HiveComb

The phone screen glowed in Chuka’s palm, confused, his thumb was hovering over the “confirm transfer” button.
One tap. Just one tap, and the shady deal would make him more money in a week than his father had ever earned in a year.

His heart pounded heavily, his lips whispered, “I’m tired of being broke… tired of being left behind.”

Images flashed in his mind: friends posting cars on Instagram, vacations in Dubai, “soft life” captions, all while he sat in a cramped room eating noodles. Pressure was louder than reason, envy burned hotter than hunger.

But just as his finger pressed closer, about to make a decision he wasn't sure of, his mother’s voice echoed in his head, “All that glitters is not gold. Some roads are smooth only because they lead to graves.”

He paused. His hands trembled, he locked the phone and buried his face in them.
Then slowly, tears came... not of weakness, but of war.

That night, he dreamt of a garden. Trees stood tall, but none bloomed at the same time. The mango bore fruit while the guava stood bare; yet when its season came, the guava was heavy with sweetness while the mango rested.

When he woke, the lesson hit him: life is in turns. All fingers are not equal, but each one has a purpose.

Chuka smiled faintly. The rush to “get rich quick” almost stole his peace, but he now understood:
🌿 Wealth without process becomes poison.
🌿 The pressure of comparison is a thief of destiny.
🌿 If you keep watering your own ground, your season will surely come.

He whispered to himself, “I’d rather rise slow and last long, than rise fast and burn out.”

And for the first time in a long while, hope, not envy; sat in his chest, smiling.

The image used is mine.