Pour 50 millions il a vendu son sommeil, Il est riche mais s’il dort, il meurt.=YRw9_SMTA0w

Every night, Charlie lived like a king. Every morning, he found something in his room that no one would have believed possible. The whole country was talking about him because he had everything: money, fame, women. But behind his smiles and parties hid a secret, a secret too heavy to bear. And the day he forgot the rule, everything changed.

 Here’s how it all began. Charlie was 24 years old. He was a simple young man with only one true pleasure in life: partying. Every weekend, he would get ready with his friends, light-hearted, ready to drink, dance, and forget the difficulties of the week. When he had a little money in his pocket, he would laugh, sing, and enjoy himself to the fullest. But the truth was, that money was scarce.

 Charlie worked here and there. One day, he was a mason’s assistant, another day, a construction worker. Sometimes, he helped unload trucks at the market. Anything that could earn him a few bucks, he did. But it was never enough. When evening came, he counted his coins and wondered if it would be enough to drink at least some beer? There were nights when everything was fine.

 He and his friends would get together, share a little food, drink, and laugh until late into the night. Charlie cherished those simple moments. But there were other nights too, nights when he didn’t have a penny in his pocket. So, while the music from the clubs echoed through the city, Charlie stayed indoors, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

 He imagined the crowd dancing, his friends having fun without him. On those nights, the loneliness weighed heavily on him. Sometimes, to avoid being left out, Charlie did things he later regretted. His mother, sick and tired, kept a few bills hidden in her wardrobe. So, discreetly, he would rummage through them, take two or three, and sneak out.

 He told himself, “It’s just this once, I’ll pay back later .” But deep down, he knew he was hurting the only person he had left. Even when he had a little money, Charlie was just an extra at parties. In clubs, he and his friends went almost unnoticed. He paid for two or three beers, enough to be cheerful, enough to dance a little, but never enough to be respected.

 Because in these places, money didn’t just buy drinks, it bought fame. Charlie saw the difference every weekend. There were kids his own age who would arrive, and suddenly everything would change. The lights seemed to shine brighter for them. The digi would shout their names into the microphone as if they were stars.

 Waiters would rush to place bottles of champagne worth millions on their tables, and all the most beautiful girls at the party would swarm around them like moths attracted to the light. While he drank a warm beer in a corner, Charlie watched with burning jealousy. “Why them? Why not me?” he kept repeating to himself . The worst part was that when he got home, the pain only grew.

 On his little phone, they spent hours looking at their social media profiles. It was another world. A luxurious villa with a pool, a gleaming sports car, trips to Dubai, Paris, New York. A gold watch, a designer suit, made on yachts. Everything he saw tortured him. His friends tried to calm him down. Stop comparing yourself to them, Charlie.

 They’re rich kids . We’re not as lucky. But Charlie refused to accept this idea. He couldn’t bear to hear it. No, I don’t want to stay like this all my life, he kept repeating. One day, people will shout my name in clubs too. One day, I too will be part of what is respected. This obsession grew every day.

 At night, instead of sleeping, Charlie dreamed with his eyes open. He imagined himself sitting in a luxury car, surrounded by beautiful women, distributing money to his friends, drinking the most expensive champagne. In his mind, he already saw another version of himself, the millionaire Charlie, the one everyone would speak. But for now, he had nothing.

 Only jealousy, frustration, and that burning desire that only grew. And it was this desire that would soon lead him through a forbidden door. One day, a new girl shook the whole country. A young man of only 22, known to everyone, had just died suddenly. It was a shock. This boy was not a politician or the son of a great businessman. Yet everyone knew his name. He had left his mark on young people with his extraordinary lifestyle.

 It was said that he paid for plane tickets for his friends, that he offered entire vacations to Dubai, the United States, or Europe. He rented villas, organized extravagant parties, and washed down the evenings with champagne as if the money never stopped flowing. Even those who had never met him knew who he was because he had become a living legend even before his death. On the day of his funeral, all the wealthy youth of the country wore black.

