The wind that morning carried the smell of dust and home the kind that sticks to your clothes and whispers, you've been away too long.
Jackim sat in the backseat of his Range Rover, baseball cap low, plain T-shirt, jeans with a small tear on the knee. No bodyguards, no cameras, no tinted-glass drama. Just Kelvin behind the wheel and silence thick as smoke.
"Bro, sure you don't want to alert the chief or security?" Kelvin asked, eyes flicking through the dusty mirror.
Jackim smiled faintly. "This time, I just want to be a son, not a billionaire."
The road was half gravel, half memory. The old signboard still read VICTORIA WEST VILLAGE , HOME OF THE BRAVE, though the paint had peeled like the skin of an aging fruit. Kids ran barefoot chasing the car, screaming, "City man! City man!"
I looked out and felt a pang in my chest. How do you explain to the world that the higher you climb, the lonelier it gets?
The house came into view — same crooked fence, same tin roof patched with old posters. But when I saw her… my chest tightened.
Mama was outside, bending over her tiny garden, wearing the same kitenge she wore the day I left for campus. The sun hit her back and turned her sweat into tiny diamonds.
When she looked up and saw me, her hands froze mid-air. Then she shouted, "JACKIM!"
Before I knew it, I was in her arms. No bodyguards, no cameras — just that old smell of home, cooking oil, and prayer oil mixed together.
She held my face, eyes wide. "My poor boy… you've grown thin! Are you eating in that city?"
I almost laughed. Thin? I had six personal chefs and a gym that charged more per month than a village school teacher earned in a year. But right then, I didn't feel rich. I felt like a boy who still wanted to sleep on her lap.
"I'm fine, Mama," I whispered.
Inside, the house hadn't changed much. Same wooden chairs with one leg shorter than the rest, same photo of me as a kid in a faded frame, the glass cracked diagonally like an old scar.
She brought ugali, sukuma, and black tea in a plastic cup with scratches. "Eat, my son. You must be tired."
I wanted to tell her that I had eaten lobster last week in Dubai, but this , this simple meal — tasted like heaven.
As I ate, she went to a small wooden box under her bed and returned holding a bunch of old papers. Receipts. Hospital bills. Letters from my primary school.
"I kept them all," she said proudly. "One day, I said, my son will make it, and we will pay them all. I didn't want to forget how far God brought us."
Something broke inside me. I had paid billions in contracts, bought skyscrapers and tech firms… but nothing, nothing, ever hit me like those crumpled pieces of paper.
Tears fell before I even realized it. She touched my cheek gently. "Don't cry, my son. Men don't cry."
I smiled through the tears. "Then maybe I'm not a man today, Mama. Maybe I'm just your boy."
She laughed softly, that same laugh that used to fill our nights when the electricity would go out and we'd tell stories by the fire.
Later that evening, as the sun melted into the hills, Mama said, "Let's pray."
We knelt on the cold floor. She placed her hand on my head and started to whisper.
"Lord, thank you for this child. He has gone through hunger, shame, rejection, but You lifted him. Don't let the money change his heart. Protect him from fake friends, evil women, and jealous people. Let his bragging be in You, not in the world."
Her voice cracked, and I felt something electric inside me.
System Notification: 'Mother's Blessing — Emotional Shield unlocked.'
For once, I didn't roll my eyes at the system. For once, I just whispered, "Amen."
That night, the stars looked different — brighter, humbler. I sat outside on a wooden stool, phone off, just listening to crickets.
Kelvin came out holding a jug of water. "Bro, you good?"
I nodded. "You ever feel like… all the noise, the money, the fame it's just a big joke?"
He chuckled. "Only every day."
I smiled faintly. "She still calls me poor."
Kelvin burst out laughing. "Bro, that's African motherhood. You could buy the moon and she'll still ask if you ate."
We laughed, but inside, I felt the sting of truth. I had everything the world wanted — cars, penthouses, companies — yet at that moment, all I wanted was this peace. This soil. This smell.
Mama joined us later, wrapped in a shawl. "You remember that small church on the hill?" she asked.
"Of course," I said. "The one with the broken bell."
"They've been praying for you," she said proudly. "Every Sunday, Pastor Otieno says, 'Our boy Jackim will make us proud.'"
I smiled. "Tell him I said thanks."
She leaned closer. "You should visit tomorrow. They think you forgot."
Her words stung a little — they think you forgot. Maybe I did. Somewhere between the private jets and boardrooms, I forgot the soil that raised me.
I promised I'd go.
The next morning, roosters screamed like unpaid rent. Mama was already outside, sweeping dust that would come back ten minutes later ,African moms are undefeated that way.
I joined her. "Let me help."
She laughed. "Since when do rich men sweep?"
"Since today," I said, taking the broom.
We cleaned together in silence, just the sound of straw scraping the earth.
Then she said, "Do you remember the day you left for the city?"
I nodded. "You gave me fifty shillings and said, 'Don't come back until you've made something of yourself.'"
Her eyes softened. "And you did. But even if you hadn't, you'd still be my son."
That broke me again. You can buy everything in this world, but you can't buy that kind of love.
We walked to the small church later. The villagers gasped when they saw me — the same boys who once laughed at my torn shoes now calling me boss, mheshimiwa, don.
Mama just smiled and said, "He's still my boy."
During the service, Pastor Otieno made me stand in front of everyone.
"See what God can do!" he shouted. "This boy used to carry water for my goats. Now he carries nations!"
The congregation roared with laughter. I laughed too — hard enough to tear something inside me loose.
When it was my turn to speak, I looked around at the faces — the wrinkles, the scars, the smiles that had no Instagram filters — and said, "Mama once told me, 'Don't let success make you forget your knees.' So today, I'm kneeling to say thank you."
The whole church fell silent. Then Mama came and hugged me again, crying.
For a moment, the cameras of the world, the boardrooms, the skyscrapers — they all vanished. It was just a mother and her son, wrapped in dust, faith, and love.
That night, before leaving, I gave Mama a small envelope.
She frowned. "What's this?"
"Just something for emergencies," I said.
When she opened it, her eyes widened. Inside was a bank card with millions.
"Jackim! This is too much!"
I held her hand. "Nothing is too much for a woman who gave up food so I could eat."
She shook her head, tears rolling. "Money will finish, my son. But a good name will not. Promise me—"
"I know," I interrupted softly. "Promise you I'll stay humble."
She smiled, satisfied. "Good. Because God lifts the humble, but He deletes the proud."
We both laughed at her accidental tech metaphor. Even Kelvin chuckled from the doorway.
When we finally left, the sky was bleeding orange and gold. Mama waved until we turned the last corner. I looked back through the rear window and whispered, "I'll build her a new house."
System pinged quietly in my ear:
"Side Quest Activated — Build Your Mother a Home of Peace."
Reward: Inner Calm + Family Blessing Multiplied."
For once, I didn't care about the reward. The real one was already with me — a woman in a faded kitenge, praying for her son under the African sun.
And as the car sped off, I realized something deeper than money, fame, or power:
No matter how high I climb, I will always kneel when Mama prays.