Shawty’s message came in just after lunch.
Shawty:
Are you free tomorrow?
I’m tired of thinking.
Reo:
I’m here. What’s up?
Shawty:
Should we go to Prophet Love’s church again? I keep thinking about what happened last time.
Reo:
You read my mind. I can’t stop thinking about it too.
I feel like things are different these days.
Shawty:
Me too.
You know, last week after we went, my headaches stopped.
Maybe it’s the prayers.
Reo:
Or maybe it’s just God moving.
I’ve been praying too, more than I used to.
Prophet said I should believe for big things.
Shawty:
Let’s go together on Sunday.
Sunday morning came bright and windy. The streets of Gweru were alive with voices and music drifting from every corner. Churches were already in full swing, their choirs filling the air with hymns, but it was Prophet Love’s tent that seemed to draw the biggest crowd. People streamed toward it in groups, some walking briskly, others talking in excited bursts. The air was full of dust and the smell of roasted maize from nearby vendors.
Reo and Shawty met at the entrance, each wearing a small, nervous smile. They were both excited and a little unsure, their hearts beating faster as they stepped inside.
Under the tent, the service was already alive with clapping and song. Prophet Love’s voice rolled over the congregation, deep and confident. He welcomed newcomers warmly, calling them family, and prayed over everyone’s week. When his eyes found Reo, he smiled broadly.
“Your time is coming, young man,” he said, his voice carrying across the tent. “You are not forgotten.”
The crowd clapped, some shouted “Amen,” and Reo felt heat rise in his face.
The days that followed brought more messages from the Prophet. He checked in with Reo often, calling him “my son,” asking how his week was going, and sometimes inviting him to help set up for events. Whenever they spoke, he told him to believe for miracles.
One afternoon, Reo sent a message.
Reo:
Man of God, I need your prayers. I’m struggling to get a stand. Everything keeps falling through.
Prophet Love:
Don’t worry, my son. I see you.
You will testify soon.
Meet me at church this evening.
That night, Reo went to the tent. Prophet Love prayed for him, laying a firm hand on his head and speaking blessings over his life. The air around them was thick with singing and the smell of sweat and dust.
A few weeks later, Reo called Shawty, his voice almost shaking.
Reo:
I GOT THE STAND!
Prophet said it would happen and it did!
Things are really moving.
Shawty:
Congratulations! God is working.
Maybe we should give thanks at church.
Reo:
Let’s go this Sunday.
Each week after that seemed to bring new stories. People stood up to testify about healings and answered prayers. One woman said her child had walked for the first time after being prayed for. An old man threw away his crutches. Someone claimed their debts had disappeared. The tent filled faster every Sunday and the air felt charged, as if something powerful was always about to happen.
The whispers about Prophet Love spread quickly. People spoke about how he could “see” things no one else could. “He prayed for me, and now I have a job,” a man told his friend. “He’s different,” another murmured as they left the tent.
It was through such whispers that Shawty first heard about Amai, the Prophet’s wife. She was always there, quiet and composed, her head covered in a simple scarf, her eyes lowered. She sang softly with the women at the front but never seemed to seek attention.
One afternoon, as Amai passed by the entrance, two ushers leaned toward each other.
“That’s Amai, the Prophet’s wife,” one said, lowering her voice. “She’s the quiet type, never argues.”
“She’s too quiet,” the other replied, glancing at her. “Even when we’re cooking, she only speaks if you speak to her first. But she’s kind and always helps everyone.”
Shawty began to watch her more closely during services. Amai prayed with her hands raised but her voice barely above a whisper. Her face was always serious, almost tense. The other women seemed to respect her, but there was a strange distance, as if no one really knew her beyond her polite greetings.
At the end of one service, Amai moved slowly through the crowd, shaking hands and smiling gently. When she reached Shawty, she took her hand with a grip that was soft yet cool.
“God bless you, my child,” she said quietly. Her eyes did not quite meet Shawty’s, slipping away almost as soon as they touched.
Outside the tent, the stories continued. Some said she was the one who had started the church alongside Prophet Love. Others whispered that she never laughed. A few thought she was just painfully shy.
For Reo and Shawty, she became another piece of the puzzle. A kind and quiet woman who seemed to belong yet somehow remained apart. She was always in the Prophet’s shadow, moving gracefully through the work of the church but never stepping forward.
And just like the Prophet himself, she carried an air of mystery that neither of them could explain.
That evening, as Shawty replayed the handshake in her mind, her phone buzzed with a new message from an unknown number.
Unknown:
Be careful who you trust in that tent.
