- December 7, 2025
- Posted by: Isioma Abojei-Onuoma
- Category: Articles
Chioma, known on her moderately successful TikTok channel as “The Water Child”, stood at the edge of the stream. It wasn’t a pristine, babbling brook, It was an urban stream, murky and slow-moving, carrying a blend of fallen leaves, supermarket flyers, and a faint, oily sheen.
To Chioma, however, this was the Portal of Aqueous Abundance.She wore a long, flowing linen dress (impractical for streambeds), and a ceremonial wreath woven from recycled plastic packaging. She held aloft a two-liter bottle of bright orange Fanta, the sacred, fizzy nectar of manifestation.
“Greetings, ancient mother,” Chioma announced dramatically, addressing the sluggish flow of brownish-green. “I, The Water Child, come before you not with pleas, but with intention!”
The stream did not reply. A plastic bag snagged momentarily on a submerged branch, offering the stream’s only sign of resistance.
“My intention,” Chioma declared, leaning closer, nearly losing her footing on a slick, mossy rock, “is a five-figure book deal for my memoir, Hydro-Hustle: How I Manifested My Dream Car Using Just My Tears and Tap Water.”
She waited for a sign—a ripple of affirmation, a glittering fish, or maybe just the current carrying away a particularly offensive piece of litter. Nothing…“
I know the Universe is listening,” she muttered, adjusting her grip on the Fanta. “But sometimes, the Universe needs a little sweet incentive.”With a reverent uncorking, Chioma began to pour the Fanta directly into the murky water. The luminous orange syrup hit the brown stream with a dramatic, fizzy sizzle, creating a temporary, startling cloud of Day-Glo orange foam.
Accept this offering, great mother!” she chanted. “Sweeten the deal! Carry my vision of wealth, visibility, and a private jet fueled by sustainably sourced spring water! Turn the murk into MONEY!”She poured the last drop, corked the bottle, and threw her arms wide in triumph, inhaling the faint, mingled scent of pond scum and artificial citrus.
Meanwhile, just up in the Celestial Operations Room, The Architect was watching the display feed. Gabriel had wisely put up a temporary, Acoustic Dampening shield around the section of Earth displaying Chioma’s activities.“Orange Fanta,”
The Architect observed flatly. “That’s a new one. Is that… ritual sweetening?”Gabriel winced. “Yes, Boss. She believes the sugar will give the manifestation ‘lift.’ She thinks talking to the stream will somehow channel the Earth’s gravitational pull into a six-figure income.”“She thinks a stream—a stream currently absorbing pollutants and a massive quantity of E-numbers—is going to act as her financial broker?
Has she considered talking to an actual broker? Or maybe, I don’t know, Me? I literally designed the water cycle! I could have just told her which tributary to avoid!”“But Boss, you see the effort! The conviction! She’s running so far from the simple, quiet act of faith, that she’s invented a vibrant, fizzy detour involving high-fructose corn syrup!”
Suddenly, Chioma gasped on the screen. She was pointing at the water with trembling excitement.“Look! It’s working! A sign! The great mother has responded!”
The Architect zoomed in. A very large, very confused catfish had surfaced in the orange foam, apparently investigating the sudden, overwhelming source of sweetness. It then promptly flipped back under the surface, visibly annoyed.
“A bloated catfish,” The Architect noted. “That’s her sign of impending financial success.”“It’s a sign of life in a dead ritual, Boss,” Gabriel corrected gently. “It’s a tiny glimpse of Your persistent goodness, poking through the Fanta-scented murk, just to remind her that something is alive and listening, even if she’s talking to the water instead of the source.
”Chioma, utterly convinced, dipped her hands into the sticky, orange-tinged water, rubbed it on her cheeks, and whispered, “Thank you, mother. I am a millionaire, child of the waters.”She packed up her gear and headed home, leaving a faintly bubbling, citrus-scented mess behind her.
The Architect sighed, shaking his head in pity, a faintly rattling a few distant galaxies.“For how long are these creations of mine going to keep speaking to everything but me…
Alright. Fine! I can’t bear to see them fret and worry ceaselessly… So tell Me, what a book deal is worth these days. I suppose I can nudge her agent’s inbox, I just hope one day they get to realize that I am God, and I have been the one they needed all along.