I am dazed, sweet and glazed like a doughnut left too long in the open. My mind was spinning as I lay on my bed trying to recall what just happened. My parish pastor who only arrived a week ago, had gotten me arrested. Arrested. By him. I could hardly believe my luck or the cruelty of the circumstance.
“What just happened?” I whispered into the hollow of my room, my voice trembling as though afraid of its own echo. A salty tear broke free from my right eye, trickling down the slope of my cheek and soaking into the pillow. My chest rose in shudders; I was suspended between the jagged edges of shock and anger.
It had all started on a Tuesday afternoon. I had just returned from my grocery rounds. Work was off that day, so I had tried my hands on other chores to ease the week’s pressure before preparing for Tuesday service. My faith was everything; I lived carefully, cautiously. I knew what my body carried, and I never wanted to be the banana peel on which another stumbled.
I walked lightly, face bare except for a brush of lipstick and the dot earrings that clung like tiny stars. My breasts, heavy, unyielding, were strapped beneath my Turkish gown, tugging against fabric in quiet discomfort. Behind me, my onion-shaped hips and thick thighs carried a rhythm of their own, a secret percussion I never flaunted, but could never hide. At twenty-five, my body had matured faster than my spirit. Temptation wore my skin like a tailored gown, and I learned to walk in measured steps.
After service that evening, Pastor Tade called me aside. His voice was soft, pulling me into his orbit like a hymn I already knew.
“Sit, Precious,” he said. His tone was confident yet unhurried. I sat, deliberately keeping an arm’s length from his chair, just a few meters from the raised pulpit that lorded over the hall.
He spoke about “deep things” visions about my future, the Lord’s hand on my life, and promises too fragrant to dismiss. I barely looked at him, my eyes flicking only when he urged me. Still, my lips twitched into a smile I couldn’t contain.
“Look at me, Precious…” he murmured, reaching for my hands.
I had just done my nails, deep red with a glossy finish. Watching him hold them so firmly, so reverently, filled me with a dangerous confidence. His palms were warm, smooth, too soft for a man who claimed to be weathered by ministry.
“The Lord has a lot in store for you,” he said slowly, his gaze searching mine. “You will travel soon…”
His words hung between us like smoke. My chest tightened. My Cowrywise account was crawling, my dreams of Leicester were still an embryo. How did he know? Or was he simply fishing in waters I had already muddied with my prayers?
“I… I am believing God,” I stammered, as though confessing a sin.
That moment looped in my head long after.
Weeks passed. I became his shadow after services, drinking from the well of his prophecies. He revealed “things,” and I caught them like rain on thirsty soil. For the first time in years, I felt connected, to God, to purpose, to something bigger than the endless corporate grind of my job. The church had become my refuge.
But then came that Sunday.
After service, he called me again. My outfit, a flimsy blue top layered under a jacket, black pants that cupped my hips too faithfully, made me feel visible in ways I hadn’t anticipated. His eyes noticed, though his smile hid it well.
“Hope you enjoyed service today?” he asked.
I nodded, lowering my gaze out of respect. His hand brushed mine again, casually, yet charged with something unspoken.
“We need to pray about something,” he said, voice steady. “Come tomorrow by five.”
That Monday evening, I walked into his office. Spacious, air-conditioned, smelling faintly of polished wood and lavender oil. His secretary’s heels clicked faintly in the outer office, her laughter a distant drumbeat.
We prayed. I knelt, sweating within thirty minutes. He stood over me, jacket off, his hand pressing firmly on my head. My knees buckled. Was it the anointing, or something else pulling me under?
“Yes… yes,” I muttered, eyes shut tight.
The door creaked. His secretary’s voice bled in from outside. He walked over, whispered something to her, then closed the door—this time fully. The air thickened.
He returned, his steps slower, deliberate. “Rise,” he said, lifting me by the hand. His palm was damp, his face gleaming with sweat. His perfume, earthy, rich, swam into my nose as he came closer. Too close.
I trembled, unsure if it was fear, hunger, or both. His wife flashed in my mind—a fair-skinned tech guru, smart, fierce. But right now, she was a ghost.
His fingers tilted my chin upward. Our eyes locked. And then, without warning, his lips brushed mine.
My heart thundered.
“I have a word for you…” he whispered, his hand slipping lower, grazing the curve of my chest. My body froze, my mind split open with a scream that never reached my lips.
A knock. Sharp. Urgent.
We both jerked back.
“Papa?” It was his secretary’s voice. “Police are here. They said… they said it’s about Precious.”
My breath caught. My skin went cold.
Police. About me.
I staggered back, my chest heaving, eyes darting from his to the door.
What had he told them? Why were they here? for me?
And in that moment, I realized: whatever happened next would ruin more than just my faith.
To be cont’d….
