Look around you, you'll see a tribe that brags and boast about success, giving you an impression of accomplishment but are too afraid to walk the streets of their own land.
There is a particular kind of man and the type is common enough to have become almost invisible through familiarity who will cross oceans and continents and every manner of physical and psychological border in pursuit of money, and who will spend the better part of his productive years accumulating it in someone else's country, and who will remit enough of it home to maintain the appearance of generosity while never remitting enough to disturb the fundamental conditions that made him leave in the first place. he is in China, Malaysia, Singapore, Cambodia, South Africa, Liberia, Ghana and all around the world where systems can be compromised without consequences.
He builds in foreign soil what he refused to plant in his own. He waters another man's garden with the same hands that left his father's compound dry. And then this is the part that deserves the longest examination he returns, or threatens to return, or speaks of home with the tender nostalgia of someone who has carefully ensured that home remains exactly backward enough to make his foreign success look impressive by comparison.
He is not a villain in the cinematic sense. He is something more ordinary and therefore more dangerous than that.
He is a fool with a bank account.