DELIVER ME FROM YOU

The Raid

1:04am. Ikorodu. One room. One ring light. One lie.

My name is Kelechi Nwosu. By day, I’m “Sister K,” choir leader at Power House International, Gbagada.

By night, I’m “Kells” on FanVault. ₦50k for 10 mins. ₦200k for “private ministry.”

Why? Because Deacon Ojo from Daddy G.O’s board said he has videos of me from 2 years ago. Me, 19, drunk at a house party. No wrapper. One elder’s son on top of me.

“Continue servicing the elders,” he texts every month, “or your father the Deacon sees this before Sunday service.”

My father hasn’t spoken to me since Mum left. But he’d kill me if he saw that video. And the church would stone me.

So I sin. To protect my “testimony.”

Tonight, user “Yahweh’sSon” tipped ₦100k. Note: “Isaiah 54:17. No weapon formed against you shall prosper. Except mine.”

I blocked him. Shaking.

Then my door burst open.

“EFCC! Nobody move!”

Three men. Jackets. Guns.

I screamed, grabbed my wrapper. Ring light crashed.

“Where is the laptop?!” the lead one shouted. He had a mask. Voice like gravel.

“Please, I—”

He stepped over my FanVault tripod like it was nothing. Grabbed my laptop. Then he stopped.

Because on my table was a pant. Black. Lace. From tonight’s “ministry.”

He picked it up. Slow. Put it to his nose. Inhaled.

My blood went cold.

EFCC doesn’t do that.

“Get out,” he told the other two.

They left. Closed door.

It was just us. Me in wrapper. Him in EFCC jacket. My used pant in his hand.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He pulled off the mask.

Sharp jaw. Scar on lip. Eyes I knew.

From Queens College. SS2. He was the senior who wrote me poems. Michael. Michael Udo.

The boy who vanished after they found him in girls’ toilet with my stolen bra.

“You,” I said.

“Me,” he said. Dropped the pant. “Yahweh’sSon.”

“You… EFCC?”

He laughed. Threw the jacket on my bed. Fake. “I bought it at Yaba. ₦8k.”

“Why are you here?”

He sat on my bed. On my wrapper. Like he owned it. “To deliver you, Kelechi.”

“From what?”

“From them.” He nodded at my phone. Deacon Ojo’s text was still open: “Elder Dike tonight. 9pm. Hotel. Same room.”

“How do you—”

“I’ve been watching for 6 months,” he said. “Every live. Every tip. Every time you cry after.”

My throat closed. “You’re stalking me.”

“I’m saving you.” He pulled out a flash drive. “Deacon Ojo’s videos. All of them. I stole them. From his cloud. Last week.”

“Why?”

“Because you said no to me in SS2. But you didn’t say no to them.” He stood. “That’s not right.”

He stepped closer. I could smell him. Same AXE body spray from 8 years ago.

“I’m the new youth pastor at Power House,” he said. “Transferred yesterday. From Abuja.”

“Liar. You’re not—”

He pulled out an ID. Pastor Michael Udo. Power House International. Gbagada.

“You forged it,” I said.

“I am it,” he said. “Ordained. 3 months ago. In Kuje Prison.”

Prison.

“Why were you—”

“Fraud. Same as you.” He smiled. “But God called me. In cell 4. He said: ‘Find Kelechi. Save her. Then save yourself.’”

He dropped the flash drive in my lap.

“Delete the videos. Block them. Tonight. Or I’ll post them myself. At 9am service. On the big screen. During praise and worship.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” He leaned down. His lips near my ear. “Because if I can’t have you, they can’t either.”

He left.

Left the fake EFCC jacket. Left my pant on the floor. Left me shaking.

6:42am. Power House International. Choir Stand.

I didn’t sleep. I deleted nothing.

Because if I delete it, Deacon Ojo will know. And if he knows, he’ll send the video anyway.

Better to die on my terms.

We were singing “You Are Yahweh.” My solo.

Then the lights dimmed.

Projector on.

My heart stopped.

This is it. He posted it. I’m finished.

But it wasn’t me.

It was Deacon Ojo.

In a hotel. With Elder Dike’s wife.

Timestamp: Last night. 9:03pm. The time I was supposed to be there.

The church exploded.

Screams. “Blood of Jesus!”

Daddy G.O. stood. “Cut it! Cut it!”

Deacon Ojo fainted.

And on stage, walking to the pulpit, was him.

Pastor Michael Udo. New youth pastor. In white. Mic in hand.

“Isaiah 54:17,” he said, calm. “No weapon formed against you shall prosper.”

He looked straight at me.

“Even the ones we form ourselves.”

After service, he found me behind the church. By the drum set.

“You did that,” I said.

“I delivered you,” he said. “From him.”

“You blackmailed me.”

“I freed you.” He stepped closer. “Now you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

He pulled out my black lace pant. From last night. From my room.

“Yourself,” he said. “Every night. 1am. FanVault. Just for me. Or I release your video. The real one. From SS2. The one I took.”

My knees gave out.

He had it. All along. The reason he got expelled. The reason I’ve been running.

He wasn’t my savior.

He was my new Deacon Ojo.

“Why?” I cried. “Why me?”

He knelt. Wiped my tears. With my pant.

“Because, Kelechi,” he whispered, “you’re the only prayer God ever answered.”

He stood. Walked away.

And from the pulpit, Daddy G.O. announced:

“Next week, we begin Deliverance Week. With our new youth pastor. Pastor Mike. Theme: ‘Deliver Me From You.’”

The whole church clapped.

Except me.

Because I knew.

The deliverance… was for me.

From him.