Chapter 35: The toll of Success

“Let go of anger; let go of pride. When you are bound by nothing, you go beyond sorrow.” 

— Dhammapada, Verse 221

  If you have a burning desire to discover your true self, that relentless passion will guide you to the most unexpected places, thrusting you into astonishing situations and connecting you with the most extraordinary people.

The plane's engines hummed as Lithuania disappeared beneath the clouds, each mile widening the gap between Alex and everything familiar. In his lap, a worn leather journal held fragments of his past—spiritual therapy notes, meditation insights and hard-won wisdom from almost two years of self-healing. But something else occupied his thoughts: the dream that had woken him in a cold sweat the night before departure—ancient temple bells ringing in a place he'd never seen, their sound sharp with warning and welcoming at the same time. His fingers found the mala beads around his neck, their smooth surfaces worn from countless hours of forgiveness meditation. As he touched each bead, an inexplicable sensation rippled through his body—a subtle vibration that his spiritual teachers might have called an awakening, but felt more like a premonition.

The African coastline emerged through scattered clouds, and Alex felt a familiar tightening in his chest—the same sensation he'd experienced during his breakdown in Lithuania. Only this time his thoughts carried a different message: not of ending, but of something massive approaching, like thunder before a storm. The Accra night humid air hit him like a thick velvet curtain, intense with unspoken possibilities and hidden dangers. The internal tremors in his body had no explanation, as if preparing for some unnamed challenge. Standing in the immigration queue at the Ghana airport, the same tremor returned—subtly insistent, quiet but relentless, like pressure building behind a sealed door.

Leaving behind the cold, fluorescent glow of the airport fading into the distance, Alex’s new colleagues drove through the vibrant, electricity-soaked pulse of Accra, where the streetlights flickered like a cluster of stars leading into the unknown. The streets teemed with voices—vendors shouting, laughter rippling from passersby—and the fabrics of colorful ankara blurred past the car windows like a living kaleidoscope. Smoke from food stalls drifted into the night air, releasing the scent of fried plantains, spicy groundnut sauce, and smoked tilapia, all mingling with the heat rising off damp asphalt. Each aroma and sound seemed to beckon Alex deeper into the city’s heart, echoing the restless throb of his own heartbeat.

They stopped at a sports bar, its wild energy and neon lights pulsing distinct from the endless sea of Accra’s glow. Each rhythmic thump resonated with a strange, deep tempo that Alex had felt in his morning meditation—as if the city were breathing in sync with the rhythm of his own exploding silence.

Kęstas, his new boss, reigned at the center of the table like a planet pulling everything into his orbit; his expensive watch glinted in the neon light, mirroring the bar’s chaos as he lazily gestured to the waitress, his movements cloaked in an ominous calm. "This is how we do things here," he announced, a smile played on his face, for some reason ghostly and unconvincing, as his eyes—wide, unblinking—held an eerie stillness, as if watching something no one else could see. Something in his voice tone made Alex’s healed instincts tremble—a subtle dissonance between words and body language. A familiar pattern, echoing his childhood memories of adults who say one thing and mean another.

“So, what brought you to Ghana?” asked Thomas, his new colleague, his eyes alert despite the late hour. His voice carried a faint Lithuanian countryside accent, laced with cautious curiosity, as if he were trying to figure Alex out while keeping a safe distance. He sat leaning back, legs crossed, one hand’s fingers nervously tapping the table—a habit Alex had noticed whenever the conversation turned to work. “New beginnings, opportunities?” Tomas added, one eyebrow raised, as if he already knew Alex’s response would be as rehearsed as his own.

Alex’s prepared answer about fresh starts and opportunities died in his throat. Instead, he studied Tomas’s face—tanned, with faint wrinkles around the eyes that spoke of years spent observing more than he ever voiced. “Have you noticed how Kirk talks about the numbers?” Thomas asked quietly, his gaze briefly flicking toward him, who was gesturing to the waitress. “They never add up, but there’s always an explanation. Always.” His voice held a bitterness mixed with resignation, as if he’d seen this game too many times to bother resisting anymore.