 Tears flowed, cries of pain echoed. But in the midst of this distraught crowd, there was a young man who felt neither sadness nor compassion, and above all, who was not invited. And that young man was Charlie. Charlie wasn’t there to cry. No. What obsessed him was a question that had haunted him for days.

 How could a boy who wasn’t born rich have lived like a billionaire? Charlie knew that this young man didn’t have a powerful family. He wasn’t the heir to an empire. So how had he done it? What was his source of wealth? This question gnawed at him, and he was ready to do anything to find the answer. On the night of the final wake, as the guests continued to arrive, Charlie took a risk.

 He slipped discreetly into the crowd. No one knew him, but he walked with his head down, trying to blend in. Finally, he managed to sit not far from a very particular group: the deceased’s close friends. These young people were dressed elegantly, wearing expensive watches and shiny shoes.

 They looked dejected, but their language betrayed something deeper, a secret. Charlie strained his ears, his heart pounding, and suddenly, he heard a sentence that would change his life. I told him to go slowly, but he wanted too much money too quickly. That’s why he died. Another one immediately chimed in. Masoko’s witch doctor is powerful, but you have to be careful with him.

Charlie felt a shiver run through his body. Masoko, it was the first time he’d heard that name, but he immediately understood that it was the key to the mystery. A witch doctor. So that was it? These rich young men had a secret, and that secret led to this mysterious village. That night, Charlie went home, but he didn’t sleep, lying in bed.

With his eyes wide open, he kept going over what he had heard. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that his chance had just appeared before him. Masoko, I have to go. That’s where my life will change. Days passed. Charlie returned to the construction sites, resuming his arduous, low-paid job. But his mind was no longer the same.

 His colleagues talked about fatigue, salary, survival, but he thought of only one thing: Masoko. And then a few weeks later, fate struck again. On a dusty construction site, while lifting bags of cement, he heard two workers talking. One of them, visibly exhausted by life, blurted out. If life goes on like this, I’ll go see Masoko’s witch doctor there.

You become rich in the snap of a finger. Charlie stopped his gesture abruptly. His ears began to ring. That name again, that village again. It was no longer a coincidence. No, it was a sign. He then realized something essential. The young people who made the whole country dream hadn’t become rich by chance. They had crossed a forbidden door.

A door that led to money, to success, but also to danger. Masoko was hiding a secret. A dangerous secret, an irresistible secret. And Charlie now knew he was ready to do anything to discover it. For weeks, Charlie had only one word in mind: Masoko. Every night, when he closed his eyes, he replayed the scene of the vigil.

 He heard the whispers of the rich young people again. Masoko’s witch doctor is powerful. This name had become an obsession, like a voice he called in the dark. But he knew he couldn’t tell his mother. Sick, exhausted, they already fought every day to survive. She prayed, hoping that God would change their lives. Charlie, however, had stopped believing in it.

 He no longer expected anything from heaven. His salvation, he thought, lay in Masoko. One Sunday morning, his mother went to pray at the neighborhood church. Charlie took advantage of this moment. Heart pounding, he entered her room. In a hell box hidden under the bed, his mother kept her savings. She put aside a few bills for her medication, sometimes for food.

 Charlie hesitated. His hands were shaking, but the temptation was stronger. He took the money, closed the box, and left silently. A few hours later, he was sitting on a bus heading for Masoko. The journey seemed endless. The roads were dusty. The jolts of the vehicle made his whole body vibrate.

 Through the window, he saw more and more remote villages passing by . As the bus drove deeper into the bush, Charlie felt his anxiety grow. What if it was all just a rumor? What if it wasn’t true? What if I was just wasting my time? But another thought kept him from backing down: What if it was true? What if I became rich? As night fell, the bus finally stopped.

 Masoko! The village had a strange atmosphere. The houses were made of beaten earth, the alleys were deserted , and silence hung heavy in the air. When Charlie asked where to find the witch doctor, some villagers looked away. Others discreetly pointed out an isolated house at the end of the path.

