LOST is an original Lapatutu fiction following Henry’s life journey. All characters, locations, and events in this work are fictional; any resemblance to real entities is entirely coincidental. [Click here if you missed Part 14]

All of life’s vanities share a single, cruel characteristic: they lose all their sweetness the moment consciousness awakens. It is as if the mind finally comprehends what is truly important, realizing how meaningless everything else really is.

When Henry looked at the notification of the 35,000,000 Shanga deposited into his account, for the very first time in his life, he felt none of the usual thrill. He tried. But his mind refused to wander to the things the money could buy. In the face of life’s truest, heaviest emotions—like the deep, suffocating grief he felt right now—money offered no consolation.

That evening, as Henry watched the news, tributes were pouring in for Alex. In many African cultures, it is taboo to speak ill of the dead. Therefore, what often differentiates a genuine tribute from hollow custom is its length and depth. Community members gathered by the hundreds, each sharing personal memories of how Alex had been a listening ear, a helping hand, or a voice of quiet support. It was a pure, genuine expression of love.

It took a heavy toll on him. A sudden dizziness washed over him, followed by a sharp shortage of breath. Reaching for his phone, he managed to dial the medical emergency line tied to his medical insurance scheme, but before he could utter a single word, he collapsed onto his sitting room floor.

He woke up four hours later in a hospital room to the sound of a mechanical beep of a heart monitor. Naila was seated in the corner, holding his phone and managing the incoming calls on Edmond’s orders. Outside, Henry could hear murmurs as Edmond and the Group of Eight discussed campaign logistics. In that moment, surrounded by people who saw him only as an asset, Henry longed for the simple comfort of his mother by his side.

“What happened?” he said slowly, forcing the words out with what little strength he had.

Naila looked over, her expression softening. For all their professional distance, she had been genuinely terrified when the emergency call came through.

“You’re in the hospital. You collapsed at home. But the doctors say you’re going to be okay.”

He asked for his phone.

“I don’t think you should make any calls now,” Naila responded, her tone soft enough not to sound imposing.

“I just want to listen to something.”

Believing him, she handed him the device. With slow, unsteady fingers, he scrolled through his messages until he found the file—a voice note Janine had sent months earlier on Henry Junior’s baptism day.

He tapped play.

“Uncle Henry, Uncle Henry, you are wonderful! You are special. We all love you! And we miss you, but we know you had to work. Just make sure you get some rest. May God always protect you. Bye-bye, Uncle Henry! Ga… ga… ga…” The innocent babble of his baby nephew ended the recording.

He had only listened to the message once when it first arrived. But in this hospital room, those voices were the only true comfort he had felt in days. He hit replay. Then replay again.

As the quiet laughter of his family filled his ears, tears rolled silently down his face.

Lying in that bed, exhausted and broken, he realized he didn’t have the strength to stay in the Governor’s race—and more than that, he simply didn’t want to anymore.

He decided he was dropping out. Looking at the state he was in, he was certain even Edmond would see it and understand.

But the tragedy of manipulative relationships is this: when one person finally reaches their absolute breaking point, the other is only just getting started.

After a few moments, the handle clicked, and Edmond stepped into the room.

“You gave us quite the scare, Governor!” Edmond said, his voice unbothered by the hospital situation.

Henry managed a weak, hollow smile in return.

“The doctor says your blood pressure just spiked,” Edmond said, understating the near-fatal collapse as if it were nothing more than a passing headache. “But that’s the beauty of modern science—they’ll give you a shot, and by morning, you’ll be as fresh as ever! You will be all set for nomination!”

There was a brief, heavy silence. In the corner of the room, Naila wore a look of utter shock. She had seen Henry’s condition when he was brought in and was certain there was no way he would be okay in a few hours.

“Edmond… I don’t think I can make it.”

The words felt unnatural on his tongue. In all their years together, Henry had never once pushed back against Edmond’s directive. Never. But a profound helplessness had taken root inside him—and utter exhaustion has a way of stripping away fear.

Edmond stared at him in silence. He turned to Naila, gesturing for her to wait outside.

When the door clicked shut, Edmond stepped closer, speaking not too loudly and yet with full authority.

“You are going to be nominated tomorrow, Henry. There is no question about that.”

