Three days passed.
Three days since Iyi walked off the stage. Since he held the invitation like a wound and let it fall to the floor. Since he said no on national broadcast.
He didn't return to the market right away.
Instead, he went home, unwrapped the sponge, and placed it beside the burnt coin and his first ever bar of handmade soap—brown, cracked, barely scented, but the one he'd made with real river water and his mother's old pot. He cleaned his stall in silence. Mixed herbs. Reorganized his bundles. He didn't speak about the summit to anyone.
But Lagos? Lagos spoke.
It spoke in whispers first—faint rumors passed between sellers at crossroads and bus passengers who couldn't stop replaying the moment on their phones.
"You see that man on TV?"
"That Ọmọ Iyi guy?"
"Mad o. Imagine rejecting five million just like that."
"I heard he's part spirit."
"I heard he failed his juju test and is covering shame."
"I heard he's coming to build a shrine in Mushin."
And then came the speculation.
Memes. Videos. Edits of him standing against a CGI lightning bolt, dressed like a Yoruba priest, with quotes he never said in fonts he couldn't pronounce.
Some called him holy.
Others called him foolish.
But in the village, it was quieter.
Less frantic. More… curious.
It was early morning when the first gift came.
A small girl named Bosede appeared at his stall, clutching a round, clay-covered gourd with both hands. Her mother had once come to Iyi for healing after a miscarriage that left her spirit frayed and swollen with sadness.
"She said I should give you this," Bosede said. "She said, 'For someone who didn't sell the river.'"
Iyi took the gourd gently. It was sealed with palm thread and carried the faintest hum — like a soft heartbeat.
"Tell her I received it," he said.
That evening, another gift arrived.
An old man came limping, his knees bandaged in faded Ankara cloth. He said nothing. Just dropped a pouch of powdered yam on the stool and walked away.
Then came cassava.
Dried fish.
A piece of cloth sewn with the river's pattern.
They didn't say much. They didn't need to.
This was how the village spoke when words weren't enough.
But for every gift, there was a new gossip.
Kola heard it first, whispering through the mouth of an orange seller.
"They said you were offered a house in Banana Island," he muttered, eyes wide.
"I wasn't."
"They said you rejected it because the house was cursed."
Iyi laughed. "If every house built on greed is cursed, half this city is haunted."
Still, the rumors grew legs.
Some said Iyi would start his own church.
Others said he'd lost his powers and was pretending to be pure to hide it.
And then one afternoon, a woman in a yellow scarf appeared at the stall.
She didn't speak at first—just stood there, watching him mix a paste of shea and charcoal.
"You said no," she said finally.
Iyi nodded.
"They say you're foolish."
He kept stirring.
She stepped closer. "But I say… you gave us something."
He looked up. "What?"
She pressed her hand to her chest. "Permission."
"Permission for what?"
"To stop pretending that selling every part of ourselves is survival."
She placed a folded note on the table. "Thank you."
Then walked away.
When he opened it later, the note read:
"My daughter can now say no to fame. Because she saw someone do it first."
He closed his eyes.
Let the words sink deep.
And that night, under a moon curved like a cowrie shell, Iyi took out the sponge again and sat beside it.
He didn't need validation.
But he needed stillness.
And gratitude.
He placed one of the gifts—dried hibiscus—at the foot of his stall's small altar, whispered his thanks to the river, and made soap until dawn.
He had lost five million.
He had gained… peace.
And whispers.
Lots of whispers.
But sometimes, that was enough.