him.

Radio stopped spinning him.

Labels ghosted him.

Even as he rehabbed and rebuilt, he moved with caution.

Bulletproof vests were now a part of his wardrobe—every day, every hour.

The name 50 Cent was radioactive.

But on the other side of the country, someone was listening.

In Detroit, Eminem was riding high on the success of The Marshall Mathers LP.

He was already a legend, but he wasn’t content with comfort.

While labels looked for pop, Em still hunted for raw.

And when he heard 50’s underground mixtape, Guess Who’s Back, he didn’t hear danger—he heard destiny.

“I have a very clear memory of the first time I met 50,” Eminem later said.

“The way he walked into the room—it felt like he was already a star.”

But for 50, the meeting didn’t feel magical.

It felt suspicious.

“I thought it was a setup,” 50 admitted years later.

“I thought I was being punked.

Like, is this a joke? Is this the FEDS?”

Because 50 had been burned too many times.

Shot.

Stabbed.

Dropped.

The industry had blackballed him.

Even flying to LA felt like walking into a trap.

So much so, he wore his bulletproof vest through the airport—removing the ceramic plate so he could sneak it past security.

“I was so bugged out from the experience.

I thought the camera crew from Punk’d was gonna jump out.

I was expecting Ashton Kutcher to yell ‘GOTCHA!’”

But instead of betrayal, he got something he hadn’t felt in a long time: genuine respect.

When 50 walked into that room in LA, Eminem didn’t interrogate him.

He didn’t play Hollywood.

He hugged him.

No games.

No judgment.

Just a simple, “Let’s work.”

And that was the beginning of everything.

📀 Within days, 50 was introduced to Dr.

Dre.

Em already knew 50’s bars by heart.

He started rapping them to him on the spot.

Dre nodded.

The co-sign was real.

The vibe was electric.

And the foundation of Get Rich or Die Tryin’ was born.

It wasn’t just a record.

It was a declaration of war—on the industry, on the streets, on everything that tried to kill 50.

The album sold over 12 million copies, launched G-Unit, and became one of the most iconic rap projects of all time.

But that paranoia? It never left.

50 kept the vest.

Kept the silence.

Kept the distance.

Even Eminem started wearing body armor, following 50’s lead.

Jay-Z would later recall a moment in the studio: “I hugged Em, and I could feel he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

I couldn’t imagine being that successful and still feeling that unsafe.”

Because Em wasn’t just a rapper anymore.

He was carrying beefs by association.

When Ja Rule dissed Eminem’s daughter Hailie on “Loose Change,” it was game over.

Em had been sitting in the background of 50’s war with Murder Inc.

But Ja broke the cardinal rule—he mentioned the kid.

“You claim your mother’s a crackhead and Kim is a known w**** / So what’s Hailie gon’ be when she grows up?”

That was it.

Em snapped.

And when Em retaliates, it’s surgical.

He dropped “Doe Rae Me,” “Bully,” “Hail Mary” (alongside 50 and Busta Rhymes).

The bars were vicious.

Precision kills.

Ja’s career never recovered.

Eminem didn’t just support 50.

He became 50.

Took on his enemies.

Took on his pain.

But this wasn’t new for Em.

Back in 1999, when Eminem signed to Dr.

Dre, he inherited Death Row baggage.

And that meant one thing: Suge Knight.

The Source Awards that year were already tense.

Suge’s people were in the building.

Dressed in red.

Waiting.

And as Em made his way to his seat, he got surrounded.

“It was Death Row.

All of them.

Standing in front of Em, blocking his path.

Talking reckless.”

But one person stepped in—Paul Rosenberg, Eminem’s manager.

“I got in front of Em, pushed them back.

I was like, ‘Yo, what’s going on?’ They kept saying, ‘Death Row this, Death Row that.

’ Like we were supposed to be scared.”

Em didn’t flinch.

But Suge wasn’t done.

He showed up again in 2003, at the music video shoot for “In Da Club.

” Pulled up deep.

Heavy.

Trying to intimidate Dre and 50.

But Eminem? He stepped outside with the crew.

Lit a cigar.

Looked Suge dead in the eye.

“He wasn’t hiding.

He stood outside with us.

Calm.

Real.

That’s when I knew he was solid,” 50 later said.

“He wasn’t just talk.

He had my back.”

That wasn’t a one-time thing.

Years later, during the 2022 Super Bowl Halftime Show, Jay-Z and Roc Nation were allegedly trying to exclude 50 Cent.

Despite his history with Dre and Em, despite In Da Club being a generational anthem, he was reportedly left off the list.

But Eminem wasn’t having it.

“The white guy called,” 50 later joked.

“Em told them straight up—if 50’s not on it, I’m not doing it.

That’s his guy.”

Faced with the risk of losing Eminem, Roc Nation folded.

50 performed.

And it was the most talked-about moment of the night.

That loyalty? It’s not performative.

It’s deep.

Real.

Eternal.

At 50’s Walk of Fame ceremony in 2020, Eminem showed up—not as a guest, but as family.

“Of all the things I don’t remember from 2002,” Em said in his speech, “I clearly remember the day I met 50.

He walked in, and I just knew.

His presence, his energy—it was undeniable.”

The same man 50 once thought was a fed had become his closest ally.

Because under the paranoia, the trauma, the bulletproof armor, 50 Cent was just a man who’d never known loyalty until Eminem gave it to him.

And once he had it? He never let it go.

This story isn’t just about music.

It’s about trust built in the ashes of betrayal.

Two men from two different worlds, bonded by pain, power, and persistence.

One thought it was a setup.

The other offered him the keys.

And together, they changed the industry.

So next time you hear “Many Men” or “Lose Yourself”—remember, the bulletproof vests weren’t just props.

They were real.

The fear was real.

The loyalty was real.