 He walked, panting, and arrived in front of an old, dark hut, surrounded by fetishes hanging from the trees. The air was colder, almost stifling. A raucous voice rose from inside. “Come in, young man, I’ve been waiting for you.” Charlie jumped. How did he know he was there? Trembling, he pushed open the door. The witch doctor was sitting on a mat, surrounded by red candles and animal skulls.

 His gray beard hung down to his chest, and his eyes seemed to shine in the shadows. “What do you want, young man?” he asked. ” I want to be rich,” Charlie replied firmly. “I don’t want to suffer anymore.” The witch doctor stared at him for a long time as if reading his soul. Then he sighed. You’re still young. If you work, if you save, you’ll succeed. Nothing falls from the sky. Charlie immediately lost his temper.

 No, I’ve already worked too hard. I want money now. Not in 10 years, not tomorrow, now. The witch doctor smiled slightly. You’re impatient like everyone else who comes to see me. Very well. He stood up slowly and went to get a small calabash. The price will be simple, said Francfa for the ceremony. Charlie blinked incredulously. Only 10 francs. Yes. 10 francs.

Are you ready? Charlie, without thinking, took out a 25-franc coin and placed it in the calabash, saying, “I don’t have 10 francs, just 25.” Then began a week of strange rituals. Every day, Charlie had to stay locked in the hut. She was made to drink ame potions. They sprinkled him with animal blood.

 Incantations echoed day and night, accompanied by the beating of drums. Charlie was afraid, but he held on. Every time fatigue or panic overtook him, he remembered why he was there: to become rich. Finally, after seven days, the witch doctor approached him. His eyes shone brighter than ever. The pact is ready. Listen carefully to my words, for your life depends on it. Charlie sat up tensely.

 Starting tomorrow morning, said the witch doctor, every day a million CFA francs will appear in your room. You will only have to Reach out. But remember this. You must never sleep at night. Never. If you close your eyes at night, your soul will leave your body and you will die in your sleep. Silence fell in the room. Charlie felt his heart race.

 Never sleeping at night was insane, but a million every day was a fortune. For him, who barely earned 20,000 a month, it was like receiving a treasure without hunger. He hesitated for a moment. Then his lips murmured the fatal word. I accept. The witch doctor smiled. So, your destiny has just changed. The day after his return from Masoko, Charlie opened his eyes, still exhausted from a sleepless night.

 He had hardly slept, heeding the witch doctor’s warning to the letter. His eyelids burned, his body demanded rest, but deep down, he knew if he fell asleep, he could die. So, cautiously, he got out of bed and his heart skipped a beat. There, lying on the sheets, was a thick, bulging black leather bag. Trembling, he opened it.

 Inside, a mountain of bills was blazing. Charlie began to count it—one million CFA francs. He let out a cry of joy. He had never seen such a sum with his own eyes. For him, who barely earned 20,000 francs a month on construction sites, it was like finding a priceless treasure. He clutched the bills to his chest, tears in his eyes.

 Without waiting, he went out to buy food: rice, oil, fish, vegetables, and even some sweets. When he got home, his surprised mother asked, “But where did all this money come from? Charlie?” He smiled and replied calmly. “I worked on a construction site in the village. They finally paid.” His mother rolled her eyes, tears in her eyes. Thank you, Lord, you haven’t forgotten us.

 For the first time in a long time, Charlie felt useful, almost heroic. He also bought the medicine his mother had needed for months but had never been able to pay for. She took the pills, relieved, and hugged her son, convinced that God had answered her prayers. But Charlie knew it wasn’t heaven that had answered, it was Masoko.

 The following night, he stayed awake despite his fatigue. His body trembled, his eyes almost closed by themselves, but he held on. He knew the danger was there, in his sleep. And in the morning, a miracle, another bag appeared. Another million. Day after day, money fell from the sky. Charlie quickly got used to it. He bought more and more.

