Fraud Prophet

The address led Ezikiel to a building that looked like it had lost an argument with time.

He stood across the street, staring at it.

Then he checked his phone.

Then the building.

Then his phone again.

"This has to be a mistake."

The address was correct.

Unfortunately, so was the building.

It sat between a small convenience store and a closed barbershop. The paint on its walls had faded into an uncertain shade of brown. One window had been covered with cardboard, and the entrance had a curtain that looked older than Ezikiel's grandparents.

Above the door hung a wooden sign.

WISDOM, FORTUNE AND SPIRITUAL SOLUTIONS.

Below it, someone had written in smaller letters:

NO REFUNDS.

Ezikiel stared at the sign.

"That's reassuring."

He opened the business listing again.

The reviews were suspiciously mixed.

Five stars: "My life changed completely!"

One star: "This man is a fraud. I asked for a girlfriend and got confidence instead."

Another five stars: "Very powerful. I came for wealth and stopped buying things I couldn't afford."

Ezikiel frowned.

That last one sounded less like magic and more like financial responsibility.

He scrolled further.

One customer had written a review consisting entirely of angry emojis.

Another had uploaded a picture of a chicken.

Ezikiel decided not to investigate.

He had come too far to turn back now.

Besides, if the man was a fraud, Ezikiel would simply leave.

He wasn't stupid.

He was desperate, which was a completely different problem.

He crossed the street and approached the entrance.

A small bell rang when he pulled aside the curtain.

Inside, the room smelled of incense, old books, and something Ezikiel suspected had once been food.

The walls were covered with handwritten notes, strange symbols, and framed certificates.

One certificate caught his attention.

CERTIFIED SPIRITUAL CONSULTANT.

The issuing organisation was called the International Association of Universal Enlightenment.

Ezikiel had never heard of it.

Then again, he hadn't heard of most things. He was seventeen.

Behind a wooden desk sat a middle-aged man wearing a loose brown shirt and reading glasses.

The man didn't look up.

"Appointment?"

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

Ezikiel blinked.

"I saw your advertisement."

"Wonderful. The internet continues to destroy my peace."

The man finally looked up.

His eyes moved over Ezikiel, taking in his school uniform, backpack, and uncertain expression.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Go home."

Ezikiel stared at him.

"Excuse me?"

"You're too young to be making life-changing mistakes. Wait until you're at least twenty-one."

"Is there a legal age for making mistakes?"

"Not legally. But there should be."

Ezikiel almost smiled.

Almost.

He had expected a mysterious greeting. Perhaps a strange question about his destiny. Maybe even a dramatic warning about the spirits watching him.

Instead, the man looked like a school counsellor who had resigned without completing the paperwork.

"I came because I need your help," Ezikiel said.

"With what?"

"My future."

The man leaned back in his chair.

"Your future is probably in school right now, wondering why you aren't there."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. Education is important."

Ezikiel stared at him for a moment.

Then he slowly sat down.

The man sighed.

"Fine. What do you want?"

Ezikiel had rehearsed this conversation several times on his way there.

In his imagination, he sounded confident. Mysterious, even.

The shaman would recognise his potential immediately.

They would discuss destiny.

There might be candles.

Possibly thunder.

Instead, the man was looking at him as though he had arrived to complain about a missing delivery.

"I want to become somebody people notice," Ezikiel said.

The man waited.

Ezikiel cleared his throat.

"I want to be famous. Respected. Maybe rich. I want people to know my name. I want to walk into school and have people actually care that I'm there."

The man nodded slowly.

"Ah."

Ezikiel leaned forward.

"You understand?"

"Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?"

"That's a very common disease."

Ezikiel frowned.

"What disease?"

"Wanting everybody to like you."

"I didn't say everybody had to like me."

"You want everybody to notice you."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"Explain."

Ezikiel opened his mouth.

He closed it.

Then he tried again.

"I want to be important."

The man nodded.

"To whom?"

Ezikiel hesitated.

The question annoyed him because it was simple.

He had never thought about it that way.

"People," he answered eventually.

"Which people?"

