Kanye West’s Life Story (In Lyrics)

Kanye West has lived a “hell of a life,” and he’s brought his listeners along for the ride with a catalog of songs that recount his childhood, rise to fame, and struggles as a celebrity. If Yeezy ever released an autobiography, it would top the best-seller list, but for now, we combed through hundreds of Kanye songs on Genius and pieced together his life story using only his lyrics. Be sure to click each line to see the source of every Kanye quote.

PROLOGUE: FAMILY BUSINESS

My mama was raised in the era when clean water was only served to the fairer skin. My grandfather took my mama, made her sit in that seat where white folks ain’t want us to eat. At the tender age of 6 she was arrested for the sit-ins.

My grandfather, he’s strong—that’s where I get my confidence from. My grandma was a secretary, worked for the church for 35 years. My father was a Black Panther with Geronimo Pratt. Got family in the D, Kin-folk from Motown. Plus my Aunt Shirley, Aunt Beverly, Aunt Clay, and Aunt Jean—so many Aunties we could have an Auntie Team.

I’m from a raw family, dog.

This is my life. Get your popcorn, get your condiments—you don’t wanna miss nothing.

CHAPTER I: GOOD MORNING
(1977 – 1990)

It’s my birthday—I was born to be different. I’m an only child. My mama named me Kanye, so y'all gon' call me Kanye. There’s only one of me.

I was three years old when my mama divorced my daddy and we moved from Atlanta to the Chi in late December. Chicago winter gave me a cold. Extra burr. We on welfare—my mama worked late nights just to keep on the lights. I closed my eyes and imagined the good life.

I was the man of the house when Mama’s boyfriend walked in our lives—I was only five. You know I scrutinized, like, “Who this newer guy?” The last thing I want to see is mama’s new nigga. “Tryin’ to get to know me, homie? You ain’t interested in me, you just tryin’ to fuck my mom. Keep your hands off my mama. I don’t like you, nigga. I wanna run over you with my bike, you nigga.”

I had a Schwinn—the best bike. Mommy got me training wheels.

They told my Mama I was bipolar, had ADD—they tryna put me on the school bus with the space for the wheelchair. On a field trip, I’m the little kid tryin’ to touch the exhibits.

Market crash hurt my father bad—all his cash, all he had in what he dreamed. My dad would say, “When you see clothes, close your eyelids.” We was sort of like Will Smith and his son in the movie—I ain’t talking ‘bout the rich ones. ’Cause every summer he’ll get some brand new harebrained scheme to get rich. And I don’t know what he did for dough, but he’ll send me back to school with a new wardrobe.

Seven years old, caught mama with tears in her eyes, ’cause somebody cheatin, tellin’ lies. Then I started to cry. As we knelt on the kitchen floor, I said, “Mommy, I'ma love you ’till you don’t hurt no more, and when I’m older, you ain’t gotta work no more—I'ma get you that mansion.”

CHAPTER II: EVERYTHING I AM
(1991 – 1997)

Even in high school, I was always a special kid, known for my rapping. Remember back in ’92, niggas used to catch wreck. I used to be in gym class like “Nigga, I’m finna be a rapper.”

Back when I was livin’ at home, this was all a big dream. In my basement, writin' my rhymes, doing five beats a day for three summers. I remember I couldn’t afford a four-track recorder. My niggas had Pro Tools, I had a karaoke machine—fuck it. Lock yourself in a room—y’all can’t match my hustle. Nobody rockin’ like this 16-year-old. So many records in my basement. Grew up on Mobb Deep. Wu-Tang taught me.

Seein' niggas that ball, that shit was depressin'. As a shorty I looked up to the dopeman—only adult man I knew that wasn’t broke. Flickin' Starter coats, man. Niggas had the Georgetown—the Magic way harder. Why else you think shorties write rhymes? To blow up.

My homie Mali—one of my best friends from back in the day—used to stay at 79th and May. He nicknamed me K-Rock. I looked up to him crazy. He was 16, stuntin'—Al B. Sure nigga with the hair all wavy. I was just a virgin—a baby!

I used to work at the mall—the Gap. I don’t even wanna work at this job. Yeah, I stole, never got caught. They take me to the back and pat me, askin' me about some khakis. But let some black people walk in, they show off their token blackie. Oh, now they love Kanye: “Let’s put him all in the front of the store!”

Mama wish me and my father would talk more—I stopped visiting around the time I was a sophomore. I guess everything I hate about me, I see in him. And we ain’t finna change, so we’ll never agree again.

I didn’t do my homework for my last three years of high school. My mama told me go to school, get your doctorate—somethin’ to fall back on, you could profit with. Yeah, I hear ya, mom—I don’t wanna be broke when I’m 31.