 He gave his mother gifts, paid his neighbors’ bills, sometimes distributed money around the neighborhood. But at night, he was transformed. Charlie became the king of parties. In bars, restaurants, and nightclubs, everyone was shouting his name. He, who once hid in the shadows, was now the star of the place. He ordered the most expensive bottles, popped champagne corks in front of everyone, and laughed his head off. Girls jostled to sit at his table.

Waiters came running. DJs chanted his name into the microphone. On social media, his videos were exploding. He could be seen surrounded by women, dressed in luxury, tossing bills in the air like a king distributing his riches. In a few weeks, his name crossed the borders of his neighborhood. Charlie, yesterday’s poor worker, had become a living legend.

But the more money flowed, the more the criticism grew. For while the crowds applauded him at parties, others began to whisper in the shadows. “How come he still lives with his mother if he’s so rich?” some asked. Why don’t they travel like the truly rich? Others added.

 A million a day is nothing for someone who calls himself powerful. Charlie read her comments, her hurtful remarks. Each word was a sting to his pride. He who had thought he had won everything was discovering a new truth. In this world, you are never rich enough. At first, he tried not to pay attention, but the Jealousy and the comparison he had always harbored came back even stronger.

 A million is huge, he told himself. But a little voice in his head whispered, “What if it’s not enough? What if you could have more?” The parties no longer fulfilled him as much. The girls, the shouting, the lights, it was all starting to seem dull. His gaze turned to those who did better than him, these young people who owned villas, cars worth several hundred million, who traveled the world without counting.

 Charlie, his pride stung, made a decision. He called the witch doctor. His voice was dry, determined. A million a day is small. I want more. The old man burst into anger. What? You dare say that a million a day is small? You don’t know what you’re asking for, Charlie. But Charlie couldn’t hear anything anymore. His ambition had reached a new level.

 I want 100 million a day, not one from me. So the witch doctor agreed, but on one condition. You will never be able to sleep alone again. If you sleep without a witness, a spirit will come and take you. Charlie agreed without thinking. The day after his call to the witch doctor, Charlie woke up impatiently. He had barely closed his eyes from exhaustion because the fear of sleep kept him from falling asleep.

 But that morning, his heart was pounding. On his bed, he saw an enormous leather bag, much bigger than the previous ones. When he opened it, his hands were shaking. Wads of bills gushed out like an endless fountain. He counted millions of CFA francs. Charlie fell to his knees, his throat tight. This was beyond anything he had ever imagined.

 He already knew what he was going to do. The first thing was for his mother. She had always dreamed of a comfortable home, far from the small, precarious dwelling where she had grown old in pain. Charlie brought in the best architects, the fastest workers, and in just a few weeks, a villa sprang from the ground.

 A huge house with white columns, a dazzling red roof, a flower garden, and above all, a blue pool that shone in the sun. His mother couldn’t believe her eyes. She cried, repeating, “Lord, you have answered my prayers.” She still believed that her son had won by the sweat of his brow. She was completely unaware of the dark pact hidden behind its walls. But Charlie didn’t stop there. For himself, he did even bigger.

He bought a billionaire’s villa valued at over $800 million in one of the most luxurious neighborhoods in the country. A dream home with several swimming pools, a private cinema, cars parked like toys in a huge garage, and immense rooms where the light reflected off the imported marble. He filmed everything and posted it on his social networks.

 “I am the son who gave his mother the most beautiful house, and this is mine.” The views exploded. Everyone was talking about him. Soon, Charlie was no longer content to shine in his own country. He began to travel. In Paris, he shopped in luxury boutiques. In Dubai, he boarded yachts surrounded by models. In New York, he threw parties in the most prestigious hotels.

 Each time, these posts set social media ablaze. Thousands of young people envied him. Some admired him, others criticized him, but everyone was talking about him. In the private planes he rented, he never slept alone. He always surrounded himself with his friends, women, and musicians. Even at an altitude of 10,000 meters, he partied. At his house, the parties were legendary.

