Many years ago, when Abunuasi passed through Jukistopia, he told a story that sounded like folklore—but felt uncomfortably familiar.
It was a time when stories of money disappearing at NYS filled the air. People were angry. The accused were defensive. The accusers were loud. Yet, strangely, it was not long before both sides were seen laughing together, sharing spaces, even defending each other.
Abunuasi only smiled and said, “Let me tell you a story.”
A charlatan, escaping a near-lynching in a big city, fled into a quiet village called Kenia. There, he quickly noticed two things: the villagers were eager for quick fixes, and there was no spiritual leader among them.
Opportunity.
He clothed himself in a kanzu, learned a few Arabic-sounding phrases, and convinced the good people of Kenia to build a mosque. Overnight, he became their prayer leader—despite knowing nothing about faith or prayer.
But he knew performance.
Every morning, he would shout, “Allahu akbar!”—a phrase he had memorised from the city. The villagers, unsure but obedient, watched in silence. That was his opening.
He stepped closer and instructed them:
“Hakuna madhabahu bila dhabihu—there is no altar without sacrifice.”
And so, every time they came to pray, they were to bring offerings. At every chant, they would respond “Amin” and deposit their sacrifices into a large basket at the front.
Day after day, the basket filled. Day after day, the charlatan prospered.
Until one day, trouble walked in.
A second visitor from the city entered the mosque. The charlatan froze. He recognised him immediately—a fellow swindler, and worse, one of the men who had nearly lynched him before he fled.
The feeling was mutual.
The man began walking toward him.
Thinking fast, the charlatan raised his voice:
“Allahu akbar!”
“Amin!” the people responded.
Then, mixing fear with improvisation, he continued:
“Mwenzangu usinitambue, amin. Wajinga ndio waliwao, amin.
Nikipata nane, nne zangu na nne zako, amin!”
(My friend, do not expose me. Fools are meant to be eaten.
If I get eight, four are mine and four are yours.)
“Amin!” the villagers thundered, unaware.
The approaching swindler paused… then smiled.
In a pious tone, he responded:
“Amiina mwenzaaangu… nne zangu na nne zako…
Aaamiiina, allahu akbar! Tu mandugu sasa.”
(Amen my friend… four for me and four for you…
Amen, God is great! We are now brothers.)
He knelt beside the charlatan and joined the prayers.
From that day on, the two men prayed—and preyed—together.
Their past conflict dissolved into a partnership.
And the people of Kenia? They kept bringing sacrifices.
Abunuasi ended the story there.
But the lesson lingered.
In Jukistopia, we often believe scandals are battles between enemies—accuser versus accused, reformer versus thief. We pick sides. We argue. We rage.
Yet, too often, those we think are fighting are merely negotiating.
What begins as an accusation ends in accommodation, conflict ends in sharing and what sounds like justice becomes choreography.
And like the villagers of Kenia, we keep saying “Amin”—even as the basket is passed