I did a lil bit of college. My freshman year I was going through hella problems. It took two semesters to let me figure out this wasn’t my place. Will I make it from the student loans to a Benzo? I built up the nerve to drop my ass out.

I dropped out of school with no manual. My mama still supported me.

CHAPTER III: SEE ME NOW
(1998 – 2004)

I used to front when I’d write songs, talk about havin’ ice on, and I could barely keep my lights on. We was V.I.P: Very Imaginary Playas. I bought some earrings like Baby that may be fake. I admit my first watch was a Fossil. Whipping my mama’s Volvo, tank on empty—I spent that gas money on clothes with logos. My credit was so pathetic, I couldn’t afford a debit. My ATM was crazy slim.

I used to have a group—Go Getters should’ve been signed twice. Used to bump the demo up outta the Camry. I was sendin' beat tapes like you wouldn’t believe. My mama met No I.D. and gave me his number—I was on the come up.

I was messin with D-Dot also—a ghost producer on the low. Dues paid. People started talking—that’s how I got in the game. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t be here. The checks I got from D-Dot was teasin' me. I left Chicago.

I drove to New York with 10 dollars to my name. Me and my mama hopped in that U-Haul van, drove to Newark, New Jersey. I hadn’t even seen my apartment. I remember I pulled up, I unpacked all my shit. You know, we went to IKEA, I bought a bed, I put the bed together myself. I loaded up all my equipment, and the first beat I made was “Heart of the City.” Chi-Town playa out in N-Y-C.

Beans was working on his album at that time, so I came up to Baseline, and I played like seven beats. Then Jay walked in, and I played “Heart of the City.” I remember it like it was yesterday.

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Before anybody wanted K. West beats, me and my girl split the buffet at KFC. Nothing sad as that day my girl’s father passed away. I promised to Mr. Rainey, “I’m gonna marry your daughter.” I promised her everything—told her when I get a deal, I’ll get her a wedding ring.

Baby, I’m going on an aeroplane. And I don’t know if I’ll be back again. I sent plane tickets, but when she came to kick it, things became different. I was doin' my dirt and she heard things. I cheated—thought I needed a “Nia Long.” When I got my deal, I was fighting my urges, strip club splurges. Never had money so I feel like a virgin. You can blame me for everything—I accept that I was wrong.

I don’t know what it is with females, but I’m not too good with that shit. Never was much of a romantic—I could never take the intimacy.

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Lot of shit changed since I hooked with Jay Z. After The Blueprint, I got lots of checks. I made 500 Gs. Everybody wanna run to me for they single. Most these niggas don’t even deserve a track from me—40 grand if you ain’t fam. They like, “Damn, I heard you charging 50 a track?” Went from 50 g’s to 1,500 in a week. I fly back to Chi about every two Thursdays. Brought back a couple platinum plaques on a plane. Got pussy from beats I did. I made a mill off instrumentals.

I did about four or five beats for Nas—this nigga don’t know how to pronounce my name because they always spell it wrong. It’s Kanye, but some of my plaques, they still say “Kayne.” Somebody tell these niggas who Kanye West is: The first producer that rap better than the rappers.

Shoppin' my demo, I was tryin' to shine. Politics kept me at the end of the mixtapes. Niggas thought I couldn’t rhyme. They used to say, “You’s a producer.” I wish I had a dollar bill for every time a nigga told me stick to the beats. Every motherfucker told me that I couldn’t rhyme. I’m glad I never listened to you losers. I’m a star—how could I not shine?

Niggas had a chance to sign me, dropped the ball. Roc-A-Fella’s only niggas that helped. The day I did the ‘Can’t Be Life’ beat, I said, “Yo, Jay I could rap.” And I spit this rap: “I’m killin y'all niggas on that lyrical shit. Mayonnaise colored Benz, I push miracle whips.” And I saw his eyes light up when I said that line. He said, “Man, that was tight.”

I’m rockin' the Roc-A-Fella chain. Somebody from the Chi' that was ill got a deal on the hottest rap label around! Had the Chi' on lock, when they finally heard I signed with Roc—niggas ain’t believe me, ‘til they see me on TV. I went to Jacob an hour after I got my advance—I just wanted to shine.

I’m sure Dame figured, “If he do a whole album, if his raps is wack at least we can throw Cam on every song and save the album.“ Everybody thought I was makin' a compilation—I was really makin' myself they competition. It’s funny how wasn’t nobody interested ‘til the night I almost killed myself in a Lexus.

That trip to L.A. could have been my last vacation. I remember Cedars-Sinai—the same hospital where Biggie Smalls died—and all those cryin'. How do you console my mom, telling her her son’s on life support? Mama, I’m sorry for almost dyin'. I had reconstructive surgery on my jaw—they got my mouth wired shut for like six weeks. It ain’t totally heal.

