Yo, what's good to the evil streets family, you know the vibes, we back at it with another one. Mad love to everybody tuning in, all my viewers and subscribers, and big shout to every single member holding down the channel. If y'all feeling the content make sure you tap that like and subscribe button. That's what keeps the channel moving, allows me to keep dropping these joints for y'all. Every single beat you catching in these videos and shorts, that's all me, produced by yours truly. So if anybody's interested in any of the production you hearing on this channel, hit us up at evil streets media at gmail dot com. That goes for anybody trying to promote their musical business too. Get at me and we can work something out. We also started uploading these episodes to Spotify's podcasts, so anybody can just listen on whatever device while you driving or handling business. Link's in the description. I'm starting up a Patreon too where I'll be dropping extended videos with deeper dives into everything, so be on the lookout for that. Also, anybody looking to support the channel in general, you can send a dollar or a million dollars to our cash app, Evil Streets TV. Every single cent that gets donated goes right back into the channel. Make sure you comment if you do so I can shout you out on the next video. Alright, I kept y'all waiting long enough, let's get into this gangster shit. Enjoy the show. The feds, state boys, local police, all of them linked up, 180 deep, hitting 18 different locations in and around Atlantic City like some coordinated military strike. This wasn't just your average drug raid. Nah, this was the drug raid. They dismantled the biggest operation the city had ever witnessed. One million a month in cocaine flooding through the resort town, all controlled by one man. Hakim Abdul Shaheed, better known on these streets as Midget Mali. When they rolled up on him, they didn't just grab the corner boys or the middle management, they snatched everybody. The entire organization got swept, top to bottom, no loose threads, and they didn't just lock up bodies. They seized the money, all of it. Every last dollar he ever made off that empire, gone in one day. It was the type of bust law enforcement fantasizes about. One move and the whole chess board got cleared. But even in their moment of triumph, something was missing. The feds had one more trophy on their mind, something that really would've put the bow on it. When they kicked in his doors, the first thing they were asking was, where's the crown. See, Midget Mali wasn't just playing kingpin. He dressed the part. He had a custom made gold and jewel encrusted crown, a symbol of his status, his power, his defiance. To law enforcement, snatching that crown would've been the ultimate prize. It wasn't just about locking him in a cage. It was about stripping him of the image, the legend. But when the smoke cleared, the crown was nowhere to be found. Somebody had moved it, stashed it, or maybe even destroyed it. And just like that, a piece of his legacy slipped right through their fingers. They had the man, they had the empire, but the crown, the one thing they wanted most, had vanished. Midget Mali's story kicked off in Atlantic City, where he was born into a deeply religious household on March 4th, 1959. His father, Benjamin Franklin Mali, was a Pentecostal pastor, and his mother, Helen Louise Mali, was a devoted matriarch raising a large family of 12 children. Being the ninth child, Robert grew up under strict discipline, often sitting through long family sermons late into the night. In 1969, when Midget Mali was just 10 years old, tragedy struck. The death of his father from a brain tumor left the family struggling. His mother had to step up, taking on work in local hotels to support the six children still at home. From a young age, Robert stood out, not just because of his upbringing, but because of his size. By the time he was six, his family noticed he wasn't growing like the other kids. They started calling him Midget as a joke, and the nickname stuck. He would eventually grow to 5 feet 2 inches, but by then, Midget Mali was an identity he fully embraced. By 1976, he took a different turn in life, joining the nation of Islam under the leadership of Wallace D Muhammad. He became a member of Temple Number 10 in Atlantic City and was known as Brother Robert 8X. He adhered to his faith. He later changed his name to Hakeem Ali Abdul Shaheed, aligning himself with the nation's shift after the passing of Elijah Muhammad. By the time Midget Mali was coming up, Atlantic City wasn't the glamorous resort town it once was. It was run down, divided, and neglected, especially in black neighborhoods. The city was like a real life monopoly board where the rich lived on boardwalk and park place, and the poor, mostly black residents, were crammed into Baltic and Mediterranean avenues. It was a tale of two cities, and the side Midget grew up on was the one they didn't want tourists to see. Even as a kid, Midget had something to prove. Being the smallest in a rough neighborhood, he had to fight harder, think smarter, and move sharper than everyone else. People saw his height and thought he was an easy target, but trying Midget was like stepping into the ring with a pit bull. What he lacked in size, he made up for in strategy. He was a thinker, always one step ahead. When his father passed, there was no one left to keep him in check. The streets became his teacher, and instead of finishing high school, he chose another path, one that led straight to the heart of black Atlantic City. Kentucky Avenue. Known as KY in the curve, this strip was legendary. Lined with cars stretching down the block, it was the place where hustlers got money and legends were made. Across the streets stood Club Harlem, a hotspot that had seen the biggest names in entertainment. If you were somebody on the east coast, you knew about Club Harlem. And if you were coming up in Atlantic City, KY Avenue was where you earned your stripes. Midget Mali was about to make his mark. By 17, Midget Mali was knee deep in the game, pushing his own product on Kentucky Avenue. Once he saw how easy the money came, there was no turning back. His name rang bells in the 70s, right there on KY, where he and his crew moved more heroin than anywhere else in Atlantic City. The product was legendary. Drop Dead, was what they called it, because that's how potent it was. At just 18, stepping onto the scene in a polyester suit, Midget saw the glitz, the history, and the power that came with running the streets. He wanted in, and he didn't just get in, he took over. But with all the money and status, there was a dark side he couldn't escape. The same Drop Dead that made him rich was also destroying people close to him. His own blood, one sister, three brothers, fell victim to heroin addiction. He saw firsthand what the drug was doing to them, the way it turned strong people into ghosts of themselves. But instead of stepping back, he made peace with it the only way he knew how. He