A voice is left behind by some people. A sharp-edged, black-and-gold shape that was immediately readable from a distance was left behind by Oliver “Power” Grant. Even for children who weren’t around when 36 Chambers first came out, it’s difficult to ignore how the Wu-Tang “W” still appears on hoodies like a neighborhood flag. One of those people who made things real without hogging the limelight like others was Grant, who passed away on February 23, 2026, at the age of 52. And it’s easy to overlook that kind of power in hip-hop until it’s gone.
The fact that the cause of his death hasn’t been revealed adds a familiar frustration to the reporting surrounding it. There is a sense that contemporary celebrity culture almost cannot stand an unresolved question, and that blank space encourages speculation. However, mystery seems strangely consistent in Grant’s case. An executive producer, a hustler, a connector, a man who knew how to turn momentum into infrastructure, he was never far away.
| Field | Details |
|---|---|
| Full name | Oliver “Power” Grant |
| Born | November 3, 1973 (Jamaica; later raised in Staten Island, New York) |
| Died | February 23, 2026 (age 52) |
| Known for | Early Wu-Tang collaborator/executive producer; brand builder; founder of Wu-Wear |
| Key business move | Launching Wu-Wear in the 1990s; reported peak revenues around $25M annually |
| Cause of death | Not publicly disclosed |
| Authentic reference | https://www.theguardian.com/music/2026/feb/26/wu-tang-clan-collaborator-oliver-power-grant-death |
In order to comprehend Grant, it is helpful to imagine Staten Island in the early 1990s, when ambition appeared less as a well-thought-out plan and more as a nightly debate about what could be accomplished with an abundance of talent and little funding. According to accounts, he was raised near Park Hill, subject to the same gravitational pull that formed the core of the Wu-Tang Clan. He was near enough to the engine room to keep the lights on, but he wasn’t the one rapping on the records. Particularly at this time, that distinction is important.
Almost too minor to be history, one of the most basic facts keeps coming up: Grant reportedly contributed to funding the group’s early efforts, which included their breakthrough single “Protect Ya Neck.” Money is the unglamorous lever, the aspect that no one wants to discuss on camera in a genre that thrives on creating myths. However, without that early conviction, the entire Wu-Tang story might land differently, arrive later, or break apart before it even begins.
The brand logic followed, which Grant appeared to understand before the rest of the industry did. Wu-Wear was more than merchandise. It acted like a streetwear brand with a strong enough brand to endure outside of the music industry.
According to reports, the line was initially sold by mail order before growing into stores and major retail locations, including Macy’s. At its height, revenue was said to have reached about $25 million annually. Walking through a department store and seeing Wu-Tang hanging on a rack as if it belonged there is a sensory memory that people have of that time period. Under fluorescent lights, the “W” appeared almost defiant.
Recognizing the gravity of the logo itself was Grant’s genius, if that’s the right word. These days, it seems clear—every artist has a brand, every tour has a capsule collection, and every drop has a countdown. It was less standardized, messier, and tainted by many counterfeits back then. However, the action suggested something more significant: hip-hop was no longer just about sound. Additionally, it was texture: store leases, stitching, tags, packaging, and connections with customers who weren’t interested in lyrics. This change altered the way and who could accumulate wealth.
Following his passing, Wu-Tang members’ tributes read less like official declarations and more like unfiltered messages typed too quickly, sorrow seeping through the screen. GZA’s admission that the group wouldn’t have “come to fruition” without Method Man and his post are not merely flattering remarks. They sound like people noticing that an old structure’s load-bearing component has vanished. One gets the impression from seeing those responses that Grant was the friend who took care of the less romantic duties—the person you call when the dream requires documentation.
Additionally, he straddled the boundaries of pop culture and film, appearing in Belly and other credits that situate him within the larger New York ecosystem of the era. It’s easy to ignore that detail, but it points to someone who kept pushing the Wu-Tang concept into unwelcome spaces through testing doors in fashion, music, and film. Because the culture rarely gives that kind of behind-the-scenes work the same glow, it’s still unclear if the next generation of fans fully understands it.
Additionally, Wu-Tang’s passing occurs at a curiously symbolic time when both long-arc honor systems and mainstream institutions are reevaluating his legacy. The fact that the culture honors the icons while the architects are frequently given footnotes creates a subtle tension. Grant’s tale serves as a reminder that not all empires are founded by musical prodigies. While everyone else is busy chasing the next night, they also originate from someone insisting that the genius owns, sells, or keeps something.
