Chapter 1: The King of Kuala Lumpur Nights
At 28, Ram Ariffin sat at the summit. CEO of Alpha Venture Holdings. A 47th-floor office with a direct KLCC view. An M8 Competition in the garage. A Richard Mille on his wrist. An 8-figure bank account.
But his soul was empty.
That night, at a rooftop bar in Bukit Bintang, the neon lights pulsed purple and blue. The bass shook his chest. Ram sat in the center of the chaos, flanked by four women and three close associates. An RM8,000 bottle of champagne had just been popped.
"Boss, is that Singapore project confirmed?" asked Amir, his COO.
"Confirmed. 200 million. You think I’m playing?" Ram smirked, downing his whiskey neat.
"You’re insane, Ram. 28 years old and holding a 200-million-dollar deal."
Ram laughed. "Money is easy. As long as you don’t have a heart."
He had discarded his heart long ago. At 19, his father died of a heart attack. The family business collapsed after his mother was cheated by a partner. From that moment, Ram decided the world was cruel. If you were soft, you were crushed. So he cut out everything "soft." He discarded faith. He discarded guilt. He discarded love.
All that remained was lust, ego, and cash.
Women? He changed them like clothes.
Alcohol? Every single night.
Gambling? He played poker with billionaires in Singapore, winning or losing 500k as if he were buying a cup of coffee.
Charity? Zakat? "I donate when the PR team tells me to," he’d say.
He called himself the "CEO of Chaos." His Instagram boasted 800k followers. Every caption was about the hustle, the money, and the lack of feelings. University students worshipped him as an idol.
But that night, after everyone left, Ram stood alone in his 50th-floor penthouse. He stared at the glowing lights of KL. A single question echoed in his mind: "Is this it?"
There was no answer.
Chapter 2: The Fall
The following month, everything crumbled.
The Securities Commission revealed that Alpha Venture had been cooking the books. Investor funds—80 million—had vanished. Ram hadn't stolen it, but his CFO had, and Ram never checked. He was too busy partying in Bali at the time.
"Ram, the police want to see you tomorrow," his lawyer called at 2:00 AM. "And Bank Negara has frozen all corporate accounts."
In 48 hours, his empire turned to ash. Stock prices plummeted by 90%. Investors sued. The media labeled him "The Fake Billionaire." His 800k followers dropped to 80k as people unfollowed out of shame for supporting a "scammer."
The women who once clung to him vanished. His "squad" disappeared. His mother called from the village: "Ram, come home. I miss you."
He didn't answer.
He sat in a dark, empty condo. He hadn't showered in three days. He used to sleep with models; now he slept on the hard floor, hugging his knees. He used to drink RM2,000 whiskey; now he drank tap water.
On the fourth night, he reached for a kitchen knife.
"It’s over," he whispered. "Life is pointless."
But his hand stopped two inches from his wrist. Not because he feared death, but because he remembered his mother’s voice from his childhood: "Ram, remember Allah. Even if the world leaves you, He never will."
He laughed hysterically. "Allah? Where was He when I was falling?"
There was no answer.
Chapter 3: The Village of Ulu Yam
His mother came for him. She took a four-hour bus ride from Kedah. She was old, thin, and her hands were rough from working the fields.
"Get up, my son," she said, holding his trembling shoulders. "I won't ask about the money. I’m asking—do you still pray?"
Ram looked down. "No."
She nodded. "Let’s go home. There’s a teacher in Ulu Yam. He doesn't care if you're a CEO or a beggar."
Ram had no choice. His credit cards were blocked. He followed his mother onto a rusty bus, sitting next to an old lady selling traditional cakes.
Ulu Yam was different. A rickety wooden house with a zinc roof. An outdoor toilet. Well water. On the first night, he couldn't sleep. The sound of the crickets was deafening. It wasn't like the hum of a Daikin air conditioner.
Ustaz Hamzah met him on the third day. He was 60, with a white beard and sharp yet gentle eyes.
"You’re Ram?"
"Yes."
"You think you’re far too wicked, don't you?"
Ram remained silent.
"Everyone feels that way when Allah is pulling them back."
The Ustaz didn't give long lectures. He gave Ram work. Digging trenches. Carrying rice sacks for the prayer hall. Washing the bodies of the village dead who had no children to claim them.