Alex only nodded humbly, while trying to process what the hell he was talking about. Tomas took a sip of his drink, his eyes meeting Alex’s for a moment, as if searching for an ally, before quickly sliding away. “I asked about the discrepancies once. Just once,” he said, his voice dropping even lower. “Now my name’s on their list. You know how it is here—ask too many questions, and you’re no longer part of the team.” His words hung in the air, a warning wrapped in collegial banter.

In that moment, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over Alex, akin to what he’d felt during his most intense Ayahuasca ceremonies. The city lights below, visible through the sports bar’s terrace, seemed to pulse with hidden meaning, as if trying to convey something just beyond his grasp. Tomas, noticing Alex’s silence, offered a smile—friendly but tinged with sadness, as if he could see Alex’s path more clearly than Alex himself.

"An opportunity to experience and build something new," Alex replied trying to keep the conversation going, the words feeling both true and insufficient. Kirk's response came with a smile that triggered Alex's old hypervigilance.

"Aren't we all looking for that?" The words hung in the air like smoke, carrying undertones that Alex's trauma-trained senses couldn't ignore. ‘’To new beginnings,’’ Kirk declared, raising his juice in a toast. ‘’To our new family member.’’

The word “family” lingered between them like a silent warning dressed as a welcome.

Alex had enough experience with toxic family dynamics to recognize, from the very first moments, the hidden agendas—when belonging comes with conditions. Yet he dismissed all his subtle concerns and warnings: “It’s just the start in a new place, and what do I know?” He promised himself to do everything he hadn’t done before, no matter what—he wouldn’t stop until he reached his goal.

The journey to his new workplace became a daily immersion in a world that assaulted his senses, making Lithuania fade like a distant memory. The kpakpakpa of Ghana's streets swallowed him whole—a living, breathing symphony of survival. Each sensation demanded his complete presence, just as his meditation teachers had taught, but with an intensity that felt almost prophetic. During his morning practices, strange sensations would ripple through his body—energy currents he couldn't explain, accompanied by visions of temples and ceremonies he'd never witnessed. The heat outside was unbearable, the air thick, as if breathing hot sand. Children, barely tall enough to peer over car windows, darted between vehicles like small shadows, their tiny hands outstretched with a silent plea in their eyes. Mothers, graceful as dancers, balanced enormous basins on their heads, brimming with packs of water, sparkling bottles of soda, and colorful snacks; their movements pulsed with a familiar yet almost miraculous rhythm. Each scene stirred memories of his own childhood poverty, igniting a deeper realization that these streets held a wisdom his Western mind was only beginning to grasp.

After three weeks training in Accra. Alex had accepted a management position with a scrap metal company in Takoradi branch. The scrap metal business revealed itself gradually, like a photograph developing in darkroom chemicals. Success came quickly—too quickly, perhaps. His natural ability to connect with dealers and generate innovative ideas expanded earnings beyond expectations. Yet each victory carried a shadow, a burden that settled in his chest during morning reflective meditations. The dreams became more frequent: temples he'd never seen, ceremonies he'd never attended, voices speaking in languages he didn't understand but somehow comprehended.

"You're different from other obronies,” (translation: foreigner) a local bar owner, told him during his evening walks on Coconut Bay. The comment struck a deeply buried chord in Alex’s heart—his empathy, once a crushing burden, had blossomed in Takoradi into a rare gift, connecting him with the local people across cultural boundaries and social divides. Yet this same sensitivity made him acutely aware of the undercurrents of wickedness flowing beneath the surface of their operations. At first it felt the company rewarded his success generously: a beachfront apartment, a car, a motorcycle, a driver, a cook—all the trappings of ex-patriate success. But at night, alone in his luxury apartment, the dreams intensified. He'd wake in cold sweats, his body humming with energy he couldn't explain, the mala beads by his bedside vibrating with an almost electrical charge. During his morning meditations, a sense of ominous approach grew stronger in Alex’s heart—like distant thunder growling before a storm, yet refusing to break. His spiritual practice, once a source of peace and clarity, had become a mirror reflecting uncomfortable truths that made him flinch. In the quiet pre-dawn hours, seated on his meditation cushion, he felt pulses of energy flowing through his body—each one carrying whispers he avoided deciphering, clinging instead to the hollow comfort of factory routine.

