About this book

The Grim Reaper's Last Call

I’d set my drink down. Call the waiter over first. Pay my tab. Even if “times up” means I’m leaving, a hustler doesn’t leave debts. My mum raised me better than that. Then I’d look death in the face. Not scared. Just tired. That 3am, generator-went-off, phone-on-1% kind of tired. The kind where you’ve been fighting so long you forgot what peace even feels like. And I’d say: _“Bro… can I get 30 seconds? Not to beg. Just to breathe.”_ 30 seconds to close my eyes. First face I’d see is my mum. Kneeling by her bed at 5am, whispering prayers over a Bible with cracked pages. Same woman who’d wear her wrapper twice just so I could have shoes for school. She always said “my son will make me proud”. I left home to make that true. Packed one bag, no plan, just faith and hunger. Hunger for food, and hunger to never be poor again. Second face is her. The babe. The one I love but never got loved back the way I love. Lover boy energy, but I grew up where love was earned, not given. So I fight for it. I overthink texts. I stay quiet about the pain because men from my side don’t cry. We hustle. We say “I’m fine” when cash flow is zero and heart is broken. Then I’d open my eyes and tell death: _“I’m not ready. But I’m not angry.”_ I’m not ready because the battle isn’t finished. I left home to fight alone so my mum wouldn’t have to. I’m still fighting not to be poor. Not just broke-poor… poor in love, poor in rest, poor in chances. Every day I wake up and chose the hard road because I want my children to live an easy life and my mother to retire. But I’m not angry because… I showed up. Every single day. When friends left, I stayed. When love didn’t choose me back, I still chose to love soft. When life said “give up”, the boy in me who saw his mum suffer said “we don’t quit. We hustle.” I fought. Not with fists. With long nights, with closed doors, _with a phone full of ideas and an empty bank account, building a company from nothing while everyone told me to “get a real job”_, with “I’ll be fine” I whispered to myself when I wasn’t. I fought so the next generation in my bloodline wouldn’t have to fight the same way. So I’d stand up, straighten my shirt, and say: _“Let’s go. But one thing - leave the light on. Leave it on for my mum, so she knows I didn’t fail her. Leave it on for the girl I loved, so she finds her way without me. And leave it on for the next broke boy from my street… so he sees that fighting alone doesn’t mean dying alone.”_ If I go now, I go as a hustler who never robbed anyone. As a lover boy who loved even when he wasn’t loved back. As a son who tried. As a founder who started with nothing. And if that’s all my story is… then it’s enough.