In the rich, restless city of Lagos, where luxury cars whispered power and skyscrapers stretched like proud giants into the sky, lived a man everyone admired: Jackson Ekenna—billionaire, CEO, heartbreaker. Ironically, tonight he was about to have his own heart broken.
Inside his mansion, everything screamed wealth. Golden chandeliers shimmered above him. Soft jazz floated through the air. The walls, decorated with expensive modern art, looked as though they were judging poor people from a distance. Jackson stood in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting his perfectly tailored suit. He sighed.
“Why do I feel like this dinner will stress me?” he muttered.
From behind him, his personal assistant spoke carefully. “Sir, maybe it’s not the dinner. Maybe it’s the person you want to take to the dinner.”
Jackson shot him a look through the mirror. “Since when did you become a relationship expert?”
Mecha shrugged. “Since Madam started lying with confidence.”
Jackson paused. That stung. But he shook it off and picked up his phone. “Let me call her.”
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. Then Alice picked up.
“Hey, baby,” Jackson said softly, his voice calm but tired. “Are you ready? I want you to come with me to a business dinner.”
There was a slight pause. A very suspicious pause.
Then, “Um… I’m not around,” Alice said quickly. “I traveled.”
Jackson frowned. “Traveled? You didn’t tell me.”
“It was urgent,” she replied. “Family stuff.”
Jackson nodded slowly, though she couldn’t see him. “I see.”
Silence.
Then he forced a smile. “All right. Take care.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
The call ended.
Mecha, who had been pretending not to listen, slowly turned.
“Sir—”
Jackson raised a hand. “Don’t.”
Mecha nodded. “I didn’t say anything. But your face said everything.”
Jackson took a deep breath, picked up his car keys, and straightened his shoulders. “Let’s go. Business doesn’t wait for heartbreak.”
Mecha whispered under his breath, “But heartbreak is already waiting.”
The luxury hotel glowed like a palace that evening. Expensive perfumes filled the air. Rich laughter echoed from every corner.
Jackson stepped out of his sleek black car. Confidence wrapped around him like his suit.
But fate was already smiling wickedly.
As he walked toward the entrance, he saw her.
Alice.
Alive, well, and very much not traveling.
She stood at the reception desk laughing, her head tilted slightly in the same way Jackson used to love. But now that same head was leaning toward another man, and the man’s hand rested boldly on her waist.
Jackson stopped walking.
Everything slowed down.
Even the air felt heavy.
He blinked once. Maybe he was imagining things.
He blinked again.
No. It was real.
Very real.
Alice turned slightly, and her eyes met Jackson’s. Her smile vanished instantly. Her body froze.
The man beside her frowned. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
Alice swallowed hard. “J-Jackson…”
Jackson walked toward them slowly, each step calm, controlled, dangerous.
When he got close, he looked at her from head to toe, then glanced at the man, then back at her.
His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
“So, this is where you traveled to?”
Alice opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I can explain.”
Jackson raised his hand slightly. “No. Don’t.”
The man beside her stepped forward. “Who are you?”
Jackson looked at him calmly. “The man she lied to.”
Silence.
Alice’s voice trembled. “Jackson, please. It’s not what you think.”
Jackson let out a small, bitter laugh. “Really? Because it looks exactly like what I think.”
The man slowly removed his hand from her waist, suddenly uncomfortable.
Smart man.
Jackson leaned slightly closer to Alice, his eyes locked on hers. “You said you weren’t around.”
Pause.
“I guess you were right.”
He glanced around the hotel.
“You’re not around me.”
Alice’s eyes filled with panic. “Jackson, please listen—”
Jackson straightened his suit and smiled. That calm, dangerous smile.
“Enjoy yourself.”
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.”
As they walked, Ngozi kept talking non-stop about her parents, her dreams, and her enemies in the village.
“There is one girl, Chioma,” she said angrily. “She thinks she’s fine. Meanwhile, her head is shaped like a mango.”
Jackson nearly tripped from laughing.
They reached a small road, and Ngozi turned to him. “Thank you for saving me.”
