It was the first Sunday of the month, Thanksgiving Sunday. The air buzzed with energy. Wealthy families came in with perfumes, designer suits, and convoy cars. But one woman came differently, Mama Ebun. She was new in town, a tired old widow with a wrinkled face but eyes full of faith. She had buried her husband just a month ago, after years of struggling to care for him.
With all she had, she decided to thank God for giving her strength to survive the storm. She wore her only black wrapper, neatly tied around her thin waist. Her blouse had holes but was carefully ironed.
In her hands were two small dry tubers of yam, her Thanksgiving seed. She arrived at the church early, even before the choir. But as she tried to sit at the front row, the usher stopped her.
Mama, you can’t sit here. But I came early, she said softly. The priest gave strict instructions.
Please go to the back. With a quiet sigh, she turned and walked slowly to the back row. She didn’t complain.
She just smiled gently, humming a worship song under her breath. When it was time for Thanksgiving, names of wealthy families were called out first. They came with baskets of fruit, bundles of cash, goats, sound systems.
The priest beamed and danced with them, placing his hands on their heads in prayer. Then Mama Ebun’s name was whispered by one of the assistants. A small figure stepped forward.
All eyes turned. Her dry yams shook gently in her hands as she walked toward the altar. Father Clement froze.
His smile disappeared. What is this? He said aloud, pointing at her tubers. Are you here to thank God or poison him? The church laughed.
This woman must be a witch, he thundered. Two dried yams? Is this a sacrifice or a joke? Mama Ebun said nothing. Her hands trembled.
Her eyes watered. Get out of here, Father Clement screamed. Take your poison with you.
The laughter echoed through the cathedral as she turned slowly and walked out. Her head bowed. Even the ushers giggled.
No one helped her. No one defended her. Outside the church, Mama Ebun fell to her knees.
Oh God, she whispered. Did I come to thank you, only to be cursed? She wiped her tears with the edge of her wrapper and tried to cross the street. But her hands were shaking.
Her legs gave way. A truck horn blared. Tires screeched.
And the world went silent. The air was still that Sunday morning, with golden sunlight pouring through cracked rooftops of the small village homes. In one of the oldest mud houses, a young boy named Clement sat barefoot on the floor, watching his father polish his worn-out shoes.
The scent of dust mixed with old oil filled the air as the father, prepared to attend their local church, one of the only places in town where people still wore their best, even in poverty. Papa, Clement asked, eyes wide and curious. Why do people bring food and money to church? His father looked up and smiled faintly, tightening his frayed belt.
It’s Thanksgiving, my son. We bring gifts to thank God for what he has done for us. But how do the yams and rice and chickens get to God? He lives in heaven, right? The old man chuckled, rubbing his beard.
Well, it doesn’t go up. The reverend father decides what to do with them. It all belongs to him.
A flicker of understanding, no, ambition, passed through young Clement’s eyes. That moment, quiet as it seemed, planted a seed that would one day bloom into something dangerous. That day at church, Clement couldn’t stop staring.
Bags of rice, crates of drinks, roasted goats, and bundles of cash were laid before the altar. The priest barely spoke of God. He was too busy collecting the gifts, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Clement watched the whole scene like a movie. The priest didn’t look hungry. He looked powerful, worshipped, wealthy.
Clement clenched his fists at his sides and whispered to himself, One day I will become a priest, and I will never be poor again. Years later, the boy became a man. The man became a priest.
Reverend Father Clement was now known across the city for his eloquent sermons, long flowing robes, and mysterious connection with prosperity. Church members called him Daddy G.O. in reverence, and no one dared question his authority. His church was a cathedral built from donations of wealthy families.
Marble floors, golden pulpit imported pews, but something was off. Father Clement didn’t like poor people. He hated the smell of poverty, the look of patched up clothes, the voices that trembled when they asked for help.
They reminded him too much of who he used to be, and who he vowed never to become again. At his church, only the rich could sit in front. If your dress wasn’t elegant or your car wasn’t shiny, the ushers would direct you to the back, or worse, outside.