 Dozens of young people came, dressed in luxury, their pockets full of money that Charlie distributed like candy. The DJs played his name over the microphones. Make some noise for Charlie, the boss. Girls fought to dance beside him. His friends drove cars he had given them: Range Rover, Mercedes, Porsche.

 He himself changed cars almost every week: Bugatti, Lamborghini, Rolls-Royce. Every morning, a new bag appeared in his room, and with it, new follies. Soon, television took an interest in him. He was invited onto sets. In front of the cameras, he smiled and lied. I’m a businessman. I trade, I work in cryptocurrencies, I invest. The public believed him.

 Some saw him as a model of success. Others whispered that his fortune was too sudden, too mysterious. But Charlie didn’t care. He was living his dream. Yet, amidst all this luxury, one truth remained unchanged. He couldn’t sleep alone. Every night, he had to be surrounded. At parties, on planes, even in those villas, he always demanded the presence of his friends or women around him, because he knew that if he fell asleep without witnesses, the spirit would come looking for him. So, he partied endlessly. Laughter, alcohol, music, travel,

money, anything to escape the silence of the night. Charlie had become a legend, but deep down, he had also become a prisoner of his own pact. New York, city of light and excess. That night, Charlie decided to make his mark even bigger. In one of Manhattan’s most exclusive clubs, he threw a huge party.

 Champagne bottles flowed like water, Digis chanted his name into the microphones, and everyone danced around him as if he were a true international star. Charlie laughed, sang, and danced without even wearing a suit. He threw wads of cash into the air, literally drenching the dance floor. Phones filmed every move, every smile. Social media was exploding.

 That night, he wasn’t content with just being rich. He wanted all of New York to know he ruled the night. Around dawn, after hours of partying, he left the club. His gleaming Bugatti was waiting for him outside the entrance, and behind him, a whole line of luxury cars formed an impressive procession: Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris. Everyone knew who was leading this parade.

 Charlie took the wheel, the windows down, waving to the passersby who followed him like a movie star. Arriving at his immense Manhattan villa, he went up to his private suite with two young women who had accompanied him all evening. The room shone with luxury, the king-size bed covered in silk sheets, windows overlooking the city lights, bottles of rare spirits placed on a low table. They drank more, laughed, joked.

 Charlie, drunk with glory and fatigue, collapsed onto the bed, surrounded by his wives who were still laughing out loud. Then little by little, the laughter died down. Fatigue took over. The three bodies lay side by side, slipping into a deep sleep. But Charlie had forgotten the rule.

 The essential rule: Never sleep at night, or at least never sleep without witnesses awake around him. This time, no one was watching. The two women had also fallen asleep . And in the heavy silence of that luxurious room, something invisible approached. The next morning, when the servants entered, the scene froze them. The two women woke with a start, but Charlie didn’t get up.

 His body lay peaceful, as if he were still asleep. But his breathing had stopped. Very quickly, the news went around the world. The media exploded. Charlie died in New York. Rumors flew. The girls drugged him. He was poisoned. It was a settling of scores. Medical investigations were launched, but the tests revealed nothing. No poison, no drugs, no injuries.

 His heart was intact. His body was perfectly healthy. Officially, he had died for no reason. At the funeral, people mourned a man who had left too soon. His friends still drove in the cars he had given them. His former companions, displaying future prospects on social media, and his devastated mother repeated between two semblances: Lord, why did you take my son from me? But the truth, no one knew it.

 No one, except you, me, and Masoko’s witch doctor? Because Charlie hadn’t been killed by the hand of a man. He had been caught up in the price of his pact. The night he dared to close his eyes without protection, the spirit had come and this At one time there was no escape. Charlie had it all. Money, fame, cars, women. But he had built his life on a lie and a reported, overly burdensome pact.

His story reminds us of a simple truth. Everything that comes too quickly leaves even faster . Easy wealth always comes at a price, and often it’s your freedom or your life. To young people dreaming of quick money, never sell your future for a few moments of glory. Build, work, move forward step by step because true wealth isn’t what you show off, it’s what you keep peacefully in your heart.