The morning was heavy. Clouds hung low, dragging their grey bellies across the sky as if even heaven was mourning. Jackim stood still, hands in pockets, his expensive black suit clinging to him in the sticky village heat. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and sorrow. Around him, hundreds of villagers gathered under a makeshift tent. They'd all come for one reason — to bury Otis, the boy who once shared roasted maize with Jackim when hunger was their only companion.
The sound of ululations mixed with muffled crying filled the air. Women in headscarves wept openly, men stood quietly with red eyes, and children ran barefoot around the gravesite, not understanding the weight of what was happening.
Otis had died in a boda accident. One careless lorry, one unlucky moment — and just like that, a good man's laughter was silenced.
Jackim had received the news at 2 a.m. He'd stared at his phone screen for a long time, unable to breathe. Then he'd whispered, "No, not Otis…" The same Otis who'd been his brother when he had no one. The one who'd shielded him from bullies, shared the last piece of chapati, and told him one day, "Bro, you'll make it big — and I'll brag I knew you first."
Now Otis was gone.
Jackim had flown in from Nairobi that morning in a private helicopter. But he didn't want anyone to announce it. No cameras, no media, no Braggers System flashing on his screen. Just him — a man who'd lost a friend.
As the coffin was lowered, the cries rose. His mother clung to the side of the wooden box, screaming Otis's name. Jackim's chest tightened. He wanted to reach out, to stop her pain, but what words could fix that kind of break?
He stepped forward and threw a handful of soil onto the coffin. It hit the wood with a dull, final sound — thud, thud. He flinched.
The village priest began to pray, but Jackim's mind drifted. Memories came like waves: running through muddy fields, sneaking into music festivals, planning how they'd escape poverty. Otis had never made it out.
After the burial, everyone moved to the homestead. Women served ugali and sukuma, men drank cheap liquor under a mango tree. Jackim sat alone on a wooden bench, staring into nothing.
Then the local elder approached him — a wrinkled man with eyes that had seen too much. "My son," he said quietly, "you have done a great thing. You paid for everything. The family will never forget."
Jackim shook his head. "Money can't replace a soul."
The elder smiled faintly. "True. But it can ease the pain of those still breathing."
Jackim nodded, pulling out a folded document from his pocket. "I'm building a new house for his mother. She won't struggle again."
The elder looked at him for a long time, then said softly, "You have grown, boy. But your eyes still carry that sadness."
Jackim looked toward the grave. "Because no matter how high I rise, I keep losing pieces of myself along the way."
Silence. The elder patted his shoulder and walked away.
A few minutes later, a group of young men came over — the same ones he'd grown up with. They started joking, trying to lighten the air. "Boss, we thought you'd pull up in a chopper!"
He gave a small smile. "Not today. Today I walk with my feet."
One of them nodded, serious now. "We miss you, Jackim. But life here... it's still hard. You escaped, but the rest of us—"
Jackim stopped him. "I didn't escape. I just found another battlefield."
They went quiet. Everyone knew it was true.
Later, as the sun dipped behind the hills, Jackim was asked to say a few words. He stepped forward slowly, the crowd falling silent.
He looked around — faces wet with tears, heads bowed in grief. Then he spoke, voice low but firm.
"We brag about cars, houses, and money. We chase likes, followers, and fame. But in the end… all of us will end up here. Silent. Equal. Under the same soil."
He paused, his throat tightening.
"Otis was more than a friend. He was my brother. He believed in me before anyone else did. When the world ignored me, he gave me hope. So today, I don't mourn a man — I honor a heart."
A soft murmur rippled through the crowd.
"If you ever loved someone, tell them now. Don't wait for a coffin to remind you. Don't brag about life and forget to live it."
He stepped back, eyes glassy. No one clapped. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to stop.
And for the first time since he got the Braggers System, no notification popped up. No points, no titles, no achievements. Just a calm stillness.
That night, back at the homestead, Jackim sat outside looking at the stars. His phone buzzed — a new system message.
SYSTEM NOTICE: "Moment of Silence — Reward: None. Reflection Level: Maximum. Emotional depth achieved."
He laughed bitterly. "You finally understand."
He closed the screen and whispered to himself, "Maybe some victories don't need rewards."
In the distance, a choir of crickets sang. He thought of Otis, of laughter echoing through dusty village paths, of dreams half-fulfilled. Then a single tear rolled down his cheek, and he didn't wipe it away.
That night, the moon rose slowly — a pale witness to grief, love, and quiet redemption. And somewhere between the stars, Jackim felt his friend's spirit smiling.
"Keep bragging, bro," he could almost hear Otis say. "But brag with your heart now."
And for the first time in a long time, Jackim did exactly that. He bragged not about wealth, but about friendship that even death couldn't silence.