DELIVER ME FROM YOU

The Fasting

Sunday. 9:00am. Power House International. Day 1 of Fasting.

“Twenty-one days,” Michael said from the pulpit. White agbada today. No smile. “No food. No water from 6am to 6pm. No sin. No touch. We are purging the spirit of lust from this house.”

The church roared. “Amen!”

Women fainted. Men loosened ties. My father clapped the loudest.

Because Daddy G.O. had given Michael the mic. “Pastor Mike, lead us.”

And Michael was leading us straight to hell.

“Special instruction,” he said, eyes finding me in choir stand. “Intercessors will meet with me. 1am. Every night. On Zoom. For midnight prayers. Cameras on. We battle best when we’re seen.”

1am. Cameras on.

He’d just announced our “private ministry” to 800 people and called it prayer.

My father nodded beside me. “God is using him, Kelechi. I can feel it.”

So can I, I wanted to say. In my chest. Like a knife.

12:58am. Monday. My Room. Zoom.

I logged in. Name: Sister K.

His box popped up. Pastor Mike. Background: his office. Bible open. Candles.

No one else. “Deliverance team” was just us.

“Where is everyone?” I typed in chat.

Pastor Mike: They’re fasting. From sin. From me. You’re not.

He unmuted. “Take off your wrapper, Sister Kelechi. We’re praying for purity. You must come as you are.”

“My father is outside my door,” I whispered. “He’s sleeping in the parlor. To guard me.”

“Then whisper,” Michael said. “God loves whispers.”

He clicked Record. Red dot blinking.

“Isaiah 6:5,” he said. “Read it.”

“Woe is me! For I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips…”

“Stop,” he said. “Now say it again. But put your name.”

“Woe is me… for I am Kelechi… for I am undone…”

“Louder.”

“Woe is me!”

My father stirred outside. I froze.

Michael smiled. “See? Even your daddy hears you now. You’re finally honest.”

He leaned closer to cam. “Now. Psalm 51. On your knees. Like last night. But tonight… cry. Real tears. For Deacon Ojo. For the elders. For me.”

I knelt. On cold floor. Phone on my bed. His face lighting my room.

And I cried. Because I was hungry. Because I was scared. Because Psalm 51 says “create in me a clean heart” and mine hadn’t been clean since SS2.

When I finished, he said: “Amen. You did well. Your offering is accepted.”

“Offering?”

He zoomed in on my face. On my tears. “This. This is what I break my fast with. Not food. You.”

He ended call.

I checked my phone.

1 new message. Unknown number.

“Daughter. It’s me. Your new daddy. Deacon Ojo. Mummy married me yesterday. I’m home now. Can’t wait for breakfast. – D.O.”

My phone fell.

Mum. Who left 5 years ago. Married him.

My blackmailer. Now my stepfather.

Day 3 of Fasting. 2pm. Church Kitchen.

No food. No water. My head was pounding.

Kemi from choir — not my Kemi, church Kemi — handed me a bottle.

“From Pastor Mike,” she whispered. “He said intercessors need strength.”

I opened it. Water. With a note.

“Matthew 4:4. Man shall not live by bread alone. But by every word from my mouth. Drink. – P.M.”

I drank. Because I was weak. Because it was him.

Across the hall, my father was preaching to ushers about “the new move of God.” He hadn’t eaten in 3 days. For me.

And in my bag, my phone buzzed.

D.O.: I saw you drink it. Good girl. Now you’re ready for family dinner. 8pm. No Pastor Mike.

How did he know?

I looked up.

Church CCTV. Red light blinking.

Michael had cameras. Deacon Ojo had cameras.

I was the show.

6:00pm. Fasting Break.

I didn’t go home.

I went to Michael’s office. Door open.

He was eating. Chicken. Rice. Jollof.

“Fasting?” I said.

“For them,” he said, mouth full. “Not for me. I’m already clean.”

He pointed to chair. “Sit. Eat.”

“I can’t. My father—”

“Your father is at your house,” Michael said. “With your new father. Deacon Ojo. ‘Reconciling the family.’ Daddy G.O’s idea.”

My stomach dropped. “You knew?”

“I arranged it,” he said. Pushed plate to me. “Eat. You’ll need strength.”

“For what?”

He pulled up a video on his laptop. CCTV. My house. Live.

Deacon Ojo. In my parlor. On my couch. My mum beside him. My father opposite.

Holding a Bible. Looking broken.

Audio: “Brother Nwosu, let’s forget past. I’m married to your ex now. We’re family. Let Kelechi come home. We’ll… counsel her. Together.”

My father’s voice: “Over my dead body.”

Deacon Ojo smiled. “That can be arranged.”

Michael closed laptop. “He’s going to kill your dad, Kelechi. Or use you to do it. Same way he used you before.”

“So help me!”

“I am.” He stood. Walked around desk. Stopped inches from me. Still not touching. “But my help costs.”

“What?”

“Break your fast,” he said. “With me. Every night. Not on Zoom. Here. In person. 1am. No cameras. Just… us.”

“You said no touching.”

“I lied.” He picked up a piece of chicken. Held it to my lips. “Open.”