"People in general."

"People in general don't know you exist. Why should their opinion matter?"

Ezikiel stared at him.

He had not paid for this.

He had come for supernatural assistance, not a surprise examination in philosophy.

"Look," he said, "are you going to help me or not?"

"That depends. Are you going to listen?"

"Of course."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"That was quick."

"I'm a good listener."

"Then why did you interrupt me three times?"

Ezikiel looked away.

The man nodded as though he had just confirmed a scientific theory.

"Exactly."

He opened a drawer and removed a small notebook.

"Now, tell me. If you became famous tomorrow, what would change?"

"Everything."

"Such as?"

"People would respect me."

"Why?"

"Because I'd be famous."

"That isn't an answer."

Ezikiel frowned.

"People respect successful people."

"Do they?"

"Yes."

"Then why do people insult successful people online every day?"

"Because they're jealous."

"And why do successful people spend money trying to convince strangers they're successful?"

Ezikiel paused.

The man leaned forward.

"Listen carefully, young man. You think your problem is that people don't notice you. But suppose they started noticing you tomorrow. Suppose they began expecting things from you. Suppose they decided you were intelligent, wealthy, talented, charming, or whatever else you desperately want to be."

Ezikiel's eyes narrowed.

"Okay."

"What happens when you can't live up to their expectations?"

"I'll work harder."

"What happens when they expect you to be something you aren't?"

"I'll become it."

The answer escaped before Ezikiel had time to consider it.

The man went quiet.

For a moment, he simply stared at the boy.

Then he rubbed his forehead.

"That is exactly what I was afraid you would say."

Ezikiel straightened.

"Wait. Is that possible?"

The man looked at him.

"Of course not."

"Oh."

"I'm making a point."

"Oh."

The man took a deep breath.

He had been doing this job for eleven years.

Eleven years of people arriving with impossible requests.

One man had wanted his neighbour to stop buying better cars than him.

A woman had wanted to become famous without anyone knowing what she looked like.

Another customer had asked to become a billionaire by Friday because he had promised his girlfriend a luxury holiday.

The man had learned that people rarely wanted what they claimed to want.

They wanted the feeling they imagined would come with it.

Respect.

Security.

Revenge.

Love.

And sometimes, a car they couldn't afford.

Ezikiel, unfortunately, appeared to want everything at once.

The shaman closed his notebook.

"Let me give you some advice."

Ezikiel sat up.

"Finally."

"If you spend your entire life trying to become what other people want you to be, you may eventually forget who you were in the first place."

Ezikiel considered this.

Then he asked, "Would I still be rich?"

The man closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

When he opened them again, his expression had changed.

"Young man, I need you to understand something. The desire to change your life is not the problem. The problem is believing that changing how people see you will automatically fix everything wrong with your life."

"That sounds reasonable."

"It is."

"Do you have a solution?"

"Yes."

Ezikiel leaned forward eagerly.

"Stop caring so much about what people think."

Ezikiel sat back.

"That's terrible advice."

The man stared at him.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, it's easy to say. But if people think you're worthless, it affects how they treat you. You can't just stop caring."

For the first time since Ezikiel had entered the room, the man seemed genuinely interested.

He studied the boy's face.

"That's true," he admitted.

Ezikiel blinked.

He hadn't expected agreement.

The man continued.

"But you must decide whether you want to improve your life or spend it begging other people to approve of it."

Ezikiel looked down at his hands.

For a moment, the room was quiet.

He thought about Chidi stepping out of his expensive car. The girls smiling at him. The boys gathering around him.

He thought about the jokes people made at his expense.

The group chats.

The ignored messages.

The way people sometimes looked straight through him.

Then he thought about how it would feel if all of that changed.

If he walked into school and people turned to look.

If someone greeted him first.

If a girl smiled at him without needing a reason.

If people wanted to know him.

He looked up.

"I understand what you're saying."

The man nodded.

"Good."

"But I still want the service."

The man's face fell.

"Of course you do."

Ezikiel smiled.

"So how does this work?"

The shaman stared at him for a long moment.