Henry kept his eyes closed.

The sound of his blood pressure monitor began to quicken.

Edmond saw it and instantly pivoted, softening his voice.

“Look, I know you’ve been through a lot,” he said, his tone dripping with quiet sympathy. “It’s heavy. We were actually planning to send you to Europe for a full medical retreat after this—we just thought it was best to wait until nomination was behind us.”

When people like Edmond can no longer hide the damage they’ve caused, they sell you a future where your well-being comes first. Yet basic logic asked the obvious question: if the breakdown is happening right now, why is the remedy always scheduled for later?

Henry remained silent.

With nomination only hours away, Henry ran through every scenario in his head. None of them ended with him standing in front of the electoral board. It was then that he remembered something else he had seen on the news—the angry voters shouting into microphones, promising to boycott the polls entirely. He shared this with Edmond, hoping he could also see that being a part of the election would really be a sham.

But Edmond’s smile didn’t waver; if anything, it widened.

“Oh, that was the best news we could ask for, Henry,” he said softly. “I saw that too. A boycott means lower turnout. All you need is the legal minimum of ballots cast, and you walk straight through. Can’t you see that this is your advantage?”

It was staggering. The exact same tragedy—the community’s grief and rebellion—was being viewed by Edmond as nothing more than a mathematical shortcut to power.

Realizing Henry was firm in his stance, Edmond pressed harder. He decided to play the money card. They had hoped to hold this back for later, but even for the Group of Eight, the plan had taken an unexpected turn.

He leaned closer. “Besides, the financiers already disbursed the campaign funds. You’ve already spent the money. How do you expect to pay it back if you don’t stand?”

The blood pressure monitor started screaming again, giving off a frantic alarm. Naila got up in concern, looking for any way she could help. A nurse hurried into the room to attend to Henry.

“Let’s allow the patient some time to rest,” she said, administering extra medication through his IV line.

“There is no time to rest, woman!” Edmond barked back in anger, while stepping out the door.

At exactly nine in the morning, under a heavy downpour, the Miraje Electoral Board official called the lone candidate for the governor’s seat. Supported by crutches, Henry dragged himself toward the podium. He stretched out a hand to take the papers, but just as his fingers reached for them, one of his crutches slipped on the wet concrete step.

He hit the concrete hard.

The officials from the Electoral Board quickly came to assist him. From the floor, he looked over at the tent set up for invited guests. Edmond and the Group of Eight were nowhere to be found, even after guaranteeing they would be there by his side. And his own family had stayed home—an act of solidarity with the village boycott.

He was entirely, utterly alone.

He began to wail—a loud raw, helpless sound echoing from the depths of his heart into the pouring rain.

“NOOOO… NOOOO… NOOOO…”

On the third cry, his eyes snapped open and his face was drenched in tears.

A nurse was leaning over him, her hands steadying his shoulders as the heart monitor screamed.

“Mr. Henry, calm down,” she urged softly, adjusting the IV line. “You’re safe. You’re in the room.”

It was 5:39 AM. About three hours to nomination time. He was still in the hospital bed, the digital clock glowing silently on the wall. Naila was standing near him, having been awakened by his loud cry. A small tear rolled down her left cheek as she watched Henry in that state.

Henry stared up at the ceiling, the nightmare still ringing in his ears.

“I’m so sorry, Henry,” she whispered into the quiet room. “Edmond says you will not stand.”

The news brought a sudden, hollow relief—he wouldn’t have to walk back onto those steps. But Naila’s face told him there was more. She sat at the edge of her chair, her hands trembling slightly in her lap.

“You have to pay back Edmond’s money,” she said.

This was a hard pill to swallow, but Henry quickly worked out he would sell the VX immediately and repay the money. But when Naila mentioned the amount, it was inclusive of an unbelievable interest. She had spent months also serving as Edmond’s enforcer, but seeing Henry like this—hooked to monitors at 5:39 AM—her humanity finally caught up to her.

“It’s 375,000,000 Shanga, Henry.”

The pressure monitor started screaming again.

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© An original Lapatutu Story.

Henry is about to find out how quickly people like Edmond drop you when you no longer serve their interests. See you next Wednesday.