Yet questions—clear and inescapable—began to crystallize in his mind:

Why am I surrounded by people whose intentions lurk in an invisible background, without boundaries or respect?

What lesson lies hidden within this unsettling riddle?

The realization of the business's true nature trapped Alex between two competing realities, each pulling at different parts of his soul. On one side lay his desperate need to prove himself—to finally achieve the financial independence that would buy him time to finish his book, to transform his suffering into wisdom that could help others. The other reality held his moral compass, spinning wildly as it tried to find true north in a landscape of normalized corruption.

“Just focus on your work at the factory,” Kirk, Alex’s new Boss, would repeat during their meetings—his words sounding like a curtain, hiding the true nature of the business. Whenever Alex dared to ask about the factory’s murky processes, Kirk would cut him off with a dismissive smirk, as if he were still green—as if Alex’s curiosity were an insult to his ten years of experience.“ You still don’t understand the nuances of this business,” he would say, his tone laced with a syrupy authority that made Alex feel small, as if his voice were nothing but noise in the wind. Meetings, once open and straightforward, quickly began to cast shadows—shadows dancing with secrecy and ignorance that gnawed at Alex’s thoughts, signaling that he wasn’t being taken seriously.

The manipulation revealed itself in layers, like peeling an onion of deception. When shipments exceeded targets, questions would arise about methodology. When processes improved, suspicions would surface about his motives. "Are you sure you're checking your workers properly?" Kirk would ask, his voice carrying the authority of unspoken accusations. "Things work differently here in Africa." The constant invalidation of his experiences, the subtle questioning of his competence—it was all designed to keep him off-balance, searching for approval that would never come.

During his morning meditation sessions, sitting before the ocean view that now felt more like a gilded cage, Alex confronted the painful truth: he had mistaken colleagues for friends and professional courtesy for genuine connection. The same childhood wounds that had made him hungry for belonging now revealed themselves in his eagerness to overlook red flags, to accept the subtle mockery and boundary violations that preceded larger moral compromises.

“We’re like a family here,” Kirk’s words, meant to kindle warmth and trust, instead stirred Alex’s deeply buried wisdom about toxic family dynamics. Yet the illusion of belonging blinded him, lowering his vigilant guard. Instead of questioning, as he had done before, he bowed his head, acquiescing to imposed expectations, as if ignoring the wisdom of more experienced colleagues. Realizing that his dreamed-of rebirth—woven through years of personal practices, steeped in self-worth, respect, and acceptance—had been betrayed, Alex felt his heart withdraw from his so-called colleagues, like a ship departing a stormy harbor. He turned his gaze to what set his soul ablaze—authentic aspirations whispering of a life true to his essence.

But the damage was done. His morning routines began to falter, and the manuscript, once pulsing with life, gathered dust in a drawer. Old doubts, like creeping shadows, returned, whispering that he was a failure, clueless about the job he was hired for. His tantra teacher’s voice echoed in his memory, sharp as steel: “Notice how your desire to be accepted makes you vulnerable.” This “family” operated on the same deceitful principles as the old one—conditional love laced with passive aggression, ever-shifting expectations, and the constant threat of withdrawn approval. Material comforts were mere glittering traps, ensnaring him in a web of manipulation where, seeking not only his own good but that of others, he became prey to those he called his own.

This realization dimmed Alex’s emotional dawn, and his double life began to drain his strength. By day, he wandered a labyrinth of impossible expectations and shifting goals, where his leadership and empathy, once a healing gift and obviously a treat to somebody now painfully exposed the psychological warfare waged against him since his first agency interview. Each meeting became a test, demanding he maintain composure as his reality was systematically dismantled. Fragile wounds, barely healed, reopened, bleeding with loneliness and self-loathing. Knowing he was not what was imposed upon him, the mockery and rejection pierced his heart like sharp daggers, leaving him stumbling in a darkness where hope and determination once shone.