Then he stood up.

"Before we continue, I must warn you that there are consequences to getting exactly what you want."

Ezikiel's eyes lit up.

"Consequences?"

"Yes."

"What kind?"

"The kind you won't enjoy."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Certainly. You may become so obsessed with your new life that you lose your old one. You may attract people who only care about what you can offer them. You may discover that being admired is exhausting, that being envied is worse, and that being famous means strangers feel entitled to discuss your personal affairs."

Ezikiel nodded slowly.

The shaman continued.

"You may become trapped in a version of yourself that you created for other people. And when you finally want to escape, you may discover that nobody wants to let you."

Ezikiel remained silent.

The shaman folded his arms.

"Still interested?"

Ezikiel thought about it.

Then he asked, "Will I at least be handsome?"

The shaman looked at the ceiling.

"Please give me strength."

Ezikiel grinned.

"So that's a yes?"

"No."

"A maybe?"

"No."

"Can we negotiate?"

The shaman walked back to his desk.

He was beginning to understand why some people became monks.

"Listen to me carefully. I am giving you this warning because people like you come here expecting miracles, and they rarely consider the consequences. You think your life will improve if the world changes its opinion of you. But what happens when you can no longer control that opinion?"

Ezikiel tilted his head.

"Then I'll change it again."

The shaman stared at him.

He had encountered confidence before.

He had encountered stupidity before.

But Ezikiel possessed a particularly exhausting combination of both.

"You know what?" the man said. "I have done my duty."

Ezikiel smiled.

"So we're proceeding?"

"No. I am hoping you will develop common sense and leave."

"Oh."

The shaman pointed towards the door.

"There's a school nearby, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"Go there."

"I'm already enrolled."

"Then attend."

Ezikiel remained seated.

The man sighed.

"Why are you still here?"

"Because I came for a service."

"What service?"

"The one advertised on your sign."

The shaman looked at the sign through the window.

Then he looked back at Ezikiel.

He had made a mistake when he started advertising spiritual solutions online.

Initially, it had seemed like a brilliant idea. He could offer consultations, give people practical advice, and charge for his time.

Unfortunately, people interpreted the word *spiritual* as an invitation to request the impossible.

They wanted to become invisible.

They wanted their enemies to lose their jobs.

They wanted to marry celebrities.

One customer had asked to be transformed into a dragon.

The man had spent forty minutes explaining why that was a terrible idea.

The customer had left a one-star review.

Since then, he had developed a strategy.

He warned customers about every possible consequence he could imagine. He made their wishes sound exhausting, dangerous, expensive, and deeply inconvenient.

Most people reconsidered.

The rest were usually too unreasonable to discourage.

Ezikiel appeared to belong to the second category.

The shaman opened another drawer and removed a small object wrapped in dark cloth.

Ezikiel immediately leaned forward.

His heart began beating faster.

Finally.

The moment had arrived.

The room felt different.

Or perhaps he was simply imagining things.

The shaman placed the object on the desk.

"Before you make your decision, I want you to understand that I cannot guarantee you will like the result."

Ezikiel swallowed.

"What is it?"

"A charm."

"What does it do?"

The shaman paused.

He had not yet decided what to tell him.

Then inspiration struck.

"It helps you confront the consequences of your desires."

Ezikiel stared at the object.

That sounded powerful.

Possibly expensive.

Definitely mysterious.

"How?"

"That depends on you."

Ezikiel nodded slowly.

He had no idea what that meant.

But it sounded impressive.

"How much?"

The shaman named a price.

Ezikiel nearly stood up.

"Are you selling a charm or buying a new house?"

"Then leave."

"Can we negotiate?"

"No."

"What if I give you a good review?"

"Leave."

"What if I give you a very good review?"

The shaman pointed at the door again.

Ezikiel sighed.

He checked his wallet.

The amount of money inside was depressing.

He had planned to save it for something useful.

Food, perhaps.

Or a new pair of shoes.

But those things had never made anybody famous.

He placed the money on the desk.

The shaman counted it.

Then he frowned.

"You're short."

"I know."