Story on MTV—Mama, I’m famous! Ain’t nobody expect Kanye to end up on top. They expected that College Dropout to drop and then flop. I know God was holdin' my hand.

CHAPTER IV: FLASHING LIGHTS
(2005 – 2010)

I’ve arrived. Grammy night, damn right, we got dressed up. I fantasized ‘bout this back in Chicago. When did I become A list? I wasn’t even on a list. I’ve been waiting on this my whole life

I bought my mom a new car and a house. I moved to L.A.—chasin’ everything we seen up on the TV screen. And what I do? Act more stupidly. Bought more jewelry, more Louis V—my Mama couldn’t get through to me. Couches, couches, couches, couches, which one should I pick?

I’m known for running my mouth. Never been a type to bite my words. I’m on TV talking like it’s just you and me—I’m just saying how I feel, man. I'ma tell you like George Bush told me: Fuck ya’ll niggas.

They gon' have me on Concrete Loop in my pajamas. You know how all that gossip is—next morning Bossip, Perez. Any girl I take out, Mediatakeout. I need a break now.

My mama used to say only Jesus can save us. Mama, I know I act a fool. My father been said I need Jesus. Life movin' too fast I need to slow down. The drama, people suing me. Mama say she wanna move South, eyes on a new house.

My face turned to stone when I heard the news: my Mama passed in Hollywood. I lost the only girl in the world that know me best. Went through deep depression. Suicide, what kinda talk is that? As I lay me down to sleep, I hear her speak to me. Goodbye, my friend.

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I wonder where I would be if I still had my mama—I’m outta control, and there’s no way to slow down.

I step in Def Jam buildin' like I’m the shit. Tell ‘em, “Give me 50 million or I'ma quit.” The artist of the millennium. 21 Grammys. I’ma be rich forever. Hard to be humble when you stunting on a jumbotron. Did the fashion show, and a tour, and a movie, and a score. Now I’m looking at a crib right next to where Tom Cruise lives. The crib Scarface—could it be more Tony? I am a god.

I hate family reunions—please don’t pressure me with that bill shit. Got friends that ask me for money knowin' I’m in debt. I had a cousin that stole my laptop that I was fuckin' bitches on, paid that nigga 250 thousand just to get it from him.

They try to make me out to be the villain for acting like a bitch at award shows. I was sick about awards. I made Taylor famous! Ooh they so sensitive. Sorry…the drink had me wildin' a little bit. People is looking at me like I’m sniffing coke. I’m not crazy.

People tried to blackball me. They wanna throw me under a white jail ’cause I’m a black man with confidence of a white male. I feel the pressure, under more scrutiny. The media crucify me like they did Christ. They wanna find me not breathing like they found Mike. But God don’t ever give me nothin' I can’t handle.

CHAPTER V: LAST CALL
(2011 – 2020)

My friend showed me pictures of his kids, and all I could show him was pictures of my cribs. I’m lonely.

We were never meant to be, we just happened. I fell in love with Kim, a porn star. It’s just me and my bad bitch. I’m in extra love. Real love.

You was always the cheerleader of my dream that seem to only date the head of football teams. I made it over NBA, NFL players, so every time I score it’s like the Super Bowl. The number one trophy wife.

I wanna dip that ass in gold.

I put that glacier on your little hand. Diamonds your best friend. That makes sense, because you’re a princess and you deserve the princess cuts.

Wedding in June, what could be better? Family on both sides. Kylie, Kendall, Kourtney, and Khloe—I’m so glad you came. Aunty couldn’t make it, oh no that’s a shame.

With my tuxedo, he asked me, “Do you take this woman to hold and keep the safest?”

I could have started Playboy, ’cause I married a playmate.

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I put an angel in your ultra sound. We was praticing, til one day your ass bust through the packaging. So go head pop some Cristal for my newborn child.

Cover Nori in lambs' wool. 10 thousand dollar fur for Nori, I just copped it. We’ll teach our daughter ballet. A daughter—that’s what I call karma. You pray to God she don’t grow breasts too soon

Got one child, but I’m fuckin' like I’m tryin' to make four more.

I got my own junior on the way! I vow that my child will be well endowed like his daddy.

I be worried ‘bout my daughter, I be worried 'bout Kim, but Saint is baby ’Ye—I ain’t worried 'bout him. I’ll never let my son have an ego.

I walked in the crib, got two kids. Just did a couple laps in my home pool, and my daughter right there getting home-schooled. I’m blessed.

Superstar family—we the new Jacksons. Got niggas sayin', “There’s the Kennedys,” but it’s the Wests. Whole family gettin' money, thank God for E! Thank God for me.

“When you coming home?” That’s a text from my wife. I told her run a bubble bath.

I can see a thousand years from now. 2020, I'ma run the whole election.