kept them supplied for free. In his mind, if they were going to use, at least they wouldn't have to hustle or steal to get it. It was twisted logic, but in the game, that's how lines get blurred. Midget Mali wasn't just running a heroin empire, he was living in the wreckage it left behind. Midget wasn't in the game to get high. He got his rush from the hustle itself, the adrenaline, the power, the money. That's what fueled him. Within three years, he wasn't just a hustler, he was a certified boss. When Midget set his sights on something, he wasn't stopping until he was on top, and in Atlantic City, nobody was playing the game better than him. Despite his size, his reputation was larger than life. People knew not to cross Midget Mali. One morning, a dude who had just been seen arguing with Midget over money was found with his car riddled with bullets. No one had to ask what happened. Midget once said, the drug business is a violence business and things happen. I was known in this city for shooting guns, and that's as far as I'm going to go with that. That was all that needed to be said. Meanwhile, Atlantic City was going through its own transformation. On November 2nd, 1976, New Jersey voters approved casino gambling. For the struggling black community, it was supposed to be a lifeline, a chance to escape poverty. The city was dying, unemployment was sky high, businesses were failing, and the streets were deteriorating by the day. But instead of revitalizing the neighborhoods, the casinos came in and pushed everybody out. They didn't build up the community, they tore it down. They didn't create opportunity, they created displacement. The promise of prosperity turned into a nightmare of gentrification and decay. For Midget Mali, though, the casinos meant one thing: money. Money coming into the city like never before. High rollers, tourists, hustlers from everywhere converging on Atlantic City with deep pockets and empty wallets by sunrise. It was a feeding ground, and Midget was ready to eat. By the early 1980s, Midget Mali had transitioned from heroin to cocaine. The shift was strategic. Cocaine was moving faster, selling for more, and the clientele was wealthier. While the heroin trade had been dominated by street-level dealers, cocaine connected him to an entirely different tier of criminals. Dealers with connections to major cartels, with the money and muscle to move weight. Midget saw the opportunity and seized it. He started bringing in kilos from Miami and Philadelphia, building a supply chain that made him indispensable. His crew expanded from small-time corner boys to seasoned hustlers and enforcers. He brought in his younger brother, his cousins, and childhood friends. Loyalty was everything. If you were down with Midget from the beginning, you ate. If you came in later, you had to prove yourself. By the mid-1980s, Midget Mali's operation was moving serious weight. We're talking about a hundred kilos a month, sometimes more. The money was astronomical. Hundreds of thousands flowing in weekly. The streets of Atlantic City had never seen anything like it. He wasn't just a drug dealer anymore. He was an institution. Young dudes on the corners idolized him. They wanted to be like Midget Mali. He represented something bigger than the game itself. He represented defiance against a system that had written them off from birth. He was small but he moved like a giant. He was poor but he lived like a king. That's what made him legendary. The custom-made gold crown encrusted with jewels became the symbol of his dominance. When he wore it, he wasn't just claiming Atlantic City. He was declaring war on poverty, on inequality, on the very forces that tried to keep him down. The crown was his statement to the world: I made it out. I took control. I am the king of these streets. But every empire has its vulnerabilities, and Midget's was growing. By 1987, the DEA and the FBI had Midget Mali in their crosshairs. They'd been watching him for years, building a case, flipping informants, gathering evidence. They knew about the kilos, the money houses, the stash spots. They knew the names of everyone in his organization. They were patient, methodical. They were waiting for the right moment to strike. That moment came on a cold morning in April 1987. The raids hit simultaneously across the city. The operation was precise, overwhelming, and devastating. Midget Mali was arrested along with dozens of his soldiers. The feds seized millions in cash, hundreds of kilos of cocaine, guns, jewelry, and vehicles. Everything was gone in hours. The empire that had taken years to build was dismantled in a single day. Midget Mali was charged with drug trafficking, money laundering, conspiracy, and more. The evidence was overwhelming. The witnesses were credible. The conviction was inevitable. He was sentenced to 35 years in federal prison. At 28 years old, Midget Mali began a life sentence in the penitentiary. Behind bars, he had time to think about what he'd done, the choices he'd made, the people he'd hurt. The addicts in his family, the overdose victims in his neighborhood, the kids who grew up in a city poisoned by his cocaine. But redemption would come slowly, if at all. In prison, Midget became a model inmate. He earned his GED. He became religious again, finding solace in the Nation of Islam. He mentored younger prisoners, counseled them against the mistakes he'd made. He written letters to young people on the streets, warning them about the game, telling them it wasn't worth it. But for many, the message came too late. The damage was already done. By the time Midget Mali reached his sixties, he'd served over thirty years. He'd become a different man, older, quieter, more reflective. The crown was gone, seized or destroyed by the feds. His empire was dust. His power was a memory. He died in federal custody in 2014, at the age of 55, a shadow of the legend he once was. Midget Mali's legacy remains complicated and contested. To some, he's a cautionary tale, a reminder of the consequences of the drug trade and the violence it breeds. To others, he's a symbol of survival against the odds, a man who climbed out of poverty and oppression, even if the path he took was destructive and ultimately self-defeating. His story reflects the broader tragedy of the war on drugs and the communities it devastated. But perhaps his greatest legacy lies not in what he accomplished, but in what he represented: a young black man from Atlantic City who refused to be invisible, who demanded to be seen and heard, even if the only way he knew how was through violence and drug dealing. In a system designed to keep him down, Midget Mali grabbed power wherever he could find it. His crown may have vanished from the hands of the law, but his name never will. He remains a figure of Atlantic City history, whispered about on the same streets he once owned, a kingpin who rose and fell, leaving behind a legacy of ambition, destruction, and the eternal question: what could he have been if given a different choice?