I saw a billionaire’s diary once. You would be surprised by many of the contents in the pages. They were mostly stories. Short stories. With interesting titles. Involving ordinary characters. At first I wondered why there were more stories than the usual ‘list of things to do.’ Did the owner of the diary give me the wrong book? Or did he hide the ‘list of things to do’ in the stories? Or were these stories themselves codes? I kept my questions to myself as I didn’t know how he would feel if I asked him those questions. I thought he had done a lot already in letting me have his diary. Into which he had poured his thoughts. And captured the way his mind worked.

As I flipped the pages, I came onto the first 5-star story listed in the diary. I left my left index finger between the pages and flipped the other pages to see if there were other stories with a 5-star rating beside their titles. I found several stories but decided to read them carefully. I don’t know why but suddenly I felt like I was in a special place. Authentic billionaires are not frivolous with praises and

commendation. There must be something about the story I was about to read. First it was the title: ‘The Bell Tolls when Rabid Dogs come to lick the open sores of the needy.’ He had written under the title, ‘The announcement of your sudden departure from this world has just been made. Are you ready?’

I told myself I was finally inside a billionaire’s lair. They would not be billionaires if they behaved like normal people. Finally, here was something close to an enigma, that famous dress all authentic billionaires love to wear. I felt the strong pull from the story I was about to read. So I took a deep breath and began to read. Slowly.

Some rabid dogs once prowled the night in a certain village. Constantly disrupting the peace. These dogs were thieves. Scoundrel. Threatening locals and consuming what the frightened locals had left as they fled. But instructively, they never touched the homeless persons who slept in the streets. They avoided the naked like a plague.

One day, they gathered round a certain man who had lived on the streets almost forever. They knew him very well. His open sores, and muted voice asking handouts from the owner of the palatial home beside where he laid, were inescapable. Over the years, the dogs had made several successful raids of the pantry of the gentleman in question.

Suddenly, they began to lick the open sores of the man, giving him comfort. Keeping the irritating flies away. And changing the look on his face.

That night the man died. The following morning his rich neighbour passed away. Rabid dogs. Scoundrel. Lowlifes had just moved the hand of the clock. Suddenly, things were no longer the same.