Poverty is not just the absence of money. It is the constant sound of worry echoing through thin walls, the smell of fear mixed with cheap rice, and the silent agreement that dreams must wait—sometimes forever.
He was born into a house that was never quiet. Seven voices cried, laughed, argued, and starved together. Before he was old enough to understand life, death had already visited their family twice. The first child—gone before he could remember a name. The youngest—taken away before having the chance to learn how cruel the world could be.
Seven remained.
As the years passed, he learned early that being born was not enough—you had to be useful to survive. Shoes were shared. Food was measured. School fees were a luxury discussed in whispers late at night. His parents did not speak about dreams; they spoke about endurance.
Among the siblings, expectations quietly fell onto his shoulders. Not because he was the strongest or the smartest, but because someone had to be the one who tried.
He studied under dim lights, borrowing books, memorizing lessons while hunger clawed at his stomach. Every exam felt like a gamble against fate. Every success came with guilt—because for every step he moved forward, the others stayed behind.
When he finally left home to work abroad, the farewell was brief. There were no tears, only hope disguised as silence. He promised to help. He promised to return. He promised things he did not yet understand the weight of.
Years later, success arrived—but not gently.
The job was demanding, the hours endless, but the paycheck changed everything. Money flowed not into savings, but back home. School fees were paid. Hospital bills were covered. Daily survival became slightly less brutal—for everyone except him.
Then came the calls.
Unknown numbers. Harsh voices. Threats that did not belong to his life but had somehow found his name. Debts he never used. Loans he never benefited from. Yet they were his responsibility now.
He tried to fight it. To explain. To work harder.
But pressure does not negotiate.
When his father fell ill, everything collapsed. Hospitals demanded payments. Time demanded decisions. And once again, he chose family over himself.
The day he resigned as a manager, no one applauded. No one asked why. Success, it turned out, was fragile.
That night, alone in a small rented room, he stared at the ceiling and realized something terrifying:
He had spent his entire life running forward—yet had never arrived anywhere that felt like home.
And so, he made another decision.
This time, he would run not toward success—but toward peace.