The Rich Also Cry

Today was one of those rare days when I woke up with absolutely no ambition to conquer the world.

No construction site demanded my attention. No farm crisis required an emergency meeting with a particularly stubborn goat. No long drive beckoned from the driveway.

So I did something I seldom do.

I stayed home.

A cup of coffee, the television, and a slow day seemed like enough adventure.

Sometimes we spend so much of our lives chasing tomorrow that we forget to sit quietly with today.

As I flipped through the news channels, two stories caught my attention. They were unrelated, yet together they seemed to ask the same uncomfortable question.

Many years ago, I remember watching a Mexican soap opera titled The Rich Also Cry. At the time, it sounded almost ironic. Growing up in a modest village, I imagined that wealth was the finish line. Surely, once you crossed it, life became one long holiday interrupted only by deciding where to spend your next vacation.

Age has corrected that youthful assumption.

The first story involved a former Kenya Airways pilot who had once enjoyed considerable success. Listening to him speak about losing his wealth, his family, his home, and now struggling with illness, I could not help feeling a sense of sadness.

I have no idea what really happened behind the scenes.

Every family story has more than one narrator.

But watching someone who once seemed to have everything now publicly speaking of loss was a sobering reminder that success is often far more fragile than it appears.

The second story was even heavier.

The sentencing in the case involving former Migori Governor Okoth Obado brought back memories of a tragedy that first captured national attention years ago. A young life was lost. Families were broken. Children were left to grow up with questions no child should ever have to ask.

The court has now reached its conclusions, but no judgment can truly restore what was lost.

As I watched both stories unfold, I found myself staring less at the television and more at my own thoughts.

What exactly are we chasing?

For much of our lives, we are taught that money solves problems.

Work harder.

Earn more.

Buy a bigger house.

Drive a better car.

Invest wisely.

Build wealth.

There is nothing inherently wrong with any of those things.

In fact, I believe financial stability creates opportunities to care for our families, support our communities, and live with greater dignity.

But somewhere along the journey, many of us quietly begin believing something money was never designed to provide.

We expect it to deliver peace.

We expect it to guarantee happiness.

We expect it to repair broken relationships.

We expect it to silence regret.

That may be asking too much of a currency that was only ever meant to buy goods and services.

Construction has taught me that a beautiful house does not automatically become a happy home.

Farming has taught me that owning land is not the same as cultivating contentment.

Life itself has taught me that the most valuable things rarely appear on a balance sheet.

Trust.

Character.

Health.

Friendship.

A peaceful night's sleep.

The ability to look your children in the eye without shame.

Those things are astonishingly difficult to purchase.

Perhaps impossible.

As I continued watching the news, another thought occurred to me.

We are often experts at envying other people's lives while knowing almost nothing about them.

We admire the house.

We admire the title.

We admire the bank account.

What we rarely see are the quiet battles taking place behind closed doors.

The loneliness.

The family disagreements.

The regrets.

The sleepless nights.

The private tears.

Social media has made this even more difficult.

We compare our ordinary Tuesday afternoon with someone else's carefully edited highlight reel.

It is hardly a fair contest.

The older I become, the less interested I am in asking, "How much does this person have?"

I find myself asking different questions instead.

Are they at peace?

Do their children enjoy sitting with them?

Do they laugh easily?

Can they sleep without carrying the weight of unresolved guilt?

If tomorrow took away everything they owned, what would still remain?

Those seem like better measures of wealth.

I do not pretend to know the full stories behind the people I watched today.

Only they know the roads they have travelled.

Only those close to them know the joys and sorrows hidden from public view.

But their stories reminded me of something I hope I never forget.

Money is a wonderful servant.

It is a terrible master.

It can make life more comfortable.

It cannot make life meaningful.

As evening settled in and I switched off the television, the house became wonderfully quiet again.

The news had reported on billions of shillings, courtrooms, property, and public scandals.

Yet the lesson I carried away was surprisingly simple.

Perhaps the richest person is not the one who owns the most.

Perhaps it is the one who has found peace with what cannot be bought.

Because in the end, wealth may fill our accounts, but it is character, relationships, and a clear conscience that quietly determine whether we rest well when the cameras are finally turned off.

Life has a curious way of reminding us that the richest tears and the poorest tears look remarkably alike once they begin to fall.