The Superdome in New Orleans pulsed like a living heartbeat on February 9, 2025, as Super Bowl LIX halftime exploded into cultural chaos. Kendrick Lamar, the Compton poet-prophet turned halftime king, commanded the stage with a performance that wasn’t just a show—it was a reckoning. Flanked by SZA’s soulful harmonies and Samuel L. Jackson’s gravel-voiced narration, Lamar wove through his catalog like a surgeon’s scalpel, but the blade sharpened lethally on “Not Like Us,” his Grammy-sweeping 2024 diss track aimed squarely at Drake. The crowd—over 60,000 strong—chanted the hook like a war cry: “They not like us!” And then, in a flash of blue and white, tennis titan Serena Williams materialized in the corner, her feet slicing intricate patterns into the turf: the Crip Walk, a dance born in the ’70s streets of her hometown, now a viral volcano erupting across screens worldwide.
For a fleeting five seconds, Williams—43, retired GOAT, mother of two—embodied unfiltered joy, her mini skirt and sneakers syncing with the beat. She posted later on X: “Let’s go Super Bowl halftime??! I died a little!” But joy’s shadow loomed large. Within hours, social media fractured into fury and defense, dredging up a 22-year-old wound: the 2003 murder of Williams’ half-sister, Yetunde Price, gunned down by a Southside Compton Crips member in a drive-by mistaken for rival reconnaissance. Was this empowering homage to Black LA culture, or a tone-deaf taunt that danced on a grave? As backlash swelled—125 FCC complaints accusing “gang promotion,” per reports—Serena’s strut became the epicenter of a storm blending hip-hop beef, family grief, and the eternal tug-of-war over cultural symbols.
Rewind to September 14, 2003. Yetunde Hawanya Tara Price, 31, was the eldest of Oracene Price’s five daughters, half-sister to Venus and Serena from their mom’s first marriage. A nurse, salon owner, and devoted personal assistant to her tennis-star siblings, Yetunde was the quiet anchor in a family orbiting fame. That night, parked in her white GMC Yukon outside a Compton crack house—unwittingly, say authorities—she chatted with boyfriend Rolland Wormley. Two Southside Crips, mistaking the SUV for a Bloods spy vehicle, unleashed an AK-47 barrage. A single bullet pierced the back of Yetunde’s head; she slumped, gone instantly. Wormley, grazed but alive, sped to her mother’s home, then the hospital, where doctors pronounced her dead minutes after arrival. Her kids—ages 11, 9, and 5—lost their world in a blur.
Justice crawled. Initial suspect Aaron “Hammer” Hill, a Crips “mascot,” faced charges dropped after a mistrial. Enter Robert Edward Maxfield, 25, the convicted triggerman. After two hung juries, he pleaded no contest to voluntary manslaughter in 2006, drawing 15 years with time served—released early in 2018. Serena, then 22 and peaking on the WTA tour, channeled agony into action: She and Venus founded the Yetunde Price Resource Center in 2005, aiding domestic violence survivors (Yetunde had escaped an abusive marriage). “She was a wonderful person,” Serena told PEOPLE in 2004. “We’re dealing with it however we can. Some days are better than others.” The loss reshaped them—Serena’s ferocity on court deepened, her vulnerability in interviews a quiet testament to survival’s sharp edges.
Fast-forward through fame’s funhouse: Serena and Drake’s rumored fling flickered from 2012-2015, spawning tabloid whispers and lyrical Easter eggs. Drake name-dropped her in “Worst Behavior” (2013): “I swear I could beat Serena when she playin’ with her left.” By 2016’s “Too Good,” he’d confirmed it was her muse, per unearthed studio footage released in 2024. Tensions simmered until 2022’s “Middle of the Ocean” on Her Loss with 21 Savage, where Drake swung low: “Sidebar, Serena, your husband a groupie / He claim we don’t got a problem but / No, boo, it’s like you comin’ for sushi / We might pop up on him at will like Suzuki.” A jab at Alexis Ohanian, Reddit co-founder and Serena’s husband since 2017, who’d never uttered Drake’s name. Ohanian clapped back gracefully on X: “The reason I stay winning is because I’m relentless about being the absolute best at whatever I do. Including being the best groupie for my wife and daughter.” Serena? Smiley emojis, silent strength.
