Episode One — Fufu and the Church of Rusted Roofs
The town had two things it never failed to notice: the smell of boiled roots in the morning, and the rusted tin roof of the little church that leaned slightly to the left like it was exhausted. The sign above the doorway, painted in thick, trembling letters, read:
"Church of Hands That Hold (Sometimes Heal)"
They called him Fufu because his mother loved warm things and soft things and because the whole town had a habit of naming people after whatever they last ate.
People called it The Fufu's church, though the name always caused a ripple of giggles when outsiders came through the town gates. Fufu himself had long ago stopped being embarrassed about it. He had learned to carry the name like a shield—warm, soft, ridiculous, and strangely fitting.
"Brother Fufu!" someone shouted from the street. A man in a woven hat hurried forward, carrying a basket that smelled faintly of yams and sweaty chickens.
Fufu emerged from the church doorway, one eyebrow raised, balancing a bowl of actual fufu on his hip for show. His sister, Amina, followed behind him with her usual deadpan expression, carrying a tray of cups filled with sour palm wine.
"Yes?" Fufu asked, smiling in a way that made it clear he did not expect to remain dignified.
"My mother… she was bitten by a python in the farm!" the man blurted, his arms waving dramatically. "We brought her here. Can you… can you heal her?"
Fufu paused. In his head, he groaned, imagining the pain he would have to endure just to take the python's bite into himself. Ohh God… he thought. I'm going to feel her screaming bones through my own spine before I even touch her…
Then he smiled again. "Of course," he said aloud. "But only if she brings me a goat. I'm hungry, you see. Healing is exhausting work."
The man blinked. "A goat?"
Fufu tapped his chin. "Yes. Healing is tiring. A fufu-filled stomach helps." He winked at Amina, who muttered something under her breath about how he had learned nothing from the last five goats.
Visitors often came with gifts: chickens, yams, coins wrapped in cloth, occasionally a roasted rat. Not everyone had money, but everyone had something to give. And in this town, everyone preferred being slightly healthier than completely broke. Fufu and Amina were not rich certainly not by any outside standard but in a village where half the people traded rice for nails and smiles, the siblings were comfortable enough.
Inside the church, the walls smelled of boiled roots, incense, and herbs that Fufu refused to identify. Candles burned in jars that had been recycled from every corner of the town. Prayer beads slithered across shelves like lazy snakes. And on a battered wooden lectern sat the **Pain-Bible**, its pages thin, dark, and impossible to tear without guilt.
Fufu opened it slowly, muttering to himself. "Okay, Python Mom, let's see how this works…"
He laid a hand on the man's mother, who had collapsed on a straw mat, eyes wide in fright. He murmured the ancient words, and a cold shiver ran through his fingers. His brain recoiled as it imagined the venom twisting through her veins, the bones snapping, the muscles spasming. He gritted his teeth. Oh, so this is why everyone bribes me with goats…
Meanwhile, Amina stood to the side, shaking her head but smiling faintly. "You're imagining it too much," she said. "You'll age faster than the tin roof if you keep picturing every possible horror."
Fufu shot her a look. "I'm a professional, Amina! The moment I stop feeling a little pain… well, people might die. Or at least scream."
By the time the mother opened her eyes and sat upright, Fufu was wiping sweat from his forehead. The man's jaw dropped. Coins, chickens, and yams changed hands quickly donations always came at the end of a successful healing.
"You see," Fufu said, dusting off his hands and looking at the sky, with the sun shining on his teeth, "healing is an exchange....It....Gives me pain, it...gives me fufu, and it gives me a smile, and the universe balances itself." He glanced at Amina. "And sometimes, it gives me headaches."
Outside, the town watched with a mix of awe and amusement. Fufu might have been small and absurdly named, but in a place where sickness, bites, and misfortune came often, his church was a little island of safety and laughter.
A goat, a few coins, and a basket of yams later, the siblings sat on the steps of the leaning church, sharing a modest meal. Fufu chewed thoughtfully. "You know, Amina, if I keep this up, people will start calling me the Python King."
Amina just snorted. "Just make sure you don't start charging snakes."
And for a while, in the warm light of the rusted tin roof, the town forgot the aches and fears that followed them like shadows. For a few moments, all they saw was Fufu the boy with the ridiculous name, the strange charm, and hands that held the world's pain for a bowl of fufu.