And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, drowning in the consequences of her own lies.
At the dinner table, powerful men sat discussing millions—contracts, investments, opportunities. Jackson sat among them, calm, composed, untouchable.
“Mr. Ekenna, what do you think about the deal?” one of them asked.
Jackson nodded slowly. “It’s profitable.”
“Exactly,” the man said excitedly.
“But,” Jackson added.
They all leaned in.
“Only if loyalty exists.”
He paused.
“And from what I’ve seen tonight, loyalty is very rare.”
The table fell silent.
Nobody understood what he meant.
But his tone was cold enough to freeze the room.
Later that night, back in his mansion, Jackson sat alone on his bed. No music. No lights. Just silence.
Heavy silence.
He stared at his phone.
Alice’s name was still there, still saved as My Peace.
He laughed bitterly.
“Peace,” he whispered. “You gave me war.”
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Then, slowly, a memory surfaced—his grandfather’s voice, soft and wise:
When life becomes too noisy, go to the land. The soil heals what people destroy.
Jackson closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then sat up suddenly.
Decision made.
He stood, walked to his wardrobe, ignored the expensive suits, ignored the designer shoes. Instead, he picked something simple. Plain. Normal.
He looked at himself in the mirror again, but this time he didn’t look like a billionaire.
He looked like a man running away from pain.
Jackson grabbed a small bag, walked toward the door, then paused. He looked around his massive, luxurious bedroom one last time and said quietly, “Money can’t fix this one.”
As he stepped out into the night, one thing was clear:
Jackson Ekenna wasn’t just leaving the city.
He was running from heartbreak—straight into a destiny he never saw coming.
The sun rose gently over the quiet village, far away from the chaos of Lagos. And for the first time in a long while, Jackson Ekenna slept without thinking about heartbreak. No phone calls. No business meetings. No Alice. Just peace.
Well, peace until the goats started shouting.
“Meeeh!”
Jackson jumped up from the small wooden bed. “What is that?” he shouted.
Outside, a goat stared at him like it owned the land.
Jackson held his chest. “Ah. So this is the alarm clock here. Noted.”
He stepped outside his grandfather’s old house. The walls were cracked. The roof looked like it had survived several arguments with rain.
Jackson stretched his body and inhaled deeply.
Fresh air. Real air. Not the expensive air from air conditioners.
“This one is free,” he muttered. “Lagos people have been scammed.”
He picked up a cutlass, trying to look serious, then whispered, “I hope this thing knows I’m a CEO.”
As he walked through the farmland, admiring the green beauty, he smiled slightly.
“This place… it’s peaceful.”
Then suddenly, a loud voice shattered the peace.
“Hey! Hey! God! Ah, my life is finished!”
Jackson froze. “What again?” he muttered.
Not too far ahead, a girl was walking with a basket of tomatoes on her head. She was singing loudly and proudly.
“My husband must be rich, tall, handsome, and fine—”
Then—slip.
“Jesus, take the wheel!”
Her legs slid on the muddy ground. The basket flew. Tomatoes scattered like they were running for their lives.
And just before she hit the ground, Jackson rushed forward and caught her.
She froze in his arms.
He froze too.
Their eyes met.
Silence.
Birds chirped.
Wind blew.
A romantic moment.
Then the girl screamed, “Ah! Who are you? Why are you touching me like this?”
Jackson nearly dropped her. “You were falling!”
“And you decided to catch me?”
“Yes!”
“What if I faint from shock?”
Jackson blinked. “So… I should have let you hit the ground?”
She thought for a second. “At least I would have fallen with dignity.”
Jackson couldn’t hold it.
He laughed.
A real laugh—the first one since his heartbreak.
The girl suddenly remembered. “My tomatoes!”
She ran around dramatically, picking them up. “Ah! My mother will use my head to count these losses!”
Jackson bent down to help. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be sorry,” she snapped. “You distracted destiny.”
“How did I distract destiny?” Jackson asked, confused.
“You appeared from nowhere like a village ghost!”
She squinted at him. “Wait. Are you new here?”
“Yes.”
She stood up, hands on her waist. “Ha! I knew it. Because no normal human being would catch me like that without permission.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Next time I’ll send an application letter.”
She nodded seriously. “Good. Include your passport photograph.”
They both burst into laughter.
After gathering the tomatoes, Jackson handed her the basket. “I’m Jackson.”
She tilted her head. “Jackson what?”
“Just Jackson.”
She narrowed her eyes. “People with one name are either rich or hiding something.”
Jackson smiled. “Which one do I look like?”
She looked him up and down—simple clothes, dusty slippers—and scoffed. “Definitely hiding something. Because rich people don’t wear this kind of suffering outfit.”
Jackson laughed. “Fair enough.”
“I’m Ngozi,” she said proudly. “Graduate, professional tomato carrier, future rich man’s wife.”
Jackson chuckled. “Ambitious.”
She pointed at him. “And you? You look like a farmer.”
Then she nodded slowly. “Yes. A farmer.”
They began walking together, Ngozi balancing the basket again like the queen of tomatoes.
“So, Farmer Jackson,” she said, “how many goats do you have?”
“None.”
“Chai. Poverty is worrying you.”
Jackson laughed. “I just got here.”
“Oh. New poverty. Welcome.”
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