During offering time, he would walk around with a golden microphone, announcing who gave the highest. Brother Charles gave N1 million today, he’d shout. The crowd would roar in admiration.
Daddy G.O. is connected, some would say. He prays and money comes, others would whisper. But there were murmurs too, murmurs from those who left the church hurt, judged or rejected.
They called it the rich man’s church, a place of pride, not prayer. Then came the day everything began to fall apart. 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 Ebon’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 Ebon 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 Ebon 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.
She was gone. The next day, her story spread like wildfire. Old Widow humiliated at church dies hours later.
God’s house or fashion parade? Rich man’s priest rejects poor widow’s offering. Christians wept. Others mocked.
Some stopped going to church. Unbelievers finally had something to say. That’s why I don’t go to church.
Hypocrites! But Father Clement remained unfazed. God deserves the best, he said boldly during his sermon. And poor people don’t belong at the front! He didn’t know it yet.
But his kingdom was crumbling. Father Clement’s attitude towards the poor continued and non-stop. It’s been clear from the moment he became a priest.
It was as if he had built an invisible wall between himself and those who didn’t have money. His favorite phrase was, God deserves the best. What he really meant was that he deserved the best.
And if you couldn’t provide it, then you didn’t belong near him. Another Thanksgiving Sunday, an elderly woman, Mama Agatha, known in the neighborhood for her humble spirit and small shop selling, dried fish and brought a bundle of dried fish to the altar during the Thanksgiving ceremony. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had.
When she reached the pulpit, holding her gift carefully, Father Clement glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The expression on his face twisted with disdain. He stopped the service for a moment and called her out.
Mama Agatha, he said with a mock smile. Are you here to bring Godfish or to feed us? He gestured to the congregation who started laughing. Did you think this place was a marketplace? Take your dried fish and go back to your little corner where it belongs.
This is not a place for small gifts. The congregation laughed harder. Mama Agatha stood frozen, her heart heavy with shame.
Her hands trembled as she clutched the fish to her chest. But she had no choice but to return to her seat, her face flushed with humiliation. Right from that moment, she made a decision to stop attending church altogether.
Believing she had no place in a place meant for worship. The shame from that day stayed with her for weeks. It was time for offering and everybody lined up to drop their offerings.
In the offering bowl at the altar, a poor man named Tunda, who worked as a mechanic, came to church with the little money he had earned that week. He carefully tucked a small N100 note into the offering bowl, hoping to give something to God. As he walked up the aisle, the priest spotted him.
Look at this one, Father Clement said loudly, causing the entire congregation to turn toward. Tunda, a mechanic who thinks he can give me N100. Do you think God needs this kind of offering? Take your change and leave.
If you cannot offer anything more, you’re wasting your time here. The congregation snickered and Tunda stood still, mortified. He had worked hard for every Naira he earned, but it didn’t matter.
To Father Clement, his offering wasn’t enough. Tunda stood there for a long time, not knowing what to do. His face burned with embarrassment.
He wanted to leave, but he stayed out of respect for God. Slowly, he returned to his seat, his eyes lowered, feeling unworthy of being there. It was the youth Sunday celebration.
A young university student, Bola, was invited to church by his friend for the first time. He was wearing a simple but neat t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. He had saved up for weeks to buy a new pair of shoes, but they weren’t flashy or expensive.
He sat quietly at the back, hoping to learn about God. Father Clement noticed him immediately. He scowled and walked over to the microphone.
Who let this young man in here looking like a street beggar? He said, his voice dripping with contempt. Is this what you call coming to worship God? Wearing jeans and t-shirts like you’re heading to a market? This is a church, not a nightclub. He then pointed to Bola, who tried to shrink in his seat.
Please do not sit in front. Go to the back. You’re distracting others.