The letter arrived in a red envelope.
Not gold-edged like the last one. Not hand-delivered with reverence or mystery. This one came in the post, dropped unceremoniously into the gap under his stall's wooden table, half-soaked from the morning rain.
Iyi found it while sweeping.
At first, he thought it was a customer's lost package or some forgotten flyer. But when he turned it over and saw the wax seal—faint but real, pressed with the logo of NaijaVoice News Network, his stomach shifted.
He opened it slowly.
The paper was thick. Professional. The ink smelled faintly of cinnamon.
Ọmọ Iyi,
We commend your boldness during the Lagos Healing Summit. Your stance was both controversial and, in our view, culturally significant. As a result, NaijaVoice is producing a nationwide investigative series titled: "The Rise of Ancestral Wellness in Urban Africa."
We want to feature your story—not just as a healer, but as a man who chose silence over applause.
We are inviting you to Lagos for an exclusive on-camera interview. You will be joined by two other speakers:
Mrs. Bisola Abayomi, founder of the AfroSpir Wellness Brand (and seller of branded soaps similar to those in "The Market of the Tempted"),
Dr. Tunde Bello, anthropologist and skeptic.
The topic: Is Ọmọ Iyi a spiritual reformer or a marketing myth?
**We are offering you the chance to respond. To define your voice. To speak not to millions in applause, but to a nation in debate. **
You will not be paid. You will not be edited without consent.
You will be heard.
Sincerely,
Anita Enenche
Senior Producer, NaijaVoice
He read it twice.
And again.
The last time, slower.
This wasn't like the healing summit. There was no cheque to sign. No offer of brand ambassadorship. No soaps printed with his name in cheap font.
But it was still a kind of stage.
Only now… it was a stage built on conflict.
That night, he didn't light a candle. He didn't pray. He didn't touch the sponge.
He just sat in the quiet and watched the shadows shift on his wall.
"A myth or a message."
That's what they were asking.
It would be easy to say no again.
To walk away from the noise.
But something tugged at him—not the fame, but the frame.
They were choosing how to shape him. They would shape the idea of ancestral healing around his refusal, his silence, his walk-off stage. And if he didn't speak… someone else would speak for him.
And maybe that was a deeper danger.
—
Two days later, he arrived in Lagos again.
Not dressed in costume.
Not to perform.
He wore his simple wrapper and cotton buba. The sponge stayed home this time, resting quietly on its woven mat beside the burnt coin and hibiscus petal. This wasn't about power. This was about clarity.
The NaijaVoice studio wasn't in a skyscraper.
It was in a modest concrete building in Ikeja, down a dusty road filled with steaming akara stands and buses honking through puddles. The inside, however, was cool and humming with electricity. A young woman with braids guided him to a holding room.
"You're on with Bisola and Dr. Bello," she said gently. "It's going to be… lively."
He nodded.
No fear.
Just readiness.
When he stepped onto the set, two chairs already sat across from each other beneath soft lights. Between them, a table with microphones shaped like gourds.
On one chair: Bisola Abayomi.
Elegant. Cold-eyed. Dressed in pristine white, with an ankh necklace and a branded water bottle shaped like an orisha's staff.
On the other: Dr. Tunde Bello.
Sharp suit. Cleaner smile. The kind of man who believed more in formulas than spirits.
Iyi was led to the center.
The cameras blinked awake.
The host—a poised woman in a black turtleneck—spoke calmly.
"Today's discussion: Is the rise of ancestral healing a return to roots or a reinvention for fame? We have three voices—one from the earth, one from the market, and one from science."
She turned to Iyi.
"You've been called a fraud, a visionary, a prophet, a marketing genius, and a lucky street boy who got spiritual. How do you define what you are?"
Iyi leaned forward.
"I am someone who was broken."
Silence.
"I was broken by hunger, by the lies I told, by the spirits who refused to let me die a coward. I don't claim to be anything but a man who walked into a river and came out quieter."
Bisola laughed. "Quieter, but famous."
"Fame came looking," he replied. "I didn't answer the door."
Dr. Bello adjusted his glasses. "Do you understand that people are buying untested, unregulated soaps in your name? That some believe your story is a ritual formula?"
"I tell everyone the same thing," Iyi said. "There is no shortcut. There is no soap that will make your ancestors bless what your heart has not earned."
The host smiled faintly.
The cameras zoomed in.
"And if this movement grows beyond you—if your silence becomes a blueprint for others to create their own lies in your name?"
Iyi inhaled.
"Then may the river rise and wash away everything I built."
He stood.
"I didn't come to defend a brand. I came to remind everyone listening: your spirit cannot be sold. If you hear a healer asking for your wallet before your wound, turn away."
He bowed his head slightly.
"And if you ever doubt me… then don't follow. Let the sponge decide."
He walked off the set.
Again.
Twice now, he had left behind applause and debate.
Not because he feared them.
But because sometimes walking away is the loudest sermon.
—
That night, the stars above Lagos blinked through smog and restless clouds.
In his stall the next morning, someone had left a small basket with a ribbon.
Inside: river stones. Burnt sage. A bar of soap with no label.
And a note.
"We see you. We hear you. We walk with you."