Enter Kendrick. The 2024 beef between the Compton king and Toronto’s 6 God escalated from subtle subs to nuclear. Lamar’s “Not Like Us”—a May chart-topper—branded Drake a colonizer, with a protective barb: “From Alondra down to Central, n***a better not speak on Serena.” At the ESPYs in July 2024, Serena hosted and teased: “None of us… should ever pick a fight with Kendrick Lamar. He will make your hometown not like you.” By Super Bowl eve, whispers swirled: Lamar, pgLang visionary, tapped Serena for a cameo, echoing her 2012 Olympics gold-medal C-Walk that sparked “gang glorification” backlash then too. “We’ve been trying to do something forever,” she captioned behind-the-scenes footage. “What about this? We loved your Crip Walk at the Olympics.”
The performance? Electric heresy. Lamar opened in a black Buick GNX—nod to Compton’s muscle-car lore—narrating America’s divides with Uncle Sam masks and PlayStation props. SZA joined for “All of the Stars,” Jackson boomed interludes. Then “Not Like Us”: Kendrick smirked at the camera on “Say, Drake, I hear you like ’em young / You better not ever go to cell block one,” the stadium a sea of blue flags mocking OVO. Serena’s entrance? Pure poetry—or provocation. Her footwork, honed in hidden cyphers, spelled celebration, not affiliation. But X lit up: “Serena Williams sister was deleted by Crips and her bobblehead a** goes and Crips walk on national TV… whatever she got paid that’s how much her soul cost.” Another: “Having Serena Williams Crip walking when her own sister was got down by a n***a is nasty work but it clearly went over our heads.” The half-sister angle fueled cruelty: “She probably feels no loyalty,” one troll spat, ignoring the family’s shared grief.
Stephen A. Smith piled on First Take: “If I’m her husband… go back to his a** ’cause clearly you don’t belong with me. What you worried about him for?” Ohanian fired back: “Some of y’all have no idea how criticized Serena was for this same dance at Wimbledon 13 years ago and it shows. This is bigger than the music.” In April 2025, Serena told TIME: “Absolutely not” shade at Drake. “I have never had negative feelings towards him… That was sad, that anyone would ever think that.” It was Compton calling—Lamar, her hometown kin, inviting her to honor roots, not roast exes.
Yet the discourse deepened divides. Defenders hailed reclamation: “Her coming back to do a dance that references a culture she’s actually a part of… is chef’s kiss,” one X user wrote. “Kendrick bringing out Serena… after Drake stalked that woman publicly for years… chaotic good.” Critics clung to trauma: “Imagine being married with a kid but you’re Crip walking… while your sister lies dead… make it make sense.” The C-Walk’s evolution—from Crips taunt to Snoop Dogg staple to hip-hop staple—blurs lines, but for a family scarred by its origins, the optics stung. Serena’s 2012 Wimbledon version drew fines threats; here, it amplified them.
Drake? Silent post-show, but his empire quaked—Universal’s failed pull of “Not Like Us” mocked onstage, OVO owls swapped for certified lovers boy signs. The beef, rooted in 2013 subs, peaked here: Drake’s cultural outsider barbs versus Lamar’s insider indictment. Serena, collateral then, became cannon now—her walk a symbol of women reclaiming narrative.
At heart, this is Compton’s cry: a city of kings and queens forging beauty from brutality. Yetunde’s center thrives, her daughters grown; Serena’s daughters cheer her dances. But grief doesn’t clock out—22 years on, a sister’s absence aches in every step. As X rages—”Serena might be the biggest h* I’ve seen so far in 2025,” one venom spat—the real win? Visibility for violence’s voids. Serena’s not dancing on graves; she’s defying them, footwork fierce as her forehand. In hip-hop’s hall of mirrors, where beef blurs with belonging, her C-Walk whispers: We rise, roots and all. But at what cost? The Superdome’s echo asks us to listen closer.
