Long ago, when the moon still listened to the whispers of restless men, there lived a young man named Mugacho in the village at the edge of the forest. The elders say his story should be told at night, when the wind is quiet and the fire burns low… because some dreams should never be followed.
Mugacho had known hunger for many years. His roof leaked when it rained, his sandals had forgotten the shape of their soles, and his stomach had learned the language of emptiness. Every morning he went to the church near the old mugumo tree and prayed. “Spirits of my fathers,” he would whisper, “send me work. Send me a way to live.” For years he prayed.
One evening, when the sky was red like a wounded goat, a stranger arrived in the village. No one knew where he came from. His clothes were dark, his eyes deeper than the village well, and when he spoke the air around him felt cold.
He called Mugacho aside. “I hear you want work,” the stranger said. Mugacho’s heart jumped. “Yes. I have prayed for it for many years.” The stranger smiled a thin smile. “I will give you a job,” he said softly. “A job that pays more money than you have ever imagined.” Mugacho’s breath caught. And so the next day he began the work.
At first it was small payments. A few coins, then bundles of notes. But soon… it became more. Much more. The money flowed like a river during the rainy season. Every day the money grew. Coins became stacks. Stacks became sacks.
Soon Mugacho was surrounded by money. He bought clothes, goats, and even a large house with iron sheets that sang when rain touched them. The villagers stared in disbelief. But the stranger had given only one rule: do not ask where the money comes from. And Mugacho obeyed.
Days passed. Weeks passed. The money kept coming. More and more and more. Soon it filled the room. Soon it filled the house. Soon Mugacho could not walk without stepping on bundles of money. It piled higher and higher like anthills after a storm.
At first he laughed. “Ah! My prayers have been answered!” he shouted. But the money did not stop. Soon it reached his knees. Then his waist. Then his chest. Mugacho tried to push it away, but more came. Bundles fell from the ceiling. Coins poured from the walls.
He began to panic. “I have enough!” he cried. But the money kept rising. Soon it reached his neck. Mugacho gasped for air. He tried to climb, but the money swallowed him deeper and deeper. “I am drowning!” he screamed.
The room grew dark. The piles of money pressed against his face. He could not breathe. He could not move. Then suddenly— BOOOOOOM! A loud blast shook the air. Mugacho’s eyes flew open. His heart pounded like a village drum. He sat up quickly on his bed. The room was small again. The roof still leaked. The floor was bare. His eyes were still heavy with sleep. Slowly, he realized the truth. It had all been a dream.
Mugacho had known hunger for many years. His roof leaked when it rained, his sandals had forgotten the shape of their soles, and his stomach had learned the language of emptiness. Every morning he went to the church near the old mugumo tree and prayed. “Spirits of my fathers,” he would whisper, “send me work. Send me a way to live.” For years he prayed.
One evening, when the sky was red like a wounded goat, a stranger arrived in the village. No one knew where he came from. His clothes were dark, his eyes deeper than the village well, and when he spoke the air around him felt cold.
He called Mugacho aside. “I hear you want work,” the stranger said. Mugacho’s heart jumped. “Yes. I have prayed for it for many years.” The stranger smiled a thin smile. “I will give you a job,” he said softly. “A job that pays more money than you have ever imagined.” Mugacho’s breath caught. And so the next day he began the work.
At first it was small payments. A few coins, then bundles of notes. But soon… it became more. Much more. The money flowed like a river during the rainy season. Every day the money grew. Coins became stacks. Stacks became sacks.
Soon Mugacho was surrounded by money. He bought clothes, goats, and even a large house with iron sheets that sang when rain touched them. The villagers stared in disbelief. But the stranger had given only one rule: do not ask where the money comes from. And Mugacho obeyed.
Days passed. Weeks passed. The money kept coming. More and more and more. Soon it filled the room. Soon it filled the house. Soon Mugacho could not walk without stepping on bundles of money. It piled higher and higher like anthills after a storm.
At first he laughed. “Ah! My prayers have been answered!” he shouted. But the money did not stop. Soon it reached his knees. Then his waist. Then his chest. Mugacho tried to push it away, but more came. Bundles fell from the ceiling. Coins poured from the walls.
He began to panic. “I have enough!” he cried. But the money kept rising. Soon it reached his neck. Mugacho gasped for air. He tried to climb, but the money swallowed him deeper and deeper. “I am drowning!” he screamed.
The room grew dark. The piles of money pressed against his face. He could not breathe. He could not move. Then suddenly— BOOOOOOM! A loud blast shook the air. Mugacho’s eyes flew open. His heart pounded like a village drum. He sat up quickly on his bed. The room was small again. The roof still leaked. The floor was bare. His eyes were still heavy with sleep. Slowly, he realized the truth. It had all been a dream.
