DELIVER ME FROM YOU

The Offering

1:00am. Ikorodu. Same room. New rules.

The ring light was on. I wasn’t.

My laptop screen said: “Yahweh’sSon is requesting a private show. ₦0.00”

₦0. Because he owned me now.

I clicked accept.

He appeared on screen. Not on cam. Just a black box with white text. Like God texting.

Yahweh’sSon: Take off the robe.

I was still in choir robe from service. From the day he ruined Deacon Ojo and saved me. Then caged me.

“My father is in the next room,” I typed.

Yahweh’sSon: Then be quiet. Like you were with Elder Dike.

My hands shook. I untied the robe. Let it fall. T-shirt. Shorts. That was all he’d get.

Yahweh’sSon: Good girl. Now read Psalm 23.

“What?”

Yahweh’sSon: Read it. Out loud. For me.

So I did. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…”

While 1,403 Nigerians slept and one ex-con watched me from his church apartment in Gbagada.

When I finished, he typed:

Yahweh’sSon: Again. But cry this time.

I stared at the screen. “Why?”

Yahweh’sSon: Because you never cried for them. Only after. I want the before.

That was the night I knew: Michael didn’t want my body.

He wanted my breaking.

7:30am. Power House International. Monday.

Deliverance Week. Day 1.

Theme: “Deliver Me From You” — his words, not Daddy G.O’s.

The church was full. Monday morning. Because Lagosians will miss work for two things: visa and deliverance.

I was on choir stand. Eyes burning from no sleep. From Psalm 23 x 17.

Michael walked to pulpit. No notes. No Bible. Just mic.

“Today,” he said, “we’re casting out the spirit of prostitution.”

The choir gasped. Aunty Blessing fell. Real or fake, who knows.

“It hides in church,” he said. “It sings soprano. It ushers. It pays tithe. It quotes scripture… after 1am.”

He looked at me. Only me.

“Some of you sell your body for school fees. For mummy’s hospital bill. You think God doesn’t see? He does. And He sent me.”

Daddy G.O. nodded. “Preach, Pastor Mike!”

“He sent me to tell you,” Michael said, voice dropping, “your body is not your own. It’s His. But tonight… it’s mine. For deliverance.”

The women shouted. “Amen!”

The men shouted. “Papaa!”

I gripped the mic stand. Because mine meant mine.

After service, my father found me. Deacon Nwosu. Tall. Silent. The kind of holy that hurts.

“Kelechi,” he said. “Pastor Mike asked for you. For deliverance team.”

My blood went cold. “Daddy, I—”

“You’ve been… distracted lately,” he said. Not unkind. Just tired. “Choir is not your only calling. Pastor Mike says you have the anointing for intercession.”

Intercession. Is that what he called 1am Psalm 23?

“Yes, Daddy,” I said. Because Deacon Ojo taught me: Fathers don’t ask. They announce.

9:12pm. Pastor’s Office. Gbagada.

Deliverance team = me + him. Alone.

Office smelled like new paint and old sin.

He locked the door. “Kneel.”

I did. On the rug. Because what else could I do?

He stood over me. In white. Like angel. Like executioner.

“Hands,” he said.

I held them out.

He dropped something in them.

My black lace pant. From the raid. Washed. Folded.

“Offering,” he said. “From last night. You forgot to give it.”

“Michael—”

“Pastor Mike,” he corrected. “In here, I’m your pastor.”

He sat. On his desk. Above me.

“Deacon Ojo is awake,” he said. “Coma was fake. He’s telling Daddy G.O. you’re a Jezebel. That you seduced him.”

“So you’ll release the video?” I whispered. “Finish me?”

“No.” He leaned down. “I’ll finish him.”

He pulled out his phone. Played audio.

Deacon Ojo’s voice: “That small girl Kelechi… I go show her father that video if she no come tonight. She think say new pastor go save am? I go kill am.”

“You bugged him?” I said.

“I am him now,” Michael said. “The church needs a Judas. Better me than you.”

He stood. Pulled me up. Not touching. Never touching.

“Tomorrow, you’ll testify,” he said. “During deliverance. You’ll say Deacon Ojo blackmailed you. You’ll cry. You’ll be free.”

“And if I don’t?”

He smiled. The scar on his lip pulled. “Then I’ll tell them why I got expelled from Queens College. With details. And photos. I kept them, Kelechi. All of them.”

Photos. Of me. 15. Sleeping. He took them before he stole my bra.

“You’re worse than him,” I said.

“I’m honest,” he said. “He wanted your body. I want your yes. That’s the difference between r**e and religion.”

He opened the door. “1am. FanVault. Psalm 51 tonight. And don’t fake the tears. I know your tells.”

I walked out. Into church. Where 200 women were fasting for “deliverance.”

