Edward Bihemo was a teacher. Every morning he woke before the sun, washed his face with cold water from a metal basin, and put on the same white shirt he had worn for years. The collar was tired, the buttons loose, but he still pressed it carefully. Teaching was the only pride he had left.
The school where he worked stood on the edge of Mwanza, its walls cracked, the blackboard full of scratches. Children came barefoot, their voices bright with laughter, their stomachs often empty. Bihemo taught them mathematics, standing tall before the wooden desks.
"Numbers do not lie," he would tell them, chalk dust on his fingers. "If you add two and two, you always get four."
But when he went home at night, numbers turned into his enemy. His pay was too little, his debts too many. Two plus two no longer made four—it made hunger, unpaid rent, and sleepless nights.
His wife, Mary, did her best to stretch the money. She cooked ugali with beans, she patched the children's clothes, she smiled even when her heart was heavy. But Edward could see the tiredness in her eyes.
One evening, as he sat with neighbors in a small tea shop, men began to whisper. They spoke about a certain man—Edward Emmanuel.
"He is not an ordinary man," one said.
"They say he can bless money. You give him little, he makes it much."
"I know someone who took 10,000 shillings, and it became 50,000."
Edward listened quietly, pretending not to care. But his heart stirred.
At home, he thought about it. The idea sounded foolish—money that grows by magic? He laughed at himself. But in the dark, when Mary and the children were asleep, the thought returned. What if it is true?
The next day, he heard more. A shopkeeper told him, "Teacher, you should go. Many have tried. Some are now rich." Another man warned, "Be careful. Such things can be lies."
Edward was torn. His logical mind said it was impossible, but his desperate heart whispered otherwise.
For weeks, he carried the thought. Each time he opened his thin wallet, he felt shame. Each time his children asked for new shoes, his heart broke. Finally, he said to himself, I must see this man. Just once. If it is a lie, I will walk away. But if it is true… my life will change forever.
So one Sunday afternoon, Edward Bihemo began the journey to Nyamohongolo, where the mysterious man lived.
The road to Nyamohongolo was long and dusty. Edward Bihemo walked with nervous steps, his shirt sticking to his back from the heat. He carried a small bag with some money—just a little. He was not ready to risk everything, not yet.
As he drew closer to the village, he asked a boy, "Where does Edward Emmanuel live?"
The boy pointed to a tall house at the end of the road. Unlike the other homes, which were small and made of mud, this one had brick walls, iron sheets, and even a big gate. The house itself was a message—this man was not poor.
Edward's heart beat faster. He thought, Maybe it is true. Maybe this man really has power.
At the gate, a young man in a clean shirt stopped him.
"Who are you looking for?"
"I… I want to see Emmanuel," Edward answered.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No. But I was told he can… help people."
The young man looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Wait here."
After a few minutes, Edward was led into a wide room. The floor was tiled, and the smell of incense filled the air. On the wall hung pictures of lions, snakes, and strange symbols. In the center sat a man with a calm but commanding presence.
Edward Emmanuel.
He was not old, maybe in his late thirties, but he carried himself like a king. His eyes were sharp, his voice smooth. He wore a flowing white robe and many rings on his fingers.
"Welcome, teacher," Emmanuel said, as though he already knew who Edward was. "I have been expecting you."
Edward froze. "Expecting… me?"
Emmanuel smiled. "Nothing is hidden from me. You are troubled. You are searching for a way to end your suffering. You want money."
Edward's lips parted. He had not told anyone. His heart pounded.
"How… how do you know?"
Emmanuel raised a hand. "Do not ask too many questions. The spirits reveal what they wish. What matters is this: money is energy. Energy can grow when blessed. Do you believe?"
Edward hesitated. His teacher's mind said no. But the room, the symbols, the calm authority of this man—it all pressed down on him. Finally, he whispered, "Yes."
"Good," Emmanuel said. He clapped his hands, and two assistants brought a wooden box, long and heavy, covered in red cloth.
"Put your money here," Emmanuel commanded.
Edward slowly opened his bag and brought out 10,000 shillings. His hands trembled as he placed the notes inside the box.
Emmanuel closed it, murmured strange words, and sprinkled powder on the lid. Then he covered it with a black cloth.
"Now we wait," he said.
The room was silent except for the crackling of candles. Edward felt sweat on his forehead. Emmanuel began to chant louder, his voice echoing like thunder.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Emmanuel opened the box.
Edward gasped.
Inside, the money had multiplied. His 10,000 shillings was now a thick bundle, at least 50,000.
Edward staggered back. "This… this cannot be!"
Emmanuel smiled, his rings flashing in the candlelight. "Do not doubt what the spirits can do. This is only the beginning. If you bring more, the spirits will bless more. You can become rich beyond your dreams."
Edward's hands shook as he picked up the money. It was real. He could feel it.
For the first time in years, hope flooded his heart. He looked at Emmanuel with wide eyes. "I… I will come back."
And from that day, Edward Bihemo's life began to spiral into a world he never imagined.
Continuation at the next chapter 14
See you there 😉