First came the weed, procured quietly by his driver—just to quiet the constant parade of unmatching numbers in his head, just to silence the gnawing suspicion that every successful deal would reveal another inexplicable shortage. Then the stimulants, not to handle workload, but to maintain the hypervigilance his position as a branch manager demanded—checking loads of materials and rechecking figures, scrutinizing every transaction, meeting dealers, looking after almost 50 – 60 workers, trying to spot the sleight of hand before it happened. His body, and attained mind stillness once purified by years of spiritual practice, became a battlefield of competing chemical substances again. The same patterns he'd worked so hard to break in Lithuania now resurfaced after being clean for more than 2 years with devastating familiarity. Each morning brought a new mathematical puzzle, another inventory count that didn't match the previous day's records. Despite his meticulous organization and careful oversight, numbers seemed to have a life of their own, shifting and changing like desert sands. Alex felt the ground slipping from under his feet as addiction crept into his life—a shadow he couldn’t outrun. Each visit to his colleagues turned into a perilous ritual—every Friday, they gathered as if for a weekend prayer, raising mugs and shots, then smoking or using drugs, getting drunk and wasted in the haze of Accra, which further blurred the boundaries of friendship. This cycle allowed Alex to slide deeper all too easily, temptation becoming a constant companion that drowned his resolve. Back in Takoradi, alone in the silence, solitude only reinforced his habit, with no one to pull him from the abyss.

As, contradictions tore at his sense of competence. How could someone newly found to be so meticulous repeatedly fail to notice these discrepancies? The question gnawed at him, pushing him deeper into a despair of confusion, with substance dependency at his side—not to manage work hours, but to suppress the growing conviction that he was trapped in a game whose rules he hadn’t yet fully grasped. Each high became a fleeting escape, a temporary shield against the chaos unfolding within.

Each high became a fleeting escape, a temporary shield against the chaos unfurling within.

The breakthrough didn’t come as a clean moment of enlightenment—it arrived through a tangled sequence of events. Still raw, drained by months of relentless psychological torment since his last meeting in Accra with people called colleagues, Alex reached a tipping point. It happened during a routine lunch at “Bistro22,” when his boss bluntly ordered, “Then get the fuck out of here!” if he didn’t like it—a moment when something snapped. Without finishing his burger and beer, Alex stood up. “Thank you,” he said in a firm voice, feeling neither anger nor fear, only a deep realization of the cycle he’d been trapped in, letting others treat him like shit! as they pleased without consequence. The situation was delicate: it was his boss, a superficial tyrant whose mask of authority had just shattered.

In that instant, any remnant of respect or loyalty Alex still harbored evaporated—sucked dry by the ruthless game and the feigned respect that turned his stomach. This wasn’t a leader but a stumbling husk, manipulating facts like a player feeding on others’ confusion and emotions—every word carefully aimed to provoke, not resolve. And his concern? A sham, laced with a mocking smile that froze the soul, lasting only as long as you served his aims.

To Alex, the boss’s dominance rang like an empty roar, a hollow skull devoid of substance. His power, a mask built on deception, hypocritical loyalty, and emotional manipulation, crumbled under Alex’s piercing gaze and quiet gratitude. He had simply set a boundary of respect—Alex had done nothing to deserve such treatment, especially alongside colleagues who couldn’t even address him by name. Their feeble protests faded behind him as he walked away, their attempts at reconciliation bouncing off his newfound clarity. In that moment, Alex understood because setting those boundaries that day, he signed his death warrant within the company.

Stepping out of Bistro22, something greater stirred within him—a refusal to partake in his own deception, and it felt good. He saw clearly how these people, posing as friends, were ensnared in a cycle of fear and control, cloaked in what was sold as success: theft, lies, fact-twisting, mockery, cold-heartedness, and questioning reality. “Who could be loyal to that?” Alex didn’t doubt; he was alone, and there was a reason for it. He knew exactly what he didn’t want to become.

The day, Alex refused to be loyal to this corruption he promised himself that no matter what, he would find a way to reach his goal. A promise he gave himself way before Africa.