"Then why did you give it to me?"

"Because I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

The shaman looked at him.

Ezikiel looked back.

Neither spoke.

Finally, the man pushed the money towards him.

"Take it."

Ezikiel blinked.

"You're refusing?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I refuse to encourage financial irresponsibility."

Ezikiel stared at him.

Then he slowly collected the money.

"You're a very unusual businessman."

"And you're a very unusual customer."

Ezikiel stood up.

For a moment, he considered leaving.

Perhaps the man was right. Perhaps this was ridiculous.

Perhaps he should go home, study, improve himself, and accept that life would not magically become better just because he wanted it to.

Then he remembered the way people treated him.

He remembered Chidi's car.

He remembered the laughter.

He remembered how it felt to be invisible.

He turned back.

"I'll come back with the money."

The shaman stared at him.

"Please don't."

"I will."

"Young man, I am begging you to reconsider."

"I've already decided."

The shaman watched him approach the door.

"One final piece of advice."

Ezikiel turned.

"If you ever get exactly what you want, remember that you asked for it."

Ezikiel grinned.

"That sounds like something a powerful man would say."

The shaman's expression went blank.

"That sounds like something a tired man would say."

Ezikiel laughed.

Then he left.

The bell above the entrance rang as the curtain fell behind him.

The shaman stood in the middle of his office for several seconds.

Then he sat down.

He picked up the money Ezikiel had left behind, counted it, and placed it in a drawer.

"Seventeen," he muttered.

He shook his head.

"At that age, I wanted to become a professional footballer. Look where that got me."

He glanced at the wooden sign outside.

WISDOM, FORTUNE AND SPIRITUAL SOLUTIONS.

He considered removing the word *fortune*.

Then he remembered the rent.

"No," he said to himself. "Fortune stays."

He returned to his notebook and began writing a list of things to tell the next customer.

Never promise immortality.

Never promise revenge.

Never promise to make someone irresistible.

And, underlined twice:

NEVER SELL MAGIC TO TEENAGERS.

He paused.

Then added another line.

ESPECIALLY THE ONES WHO THINK THEY'RE SMART.

Satisfied, he closed the notebook.

Outside, Ezikiel was already walking home.

He had not received a charm.

He had not performed a ritual.

He had not even paid for the service.

By every reasonable measure, the visit had been a complete failure.

Yet he felt strangely optimistic.

The shaman had said something that stayed with him.

*If you ever get exactly what you want, remember that you asked for it.*

Ezikiel smiled.

He had no intention of forgetting.

He was going to become somebody.

And if he had to convince the entire world that he already was somebody, then so be it.

He reached home, dropped his bag beside his bed, and opened his laptop.

For the next hour, he searched for ways to become popular.

Personal branding.

Social media growth.

Confidence tricks.

Viral marketing.

He even watched a video titled HOW TO BECOME ATTRACTIVE IN SEVEN DAYS.

He stopped watching after the presenter recommended buying an expensive skincare routine.

"Clearly, this man is being paid by the beauty industry."

He closed the video.

Then he opened his notes app and typed a new heading.

OPERATION: BECOME SOMEBODY.

Underneath it, he wrote three objectives.

1. Become rich.

2. Become popular.

3. Get a girlfriend.

He stared at the list.

Then added a fourth.

4. Make Chidi jealous.

He smiled proudly.

A perfect plan.

The only problem was that he had no idea how to accomplish any of it.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

For now, he shut his laptop and went to bed.

He fell asleep thinking about the person he wanted to become.

The person everyone would notice.

The person nobody would laugh at.

The person who would never have to wonder whether he mattered.

And somewhere in the middle of an ordinary night, something happened.

Nothing exploded.

No strange light filled the room.

No mysterious voice whispered his name.

The world did not shake.

Ezikiel slept peacefully, unaware that a change had begun.

On his desk, his laptop remained open.

His notes app had not closed properly.

The last line he had written sat alone on the screen.

MAKE EVERYONE BELIEVE I'M SOMEBODY.

The cursor blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then the screen went dark.

END OF CHAPTER TWO