Jackson smiled softly. “You’re welcome.”
She squinted again. “But next time, don’t catch me like that.”
Jackson folded his arms. “So, I should watch you fall?”
Ngozi thought. “Okay, you can catch me. But warn me first.”
“How do I warn you when you’re already falling?”
She waved her hand. “Figure it out. You’re a man.”
Jackson shook his head, smiling. “This girl…”
“Goodbye for now,” she said, adjusting her basket. “I’m going to the market.”
Jackson nodded. “All right.”
She started walking away, then suddenly turned back.
“Oh, Farmer Jackson?”
“Yes?”
“If you see me falling again, try to catch the tomatoes first.”
Jackson laughed loudly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As she walked away, Jackson stood there watching her, still smiling, still amused. But there was something else too—something new, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Peace mixed with curiosity.
He looked at his hands—the same hands that signed billion-naira deals had just held a dramatic village girl who talked too much.
Jackson exhaled slowly, and for the first time since that night, he didn’t think about Alice.
Instead, he whispered to himself, “This village just got interesting.”
The village morning came with noise—not alarm clocks, but roosters screaming like they were fighting over an inheritance.
“Cocoroco!”
Jackson sat up on his small wooden bed, eyes half closed. “Who offended this chicken?” he groaned.
Another rooster responded louder.
Jackson covered his ears. “In Lagos, money can buy silence. Here, even chickens have authority.”
He stepped outside, stretching his body. He looked at his grandfather’s farmland.
Dry. Untouched. Lonely.
Just like his heart.
A few days later, he picked up the cutlass again. “All right,” he muttered. “Let me try this farmer life properly.”
He raised the cutlass confidently.
Swing.
The cutlass barely touched the grass.
Jackson stared at it. “Is this how farmers do it, or am I negotiating with the weeds?”
Just then, a familiar loud voice echoed through the air.
“Farmer Jackson!”
Jackson turned.
Ngozi was coming toward him, bouncing like she owned the morning. Basket on her head. Energy on a hundred. Trouble at full volume.
She stopped in front of him and folded her arms.
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “What?”
She walked around him like an inspector. “Let me see. Cutlass in hand. Confused face. Yes. Yes.”
“What?”
“You are suffering already.”
Jackson laughed. “I just started.”
Ngozi shook her head dramatically. “My brother, farming is not motivational speech. It is hard work.”
She snatched the cutlass from him. “Move.”
Ngozi raised the cutlass like a warrior. “Watch and learn.”
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Grass started falling.
Jackson nodded, impressed. “Okay, that’s actually good.”
Ngozi smirked. “Of course. I am a professional.”
She handed him the cutlass. “Now you.”
Jackson adjusted his stance. “Easy.”
He swung.
The cutlass slipped from his hand and flew.
Both of them screamed.
“Ahhh!”
They ducked.
The cutlass landed far away.
Silence.
Ngozi slowly stood up. “Are you trying to kill the farm or yourself?”
Jackson scratched his head. “It slipped.”
Ngozi placed her hands on her waist. “If you continue like this, your ancestors will resign from protecting you.”
Jackson burst out laughing.
Later that day, Ngozi dragged Jackson along. “Come. You’re following me to the market.”
Jackson frowned. “To do what?”
“To be useful for once.”
At the village market, everything was loud—people shouting, goats running, children crying. Pure chaos.
Jackson looked around. “This place has no control.”
Ngozi laughed. “This is where money is made.”
She placed tomatoes in front of them, then shouted at the top of her lungs, “Come and buy sweet tomatoes like my future!”
Jackson jumped. “Why are you shouting like that?”
Ngozi rolled her eyes. “How do you want people to hear me? Telepathy?”
She nudged him. “Start shouting.”
Jackson blinked. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Jackson cleared his throat awkwardly. “Buy tomatoes.”
Ngozi stared at him. “That one is an announcement, not marketing.”
She demonstrated again. “Come and buy fresh tomatoes! If you pass, your food will suffer!”
Jackson whispered, “This is intimidation.”
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