My Pastor Is Our God

My Pastor Is Our God

For the past one hour, our neighbor has been explaining to my mum how her pastor is one of the seven wonders of the world. My mum being a believer of fairy tale digested this first hand information to the very last, devoid of her rational sense of reasoning.

“Mummy Dotun, you need to witness the greatness of God in my pastor’s life. He heals the sick with the drop of his sweat, and waves demons by waving his hands. There’s a pool of Bethesda behind my church, which cures our abnormalities and problems once we step in…”

I was silently enjoying their Mount Zion live drama, before the last scene brought me back to life. I was about to shoot my shot, when my mum suddenly pulled the trigger.

“Oladotun,” she uttered, “we’re going to attend that church next week … for your deliverance.”


If going to church regularly is a sure ticket to Heaven, we would’ve gotten one by now. My mom literally believes life is a battlefield, you either be a prayer warrior, or die fighting. She inherited this hereditry belief from her ancestors who died anticipating their forthcoming glory like Jesus second coming.

Faith garnished with our Lord’s prayer is what we eat frequently, simply because my mum is our church’s bread winner in her own right. We starve in faith in exchange for salvation, yet we are stagnant. Here, it’s either you exhaust your arsenal, or your arsenal exhausts you.

My mum once asked, “Dotun, what do you want to become in the nearest future?”

“A pastor or a General Overseer,” I replied without thinking of the probable consequence.

I spent time envying my pastor. His conning skill is on another level, as he led us sheepishly to our grave. I grew wanting to be a motivational speaker like him. I wanted to gather flocks and eat off their sweat. I thought of it as my sweet revenge, to recover my mum’s fortune, since people are only ready to learn things the hard way. I want others to await their forth coming glory like Jesus second coming, like we did.


After a couple of hours in my neighbour’s ancestral looking church, the long queue with a bunch of silent letters finally reached our end. It would be litotes to say I haven’t seen a long queue like that before. Like my mum, they were waiting for a sudden manna to fall from Heaven and quench their thirst for an unbecoming miracle.

As we knelt before the pastor—or let me say prophet—he mentioned my name, the food I ate, my mum’s name and our problem. After his divination, he silently asked, “Oladotun, what do you want?”

I summoned my courage, and locked his eyes with mine. I knew what I’m about to say would change my life.

“I want to be a god … just like you…”

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