The little boy, satchel hanging from his head, was walking home from school. He'd spent his transport fare on ice cream. He increased his pace, he did not want to miss his favourite cartoon.
The note lying on the ground, crisp and forlorn, invited. He wanted to ignore it, but then the next passerby would enjoy what should have been his. He thought of all he could buy at break time the next day.
He looked around. Nobody. To be safe, he urinated on it, then picked it with his left hand.
Two yam tubers lay in array beside the money.
A woman materialized from the nearby bush, a smile on her face. One down, two to go. She spoke some words to the items on the ground and went back to her watch.
A prophet, flowing garment helping to keep the road clean, happened along. He glanced at the offering and walked past. Something prompted him to retrace his steps. He walked circles around the items muttering. Then with a shudder, and a leap, he let out a shout.
Phones rang. In minutes, other garment-clad persons arrived. Singing and prayer commenced.
At the height of it, one lady noticed one yam morphing into a human being. Her scream triggered a scamper. When the dust settled, the prophet was alone.
He continued. Even when the boy and his bag were fully formed.
Then the note changed; into a smouldering pot full of eyes. One more round of prayers and both eyes and pot caught fire.
Prophet and boy were walking away when a woman ran out onto the road tearing off her clothes, yelling that she was burning up.
It was his landlady and their congregation's main sponsor.
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