🔥 SHOCKING! 50 Cent Confronts Lloyd Banks LIVE – Tears, Betrayal & The Fall of G-Unit 😱🎤

Before the fame, before the diamond chains, before G-Unit became a household name, 50 Cent was just Curtis Jackson—a kid from Southside Jamaica, Queens, who took 9 bullets and lived to tell the story.

That 2000 shooting outside his grandmother’s house wasn’t just a near-death experience.

It rewired his entire reality.

He went from being a street hustler with a rap dream to a paranoid survivor with a bulletproof vest and a mission: trust no one.

That trauma followed him.

Every deal, every friendship, every handshake—it was always with one eye watching.

And when he finally got his break, thanks to Eminem and Dr.

Dre, he brought a crew with him: G-Unit.

At the center were Young Buck, Tony Yayo, and Lloyd Banks.

But it didn’t take long for the cracks to form.

And according to 50 Cent himself, Lloyd Banks was always the quiet one—but not in a good way.

Banks had the bars, no question.

Nicknamed the Punchline King, he was as sharp as they come on the mic.

But off the mic? 50 described him as distant, disengaged, and increasingly cold.

On a recent live appearance, 50 didn’t hold back.

“Banks just…I don’t even know.

He couldn’t even tell you what the problem is.

” He said the resentment wasn’t loud—it was silent, buried deep.

But it was there.

He compared Banks to someone else who ghosted him: “I put him where I put Marquise.

” Yes, his own son.

The comparison was devastating—suggesting the same kind of betrayal, disappointment, and heartbreak.

It was the clearest sign yet that, despite any public peace, something inside G-Unit had died a long time ago.

But Banks wasn’t the only one 50 called out.

Let’s rewind to Young Buck.

Once 50’s southern street general, Buck brought raw energy and Southern firepower to the crew.

But by 2008, he was already drifting.

In interviews, Buck talked openly about money issues, missed calls, and lack of communication with 50.

It was subtle, but in 50’s world, even subtle disloyalty is grounds for war.

So what did 50 do? He didn’t call.

He didn’t text.

He went live on Hot 97 and fired Buck from G-Unit on the air.

That’s right—public execution, rap style.

Buck clapped back with a diss track.

But 50 one-upped him by leaking a secret phone call—Buck in tears, begging to be let back in.

It was painful, humiliating, and deliberate.

And if you ever wondered just how cold 50 could get with people he once called family, that phone call is Exhibit A.

And then, of course, there was The Game—the biggest, loudest fallout of them all.

Game came in hot as the West Coast ace in G-Unit’s deck.

But when it came time to pick sides in 50’s legendary beefs—especially with Ja Rule, Fat Joe, and Jadakiss—Game refused.

He went on Hot 97 and told the world: “I’m not getting involved in that mess.

” To 50, that was treason.

So what did 50 do? He pulled up to Hot 97, flanked by Tony Yayo and Olivia, and aired Game out—live.

He told Funk Flex that Game had been cut from the crew and even claimed credit for most of Game’s hit songs on The Documentary.

And just like that, Game was out.

But the real drama came minutes later, when Game and his crew rushed the building, guns ready.

Security locked it down, but shots rang out in the street.

One of Game’s associates got hit, and suddenly this was no longer about music—it was war.

All of this—the paranoia, the shootouts, the broken friendships—started with one thing: the 9 bullets that nearly ended 50’s life.

That trauma never left him.

He admitted it himself: “You either get consumed by fear or you become numb.

” And 50 chose numbness.

That same numbness would later infect his relationships.

With Banks, the issues were more internal.

50 said Banks never stepped up.

Never called.

Never showed initiative.

Just stayed in the background, building quiet resentment.

At first, he was part of the core.

But over time, 50 started treating him like just another artist—not a brother.

And despite some reunion performances in recent years, the real G-Unit? The ride-or-die unit? That was gone.

50 Cent made it clear: while there’s no deep hate anymore, there’s also no deep trust.

Too many scars.

Too many betrayals.

Too many disappointments.

And honestly, can you blame him?

50 Cent didn’t just survive the streets—he beat them.

He turned trauma into strategy.

He turned enemies into lyrics.

And he turned a near-death experience into an empire.

But in the process, he lost something else—the belief that brotherhood can survive fame.

And while Lloyd Banks may still be respected, and Young Buck still technically signed, G-Unit as we knew it is long gone.

In 50’s own words: “The paranoia never leaves.

It just gets smarter.”

And in that one chilling sentence, the legacy of G-Unit is sealed.

Not just as a rap crew—but as a cautionary tale of how money, fear, and betrayal can tear down even the strongest empires from the inside.

One bullet didn’t kill 50.

But betrayal might have killed G-Unit.

So what do you think? Was 50 right to cut off his crew? Or did paranoia and power destroy something that could’ve been legendary?

Drop a comment, hit that like, and keep it locked right here—because this story is far from over.