I continued,
“I’m not giving you the money in hand. We are going to create a new company. You choose the name. You, with your experience and knowledge, will be the CEO responsible for all operations. You will have twenty percent of the company’s shares. I will be the anonymous investor with eighty percent of the shares. I will not interfere in your area of expertise. I only demand one thing—a weekly financial report and the final goal: Zolani’s company has to go bankrupt.”
I handed him a contract I had already prepared. I had everything planned.
“This five hundred thousand dollars,” I pointed to the contract, “will be transferred as soon as the new company is established. Two hundred fifty thousand to pay your debts and build the new factory. Two hundred fifty thousand to negotiate with the Japanese partners. Can you do it?”
Malik, trembling, read the contract quickly. The clauses were clear and fair. To a man about to drown, a golden life raft had suddenly been thrown.
He raised his head, his eyes filling with tears—not of weakness, but of a man who had been oppressed for too long.
“Kemet…” He clenched his fists. “Do you trust me that much?”
“I don’t trust you,” I said coldly. “I trust your hatred. I believe that a talented man stabbed in the back by his best friend, who stole everything from him—including his wife—will never forget that debt. I am investing in your hatred. Don’t disappoint me.”
Malik squeezed his hands tightly, veins bulging. He nodded determinedly.
“Agreed. I accept. I, Malik, swear to you that I will use this half million and my own life to drag that scoundrel Zolani to hell. I will make him kneel and beg.”
I nodded.
“Great. Then choose the company name.”
Malik thought for a second, looked at me, and looked out of the workshop.
“Phoenix LLC,” he said finally. “We, the two of us, will be reborn from the ashes.”
“Phoenix…” I murmured to myself. “An excellent name.”
I extended my hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Director Malik. I hope we have a successful partnership.”
Malik squeezed my hand, the handshake of two abandoned people sealing their alliance.
The game of chess had begun.
The first and decisive move had been made.
Six months passed in a blink.
My life was now a completely different picture—one that the Kemet of six months ago wouldn’t even dare to dream of.
Jabari and I lived in our luxury condo with absolute security. I brought my parents from our hometown to live with us. At first, they were in shock, thinking I was involved in illicit business.
I had to explain it very carefully. I didn’t tell the full truth about the lottery. I only said that I had used my last savings. I lied, saying it was the money my mother had given me as a dowry to invest with a friend and that the investment had exploded.
Seeing my secret business prosper, my parents believed me.
They stayed home taking care of Jabari, taking him to and picking him up from an international daycare in the city. Seeing my son happy and healthy, speaking English more fluently, picking up bits of Spanish from his classmates, and seeing my parents comfortable and well fed filled my heart with warmth.
I was no longer the neglectful country bumpkin Kemet. I started taking care of myself. I practiced yoga in a studio downstairs, went to the spa, read books, studied finance and investments. I didn’t want my thirty-six million to sit still. I wanted it to grow, to become the strongest shield for my life and my son’s.
But a part of my mind never rested.
The revenge plan.
Just as I predicted, Malik was a phoenix. With the opportunity, he spectacularly rose from the ashes.
With the five hundred thousand dollars, he worked like a machine. He paid all the debts, rebuilt the workshop, and immediately flew to Japan. With his talent, technical knowledge, and determination, he convinced the Japanese partners and signed an exclusive distribution contract for their latest line of technological products.
Phoenix LLC was born without noise, but it was like a sharp knife plunging directly into Zolani’s company’s weak point.
Every week, Malik sent me reports. I read them as if they were an exciting revenge novel.
First week: Phoenix starts its activity.
Zolani hears the news and laughs with his subordinates.
“That broke Malik still hasn’t learned his lesson. He managed to borrow a few bucks and wants to get back into business. Let’s see how many days he lasts.”
First month: Phoenix launches its first product. Superior quality, modern design, price slightly above Zolani’s product. Clients start to notice. Zolani remains calm, thinking it’s just a low-price tactic to enter the market.
Third month: Malik, using his old contacts and technical reputation, wins his first major contract. The client was one of Zolani’s main ones.
Zolani starts to get irritated, calls the client, insults him, threatens him, but in vain. The client tells him directly,
“Malik’s product is better, the warranty is faster, and the service is excellent. Why would I buy yours?”
Fifth month: The real storm.
Phoenix launches a trade-in program. Clients can turn in their old products—mainly Zolani’s—in exchange for a discount on the purchase of Phoenix’s new products.
It was a fatal blow.
Zolani’s biggest clients, his main distributors, turned their backs on him en masse. They didn’t want to be left with stocks of obsolete products. Orders were canceled in a cascade.
Zolani’s company began to falter. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t grasp how Malik, a man he had crushed, had so much money to play such an aggressive game.
Little did he know that the five hundred thousand dollars I gave Malik was just the beginning. If necessary, I was willing to invest another half million, a million. I didn’t lack money.
What I lacked was the satisfaction of revenge.
Sixth month.
Malik’s report had only one line:
“Zolani has started borrowing money from loan sharks. He has run out of liquidity.”
I read that with immense pleasure.
Why did he run out of money? Because the two million he diverted were invested in Cradle and Sons LLC. He bought real estate, luxury cars, and a house for his mistress. That money was frozen. It couldn’t be withdrawn immediately without raising suspicion.
And his real company, which for years evaded taxes and presented loss reports—how could he ask the bank for a loan with those reports? He fell into his own trap.
I knew Zahara had given birth to a son, but Zolani didn’t have the presence of mind to celebrate. He came home and broke things. He insulted Zahara, calling her bad luck, saying she had cursed him with that pregnancy.
Zahara didn’t hold back.
“You promised me this and that, and now you’re a failure,” she shouted.
Their love nest turned into hell.
The fall was fast and brutal.
When Zolani couldn’t pay the Chinese suppliers, they cut off the supply. When he couldn’t pay salaries, the employees left. When he couldn’t pay the interest to the loan sharks, they went to his company to break everything and foreclose on what they could.
Zolani’s company, after six months of glory next to his mistress, officially declared bankruptcy.
He lost everything.
The day I heard the news, I opened a bottle of sparkling cider on my balcony. I stood there looking at the Atlanta night.
“Zolani, this has only been the appetizer,” I whispered.
Zolani’s downfall was a news item of great impact in the local business press. A young rising director who suddenly went bankrupt in a few months. Rumors spread. Some said he got into gambling, others that he was a victim of a competitor.
That competitor was Malik’s Phoenix LLC.
Only Malik and I knew who the true player behind the scenes was.
Zolani disappeared. He didn’t dare return to the luxury apartment, which was foreclosed by the bank, or to the company now occupied by loan sharks. He, Zahara, and their newborn son had to move to a rented room in a degraded neighborhood on the outskirts of Atlanta.
I thought he would sink forever, but I was wrong.
I underestimated his audacity.
He found me.
He found me in a way I could never have imagined—through my father.
My father, after coming to Atlanta and seeing his rich daughter—even without knowing the source of the money—felt very proud. He used to go to the neighborhood barbershop to show off to his friends.
“My Kemet is a go-getter. She’s a boss now. She lives in a luxury home. She drives a high-end car. That ex-husband of hers was blind,” he would say.
One of those friends was an acquaintance of a distant relative of Zolani’s. The news reached his ears.
“Kemet, the ex-wife, lives in a luxury home. She drives a high-end car. She’s a boss.”