I did. Because my father was in that house. Because Deacon Ojo was smiling.

Chicken tasted like ash. Like surrender.

“Good girl,” Michael whispered. “Now we’re both sinning. Now we’re equal.”

12:59am. Thursday. Pastor’s Office.

I was there.

No wrapper. Just T-shirt. Lagos is hot. And hell is hotter.

He was waiting. Not in white. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled. Scar on lip catching light.

“Close door,” he said.

I did.

“No cameras?” I asked.

“No record,” he said. “Just reckoning.”

He didn’t move to me. He moved to his desk. Opened drawer.

Pulled out 47 printed photos.

Me. 15. Sleeping. SS2. Queens College.

From every angle.

He spread them on desk. Like tarot cards. Like evidence.

“This is why I got expelled,” he said. “I didn’t steal your bra to wear it. I stole it to smell you. Then I came back. To see you. To keep you.”

“You watched me sleep.”

“I prayed over you.” He touched one photo. My face. “Every night. For 8 years. ‘God, make her mine. Or make her dead.’”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m saved,” he said. “Kuje Prison Bible school. 3 years. I memorized scripture so I could quote it… when I finally got you.”

He looked up. “And now you’re here. So God is real.”

He stepped around desk. Stopped. One foot away.

“I’m not Deacon Ojo,” he said. “I won’t film you. I won’t share you. I won’t touch you… until you beg.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to choose the sin. Like you chose them. So when you burn, it’s your fault. Not mine.”

He picked up one photo. Held it out. “This is you. Before them. Before me. Before church.”

I took it. Me. 15. Innocent. Stupid.

“Burn it,” he said. Held out lighter. “Or keep it. And stay her.”

I looked at the door. At my father probably fighting Deacon Ojo right now. At 21 days of fasting. At 1am.

I took the lighter.

And burned it.

Ash on his carpet. On his altar.

He smiled. First real one. Not pastor. Not stalker. Just boy.

“Now,” he said, voice hoarse, “do you want to pray… or do you want to sin?”

Before I could answer, the door burst open.

My father.

And Deacon Ojo.

And Daddy G.O.

And 3 ushers with phones.

Recording.

“Got you,” Deacon Ojo said, smiling. “Pastor Mike and the choir girl. After midnight. Alone. Sinning.”

My father looked at me. At T-shirt. At ash on floor. At Michael.

His face… didn’t break.

It hardened.

“Kelechi,” he said. Quiet. Deadly. “Is this true?”

Michael stepped in front of me. Blocking. “She’s here for deliverance—”

“From you,” Deacon Ojo said. Held up his phone. “I have CCTV. From your office. Last 3 nights. You touching yourself… while watching her on Zoom.”

Michael froze.

Because he had. I didn’t know. But Deacon Ojo did.

Daddy G.O. looked at Michael. “Son… is this true?”

Michael didn’t look at them. He looked at me.

And for the first time, I saw fear.

Not of jail. Not of God.

Of losing me.

“Kelechi,” he whispered. “Say it. Say I didn’t touch you. Say it was prayer. Say anything.”

My father was waiting. Deacon Ojo was smiling. Daddy G.O. was praying.

And I…

I stepped from behind Michael.

Stood in front of 3 fathers. 3 devils.

And said: “He never touched me.”

Silence.

“But,” I said, louder, “he saw me. When all of you were blind. When you, Daddy, were holy. When you, Deacon Ojo, were buying me. He saw me.”

I turned to Michael. “And I let him. Because I was tired of being unseen.”

I picked up ash from floor. Smeared it on my forehead. Like nzu. Like war.

“So if I’m sinning,” I told them all, “then I’m sinning out loud. And I’m not sorry.”

I grabbed Michael’s hand. First time. Skin on skin. Fire.

“Now,” I told Deacon Ojo, “post your video. Show my daddy. Show the church. I don’t care anymore.”

Deacon Ojo’s smile died.

Because a woman with nothing to lose… is free.

Daddy G.O. pointed at door. “Both of you. Out. Now. Before I call police.”

We walked out.

Hand in hand.

Into Gbagada. Into 3am. Into us.

3:17am. National Stadium. Again.

Same place I ran from Deacon Ojo.

But now I wasn’t running.

Michael sat on concrete. Head in hands.

“I lost,” he said. “Church. Calling. You.”

“You never had me,” I said.

“I know.” He laughed. Broken. “I just… wanted to.”

I sat beside him. Not touching. Just… there.

“Your 47 photos,” I said. “You still have them?”

“In my head,” he said. “Forever.”

“Good.” I took his hand. “Then you’ll never need new ones.”

He looked up. “What?”

“Deacon Ojo is going to ruin us,” I said. “My daddy hates us. Church hates us. We have no money. No home. No God, probably.”

“So?”

“So,” I said, “if we’re going to hell… we’re going together. And we’re going loud.”

I kissed him.

First time. Tasted like jollof and ash and war.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Then he kissed back. Like drowning. Like prayer.

Above us, a billboard changed.

From “Jesus Saves” to “Bet9ja: Your Own House”.

We laughed. Mad. Free. Damned.