As expected, the response was swift and treacherous. Discrepancies in stock numbers multiplied exponentially, missing exports surfaced at different stations, and records appeared with staggering sums for brokers he’d never seen. His competence was questioned even more through tasks his own colleagues didn’t know how to resolve. The spreading smear campaign began with whispers. Each new crisis drove him deeper into his addictions, until one morning, staring at his dilated pupils in the bathroom mirror, he recognized his own complicity in his unravelling.

His morning meditation sessions, when he could still manage them through the chemical fog, became confrontations with his unintegrated shadow self. His writing project long forgotten. The mala beads felt heavy again with accusation, frustration and anger: how had he let himself become this person again? The spiritual insights that had once flowed freely now had to fight through layers of synthetic consciousness. He became neurotic and withdrawn, his mind a tangled web of doubts and fears, unraveling under the pressures of his own relentless thoughts. Yet somehow, through the haze of realizations, a new understanding emerged.

Every time back in Accra, conversations died mid-sentence when he entered rooms. His colleagues' eyes would shift away, their bodies turning slightly as if to close their circle. During mandatory visits to the capital station, he watched his boss practice feigned vulnerability, noting how each performance was designed to spill mistrust, create dependency and doubt. Thanks to his drug-induced numbness, Alex could care less—he knew his goal, and that was the only thing that mattered.  Still reluctant to seem like a strange recluse, trying to please and blend in with the crowd, these gatherings inevitably turned into nights at strip clubs, fueled by alcohol and drugs—each night a test of Alexs resolve, each morning a choice between silencing himself or staying true to his awakening truth.

Soon his hypervigilance, amplified by stimulants yet dulled by cannabis, transformed into something else—a strategic awareness. Every subtle manipulation, every calculated slight, every gossip, every orchestrated crisis—he began documenting them all, creating a paper trail even as he battled his own chemical dependencies. His journal entries became a strange mix of strategic observation and addiction awareness: "Pattern noted: Crisis manufactured after successful deal. Purpose: Destabilization. Personal response: Two Ritalin pils to push through, three joints to come down. This isn't sustainable. Need new strategy. Alex you need to remember who you are?"

For two unyielding years, Alex devoted himself to work—enduring grueling labor, the mockery of those around him, and concealed facts, yet still holding onto a faint hope of reward for his efforts. He was prepared for the hardships, expecting at least some financial recognition, something his boss knew all too well could validate his sacrifices. But during the two-year work review, a harsh truth emerged: not only had he not earned more money, but his income had silently dwindled, slipping through his fingers like sand. He wasn’t prepared for this blow of betrayal from his labor. Yet, in that moment, the rising disappointment and the long-smoldering anger in his consciousness merged into a clear realization—he knew that all he needed was patience, for he was steadily advancing toward his goals.

Beneath Kirk’s calculated cruelty, Alex perceived with chilling clarity what years of studying archetypes and sitting in silence had prepared him to see: not just a narcissistic psychopath attuned to emotional fluctuations and starved for validation, but a precisely engineered mechanism of manipulation—born of trauma and sustained by control.

He finally understood the entirety of the “Bank Omato” system: a structure built on deception and domination, one that broke laws—and the spirits of people like him—through distorted facts, addiction, self-loathing, and fear, all in service of a higher profit margin.

"Your workers are stealing from you," Kirk's voice dripped with fake concern. "You're too soft with them. This is Africa—you need to be harder, more suspicious."

Now he understood the corporate philosophy, he heard that all before from all of his colleagues.  ‘’Better to steal than to be stolen from.’’ The familiar accusations twisting realities, only this time, instead of desperately defending himself, Alex felt a strange calm descend. He recognized this moment—it was the same clarity he'd experienced during his breakdown in Lithuania, when truth finally cut through layers of self-deception. Truth was, he could trust more his trained and positioned African assistants than any of his native colleagues. This was the price of his silence, one he was willing to accept, until... he learned to defend his boundaries and stand firm for himself, knowing his own worth.

NEXT WEEK! Chapter 36 : From Ruins, a Path Is Born

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