The sunlight forced its way through the tall glass windows of Jackim's penthouse, bouncing off marble floors and golden decor. The city outside was already awake — honking, shouting, moving — but he wasn't.
He lay on his king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling, phones buzzing around him like flies. One for business, one for the foundation, one for "close friends," one strictly for emergencies — all screaming his name, all demanding his time.
He reached out, picked one up, and swiped through headlines.
"AFRICA'S YOUNGEST BILLIONAIRE SIGNS GLOBAL DEAL."
"JACKIM OCHIENG'S NET WORTH HITS 4.2 BILLION."
"IS JACKIM THE NEXT WORLD TECH GIANT?"
He locked the phone again and sighed. It was all noise.
A man could be praised by the whole world and still wake up feeling like a ghost.
"Sir," said his assistant through the door, "your morning meeting with Forbes is in thirty minutes."
Jackim didn't answer. He stared at the city skyline and whispered, "Tell them I'm dead."
The assistant hesitated. "Sir?"
"Dead. At least for today."
There was silence, then the sound of footsteps fading away.
He swung his legs off the bed and sat there, bare feet on the cold floor. His penthouse was a museum of success — glass awards, designer suits, limited-edition sneakers, a grand piano no one played. Yet somehow, it all looked lifeless.
He walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Expensive face cream couldn't hide tired eyes. The reflection staring back wasn't "Africa's Youngest Billionaire." It was a boy from the slums who got lost in the noise of his own story.
"System," he muttered under his breath.
A faint digital sound responded inside his head:
'Yes, host?'
He chuckled bitterly. "Tell me, why does having everything feel like nothing?"
'Loneliness Detected. Emotional Balance Decreasing.'
"Yeah," he said softly, brushing his teeth. "Figured."
He ignored the bodyguards, skipped breakfast, and walked out of the building alone. Hoodie on, sunglasses low, blending into the crowd like an average man.
He walked until the buildings grew older, the pavement cracked, and the smell of street life replaced perfume.
A small roadside café caught his eye — the kind with plastic chairs and chipped cups. The old man behind the counter didn't recognize him.
"Black coffee?" the man asked.
Jackim nodded. "And two mandazis."
He sat down, watching people pass by. University students in cheap sneakers. Mechanics laughing over greasy plates. A boda rider scrolling through TikTok, showing a friend a clip of him.
"Bro," the rider said, "this billionaire guy is crazy rich. Imagine, 4 billion! I swear if I had that money, si ningekuwa na 7 wives already?"
The table burst into laughter.
Jackim smiled quietly. It was strange — hearing your own name from people who didn't know you. To them, he was an icon, a dream, a meme. Not a man.
He sipped the coffee slowly. It burned, but it felt real.
The kind of pain he could still feel without cameras recording it.
His phone buzzed again. He ignored it. Then another. And another.
He finally picked one. It was Kelvin.
"Bro, where the hell are you? The press is losing it. They say you disappeared!"
"I just went to find myself," Jackim said, staring at the smoky street.
Kelvin paused. "In a ghetto café?"
"Yeah," he said, smiling. "That's where I left me."
Kelvin sighed. "Man, you're weird."
"I know."
He hung up.
Across the road, two kids were sharing one soda. One bottle, two straws. The younger one laughed so hard he almost spilled it.
That sound — that pure, careless laughter — hit Jackim harder than any applause he'd ever received.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out some cash, and walked over.
"Hey," he said gently, kneeling beside them. "You guys in school?"
The older one nodded proudly. "Class Seven."
"And your brother?"
"He's in Class Five. Wants to be a pilot."
Jackim smiled. "A pilot, huh?" He pulled out a crisp note. "Buy yourselves lunch — and promise me one thing."
"What?" the boy asked.
"When you make it, don't forget how this soda tastes."
They nodded seriously, grinning from ear to ear.
He walked away, heart heavy but somehow lighter than before.
'System notification: Compassion Level +5.'
He chuckled. "You again."
'Emotional Core Stabilizing.'
"Good. Maybe I'm human again."
Later that day, he returned to the city center. The contrast was brutal — one minute surrounded by dust and laughter, the next by marble floors and fake smiles.
The receptionist smiled too wide. "Good afternoon, Mr. Ochieng. Your stylist and PR manager are waiting."
He raised an eyebrow. "PR manager?"
"Yes, sir. There's an issue trending — something about you ignoring UNICEF's invitation."
He sighed. "I didn't ignore them. I just didn't see it. I was offline."
She blinked. "Offline, sir?"
"Yeah. You know — where real people live."
She didn't get the joke.
Upstairs, his team was in panic mode. Laptops open, screens filled with headlines and hashtags.
"Jackim, we need to issue a statement immediately," said one of them. "Your silence is damaging your reputation."
"My silence," he said slowly, "is saving my sanity."
They didn't know what to say.
He turned to leave. "Handle the noise. I'll handle the peace."
That evening, he stood on his balcony again — barefoot, phone in hand.
He scrolled through his contacts. Thousands of names. Business partners. Celebrities. Journalists. Politicians.
He scrolled down to one name that hadn't texted in months: Kelvin. Then Lina. Then his Mom.
He realized how many people he'd lost while winning.
The city lights glittered like fake diamonds.
He whispered to himself, "Everyone wants to brag, but no one wants to break."
His phone buzzed one more time — this time, a message from his mother:
"Son, I saw you on the news. I hope you're eating. Remember, not everyone smiling at you is your friend. Love you always."
He smiled sadly. "Even when I'm on top of the world, she still talks like I'm that hungry boy from home."
'System reminder: Source of Strength Identified — Family.'
"Maybe that's where I need to go next.
He called Kelvin again. "Bro, cancel all meetings tomorrow."
"What? You have CNN, Bloomberg—"
"Cancel. I'm going home."
Kelvin hesitated. "To the village?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Jackim took a deep breath, looking out at the city. "Because fame made me forget how to breathe. Maybe home will remind me."
The next morning, before the world woke up, he packed one small bag — jeans, t-shirt, sandals. No suits, no gold watches.
He left his mansion quietly, no guards, no convoys. Just him.
As his car rolled out of the city, the system chimed again softly:
'New Mission: Rediscover Peace.'
Reward: Unknown.'
He smiled. "For once, I don't need a reward."
The city disappeared in the rearview mirror.
Fields replaced buildings. Trees replaced billboards. The smell of soil replaced perfume.
Jackim rolled down the window and let the wind slap his face. It felt real. Raw. Free.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "This is what it's supposed to feel like."
'System note: Emotional Balance Restored.'
He smiled faintly. "Good. Now stay quiet for a while."
The road stretched ahead — endless, dusty, honest.
And for the first time in a long time, Jackim Ochieng — the billionaire, the system host, the man the world watched — felt human again.
He wasn't chasing likes.
He wasn't performing for headlines.
He wasn't bragging.
He was just breathing.