On the first day, Ram vomited. He wasn't used to the smell of death. On the seventh day, he wept while washing the body of an 8-year-old boy who died of leukemia. "His mother didn't have the money to send him to the hospital in KL," a lady nearby said. "But she is content (redha)."
Redha. A word Ram hadn't heard since he was 20.
Chapter 4: The Long Night
It was the month of Ramadan. Ustaz Hamzah told Ram to perform Iktikaf (seclusion) during the last ten nights in the village prayer hall.
"No phones. No people. Just you and Allah," the Ustaz said.
On the 27th night, Ram sat alone in the wooden prayer hall, lit only by flickering oil lamps. It was cold. Mosquitoes bit his skin. His stomach growled; his break-fast meal had been nothing but rice and soy sauce.
He tried to sleep, but he couldn't. In his mind, every sin replayed like a high-definition movie. The first woman he abandoned when she got pregnant. The business partner he cheated out of 2 million. His mother, who cried because he didn't visit for five years. His father, who died before he could see his son repent.
"Ya Allah," he whispered, his voice cracking. "If You exist... why did You let me break like this?"
Silence.
Then, the Azan for Subuh echoed from the neighboring village. It was soft. Slow. It wasn't like a club DJ; it pierced straight into his heart.
Ram prostrated. Without knowing the proper ablution or the right prayers, he simply lowered his head to the floor and said: "I am tired, God. Help me."
He cried until he had no tears left. His chest felt light, as if a 100kg stone had finally fallen away.
Chapter 5: A New Name
After Ramadan, Ram went to see the Ustaz.
"Ustaz, I want to change my name."
"Why?"
"Because 'Ram' is dead. I don't know the man sitting in front of you."
The Ustaz smiled. "What name do you want?"
"Rahman. Because I feel that Allah’s mercy (Rahmat) is so vast."
From that day on, he was Rahman.
He never went back to his old life in KL. He sold his Richard Mille and gave the money to his mother to build a new house. He sold the M8 and bought a beat-up van to transport rice to the needy.
He began working with an NGO, traveling to Gaza, Syria, and to the Rohingya. The hands that once signed 200-million-dollar contracts now lifted 10kg bags of rice. The mouth that once spoke filth to women now read the Quran to refugee children.
People from KL would occasionally spot him at the airport, wearing a RM15 T-shirt and flip-flops.
"Wait, aren't you the CEO of Alpha Venture?"
Rahman would smile. "I was. Now, I am a servant of Allah."
Chapter 6: The True CEO
Two years later, Rahman was called back to KL. Not for business, but to speak before 5,000 young CEOs at the KLCC Convention Centre. The forum was titled: "Success Without Soul."
He walked onto the stage. No suit. Just a simple white robe.
"Two years ago, I had a 200-million-dollar deal, a 50th-floor office, and 800k followers," he said. "And now, I have nothing. Except Allah."
The hall went silent.
"I was the CEO of Chaos. My life was a mess of women, alcohol, and gambling. I thought I was the king of the world. But when Allah took those blessings away, I finally realized... I am a slave. And a slave who doesn't know his Master is truly lost."
He told them about the 27th night of Ramadan. About the 8-year-old boy. About his mother’s four-hour bus ride.
"Brothers and sisters, money isn't the problem. The problem is when money becomes your God. The true CEO isn't the one holding a billion-dollar company. The true CEO is the one who masters himself and bows to Allah."
After the talk, 200 people stood up to go pray. A tattooed man wept in the mosque restroom. A young woman in a hijab approached Rahman: "Brother, can you teach me how to start praying again?"
Rahman simply answered: "Start with 'Ya Allah, I am tired.' He is listening."
Epilogue: A Letter to Himself
Tonight, Rahman sits in the Ulu Yam prayer hall. No neon lights. No champagne. Just an oil lamp, the Quran, and his mother’s prayers.
He writes a letter. He doesn't send it to anyone. He keeps it inside his Quran.
"Ram,
Remember when you thought you were the king of the world? You were wrong. The true King is Allah. And He gave you a second chance.
Don't be ashamed of your past. Your 'hell' became the road that led me to Him. If you hadn't fallen so hard, you never would have bowed so low.
Keep guarding your heart. The world will come back to tempt you with money, women, and fame. Tell it: 'I already have my King.'
And when you feel weak again, remember that 27th night of Ramadan. Remember how light you felt when you prostrated and said, 'I am tired, God.'
— Rahman."
~~~~this story not related to each other. Just storytime...