From spirit husband.

I had a real one.

Tuesday. 10:03am. Deliverance Service.

I was on the altar. Mic in hand. 800 people. Cameras. YouTube Live.

Deacon Ojo was in front row. Neck brace. Eyes like knife.

My father was behind him. “Tell the truth, my daughter. God is watching.”

Michael was beside Daddy G.O. Whispering. “She’s ready.”

I opened my mouth.

And said: “I… I have a testimony.”

“Amen!” the church roared.

“Two years ago,” I said, voice shaking, “a leader in this church… found me at my lowest. He had… a video. Of me. Sinning.”

Gasps.

“He said if I don’t… minister to him and other elders… he’ll show my father.”

Deacon Ojo stood. “Lies! She’s a—”

“Sit down!” Daddy G.O. bellowed. “Let her speak!”

I looked at Michael. He nodded. Go on.

“So I did,” I said. Tears real now. “For two years. I sold my body… to protect my father’s name. To protect this church.”

The women wailed. “Blood of Jesus!”

My father’s face broke. Not anger. Shame. For not seeing.

“But God sent me a deliverer,” I said. Looked at Michael. “Pastor Mike. He found the video. He destroyed it. He told me… ‘No more.’”

Lie. He had the video. But I was trading one cage for another.

Deacon Ojo laughed. Mad. “You think this boy is saint? He’s a criminal! Ask him about Kuje! Ask him—”

“Enough!” Daddy G.O. stood. “Deacon Ojo, you are suspended. Indefinitely. We will investigate.”

Usher dragged Deacon Ojo out. Screaming. “She’s a hoe! She’s a hoe!”

And the church… clapped for me.

“Daughter,” Daddy G.O. said, hugging me. “You are free. The blood covers you.”

I looked at Michael. He was clapping too. Slow. Like he was the one who freed me.

Like he wasn’t the new Deacon Ojo.

1:00am. Same Night.

FanVault. Private show.

Yahweh’sSon: You lied for me.

“You told me to.”

Yahweh’sSon: You cried for me. Real tears. That’s new.

“Are you happy?”

Yahweh’sSon: No. Because now they love you. And I have to share.

He went quiet. Then:

Yahweh’sSon: Take a test.

“What?”

Yahweh’sSon: Pregnancy test. Now. Show me.

My heart stopped. My period was 3 days late. From stress. From him.

“I’m not—”

Yahweh’sSon: Now, Kelechi. Or I post the SS2 photos. All 47 of them. One per hour. Until you’re done.

I ran to bathroom. Found the test from last week. Expired. Didn’t care.

Pee. Wait.

One line.

Negative.

I held it to camera.

He was quiet for 60 seconds.

Then:

Yahweh’sSon: Good. You’re not ready. But when you are… it’ll be mine.

He logged off.

I sat on bathroom floor. In T-shirt. In Lagos. In hell.

And I realized:

Deliverance wasn’t an event.

It was him.

Every night. 1am.

Wednesday. 8am.

My father knocked.

He never knocked.

He held out a phone. “It’s for you.”

I took it. Text. Unknown number.

“Your daddy knows. Meet me. National Stadium. 6pm. Come alone. Or he dies. – D.O.”

Deacon Ojo.

I looked up at my father. His eyes were red. From crying. From knowing.

“Daddy—”

“Don’t lie to me again,” he said. “Ever. Are you safe?”

I thought of Michael. Of 1am. Of 47 photos.

“No,” I said. Honest. First time in years.

He nodded. “Then we fight.”

He pulled me into hug. Smelled like myrrh and old pain.

“Your mum,” he whispered, “left because I was like this. Blind. Holy. Useless. I won’t lose you too.”

For the first time, I believed him.

6:00pm. National Stadium.

I went. Not alone.

Because behind me, in a black Corolla, was Pastor Michael Udo.

Watching. Always watching.

Deacon Ojo was there. Neck brace gone. With two boys.

“Kelechi,” he smiled. “Pastor Mike took my church. But he won’t take my revenge.”

He held up his phone. My video. The real one. From 2 years ago.

“Your daddy sees this in 5 minutes,” he said. “Unless you come with us. Now.”

I looked at the Corolla. Michael didn’t move.

Test me, his eyes said from 200 meters away. Choose.

So I did.

I ran. Not to Deacon Ojo. Not to Michael.

To the road. To the buses. To Lagos.

And I screamed: “THIEF! THIEF! HE HAS MY NUDES!”

Lagos came alive.

Area boys. Market women. Touts.

They descended on Deacon Ojo like judgement day.

His phone smashed. His boys ran. Him too.

And in the Corolla, Michael… smiled.

He rolled down window. Held up my black lace pant. From his office.

And mouthed: “1am.”