It was a quiet afternoon in the South African shanty village of Moroka. Children played in the dusty roadway and mangy dogs snoozed in the warm sun. Women attended to their pots and gossip. Then Tikoloshe turned up.
At first the mothers of Moroka did not know what had happened. They looked up to see the children skipping and dancing about like corn on a hot pan, then, as their mothers gaped from their doorways, the kids streamed into the brand-new Presbyterian church. But one stayed back long enough to explain: "They're following a little man no bigger than a boyhe's got...
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