Overpaid writer

Mumbo leaned back in his chair, staring at the glowing screen in front of him. The tiny apartment that once felt like a cage now felt alive with purpose. He had transformed his corner desk into a sanctuary, cluttered with notebooks, pens, and empty coffee cups. His laptop, the second-hand device he once saw as a symbol of his failure, had become his most prized possession.

Every night, Mumbo wrote. His fans devoured his chapters, commenting on every twist and turn of his life story. They loved his raw, unfiltered honesty and the humor he laced into his pain. The irony of his life was not lost on him; the same rejection and suffering that had once crushed him were now his biggest assets.

Unbeknownst to him, his fans' admiration wasn't just in words. Slowly, contributions began trickling into his account through the platform's monetization system. At first, Mumbo thought it was an error. When he checked his balance one evening and saw a figure larger than anything he had ever earned at the construction site, his jaw dropped.

"This can't be real," he muttered.

But it was. Over the following weeks, the money kept growing. Sponsorship offers arrived from brands wanting to advertise in his stories. Mumbo was finally earning not just a living but something that resembled a small fortune. He didn't tell anyone—not out of secrecy, but because he was still trying to grasp it himself.

While Mumbo was starting to see light at the end of his tunnel, shadows loomed over his family back home. His parents, who lived on a small piece of ancestral land in the countryside, had been struggling to keep up with payments on a loan. Years ago, in their unwavering belief in Mumbo's potential, they had mortgaged their land to pay for his university tuition. The land was their lifeblood, used for farming and their main source of income.

When the eviction notice came, it felt like the ground had been pulled out from under them. Mumbo's father, a proud but aging farmer, sat on their wooden porch with the letter in his trembling hands. His wife, Mumbo's mother, leaned over his shoulder, her face lined with worry.

"What do we do now?" she whispered, her voice cracking.

He sighed heavily. "We talk to people who can help. Maybe…" He hesitated, knowing how sensitive the topic was. "Maybe I can ask Cousin Patrick for assistance. He works in the government. He might have connections to help us renegotiate with the bank."

His wife's lips thinned, but she nodded. "Do what you have to do. But don't tell Mumbo. He's already struggling. He doesn't need this burden."

The next day, Mumbo's father made the journey to the city to see Patrick. They hadn't spoken in years, but Patrick was family, and family always helped—at least, that was what Mumbo's father believed.

Patrick welcomed him with a handshake that felt more like a formality than a gesture of warmth. He ushered him into his office, a space filled with leather chairs and an air of arrogance.

"So, Uncle," Patrick said, leaning back in his chair, "what brings you here after so long?"

Mumbo's father explained everything—the loan, the eviction notice, the years of sacrifices they had made to ensure Mumbo got an education. He ended his plea with a simple request: a connection, a word in the right ear, anything that could buy them more time.

Patrick listened, a faint smirk playing on his lips. When Mumbo's father finished, Patrick laughed—a cold, dismissive sound that echoed in the room.

"You mortgaged your land for *what*? For that son of yours? The one who's working in construction?" Patrick shook his head. "Cousin, forgive me, but that's stupidity. Ancestral land is sacred. You gambled it away on a boy who wasn't even bright enough to make something of himself?"

Mumbo's father's face flushed with shame, but he held his ground. "Patrick, he's our son. We believed in him. We still do."

"Belief doesn't pay debts," Patrick said, leaning forward. "You should've invested in something tangible, not in dreams. Look at where you are now—begging for help."

Mumbo's father stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "I came here because I thought family mattered to you. Clearly, I was wrong."

Patrick shrugged. "I'm a realist, Cousin. Family or not, I can't help people who don't help themselves."

Without another word, Mumbo's father left, his heart heavy with humiliation. When he returned home, his wife didn't ask what had happened. She could see the defeat in his eyes.

Back in the city, Mumbo was unaware of the storm brewing in his family's life. He was engrossed in his writing, unaware that his success had begun to spiral into something bigger than he had imagined. His stories were trending on social media, his name becoming a buzzword among readers who found solace in his tales of hardship and resilience.

One evening, as he checked his emails, a new message caught his eye. It was from a major publishing house, offering him a book deal. They wanted to turn his online series into a novel.

Mumbo leaned back, his mind racing. Was this real? Could his words, born out of his darkest moments, truly be worth something?

As the excitement bubbled inside him, his phone rang. It was his mother.

"Mumbo," she began, her voice strained, "I need you to come home."

"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed.

She hesitated, then said, "It's about the land. We're being evicted. Your father didn't want me to tell you, but…" Her voice broke. "We're out of time."

The words hit Mumbo like a freight train. The land. The place where he had grown up, where he had taken his first steps and dreamed his first dreams. He had been so consumed by his own struggles that he hadn't realized his family was fighting a battle of their own.

"I'm coming," he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

As he hung up, Mumbo stared at his laptop. His fans were waiting for the next chapter, the publishers were waiting for his response, but none of that mattered now. His family needed him.