chapter 4: The Woman Who Asked Questions
1031 Words
Amaka did not look like a threat.
That was the first thing Obinna noticed.
She did not shout. She did not accuse. She did not posture.
She asked.
And she listened.
The first time they spoke properly was after a midweek leadership conference in Victoria Island. The hall had emptied. Assistants packed cables. Musicians laughed near the stage.
She waited.
Obinna noticed her immediately — not because she was loud, but because she wasn’t trying to be seen.
When he finally stepped down from the platform, she approached with a small, professional smile.
“Pastor Obinna?”
“Yes.”
“Amaka Okoye. Independent journalist.”
Her handshake was firm. Steady.
“I’ve been following your ministry growth,” she said. “It’s impressive.”
“Growth is God’s doing,” he replied automatically.
She tilted her head slightly. “Is it?”
He smiled.
“That’s what we believe.”
There was no hostility in her tone. Only curiosity.
“I’d like to request an interview,” she continued. “On the relationship between faith institutions and public accountability.”
“Public accountability?” he repeated, amused.
“Yes. Financial transparency. Political partnerships. The influence of religious leaders on voter behavior.”
Direct.
He appreciated that.
“You think churches influence politics?” he asked casually.
“I don’t think,” she said. “I document.”
A small silence stretched between them.
He could feel her studying him.
Not admiring. Not condemning.
Measuring.
“You’re different from the others,” she added quietly. “You speak less emotionally. More strategically.”
“That a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.”
He chuckled lightly.
“Send your proposal to my office,” he said. “We’ll review it.”
“Of course.”
But as she turned to leave, she paused.
“One more thing, Pastor.”
“Yes?”
“If everything is clean… transparency should be easy.”
Then she walked away.
That night, Obinna did not pray.
He sat in his apartment overlooking the flickering Lagos skyline.
Transparency should be easy.
The words lingered.
He opened his laptop and reviewed internal documents.
He already knew what she would find if she dug deep enough.
Not outright theft.
Nothing crude.
Just…
Reallocation. Strategic partnerships. Election-season “support.”
He called his superior.
“Sir.”
“Yes, Obinna.”
“There’s a journalist asking questions.”
A pause.
“What kind of questions?”
“Financial. Political.”
Another pause.
“What’s her name?”
“Amaka Okoye.”
Silence.
Then a slow exhale.
“She’s persistent.”
“You know her?”
“She’s been circling for months.”
Obinna leaned back in his chair.
“Do we have anything to worry about?”
A faint chuckle came through the line.
“Worry is a strong word. Let’s say we need to be careful.”
“And if she publishes something… damaging?”
Another pause.
“Obinna.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Influence is not maintained by panic. It is maintained by control.”
Control.
That word again.
“What do you suggest?” Obinna asked.
“For now? Cooperate. Appear open. Slow her down.”
“And if she doesn’t slow down?”
The voice on the other end hardened slightly.
“Then others will handle it.”
The call ended.
A week later, Amaka sat across from Obinna in his office.
Recorder on the table.
“No edits?” she asked.
“No edits,” he replied smoothly.
“Let’s begin.”
She clicked record.
“Pastor Obinna, your ministry received significant donations during the last election cycle. Several of those donors later secured government contracts. Coincidence?”
“We encourage members to prosper,” he said calmly. “Their success is their own.”
“Some of those contracts were approved days after private prayer meetings here.”
“Prayer influences the spirit,” he replied. “Not procurement processes.”
She didn’t smile.
“You met with Senator Daramola three times last quarter.”
“He sought counsel.”
“And he donated fifty million naira afterward.”
“Gratitude is not illegal.”
Her eyes held his.
“Is influence?”
The room felt smaller.
He leaned forward slightly.
“Miss Okoye. Influence exists everywhere. In business. In media. In politics. Why is it suspicious when it exists in church?”
“Because the church claims moral authority,” she said quietly.
Silence.
He admired her composure.
“You’re not afraid,” he observed.
“Should I be?”
“People who ask certain questions often find resistance.”
She turned off the recorder.
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
He paused.
“I’m advising you.”
She studied him for a long moment.
“I don’t think you’re like them,” she said finally.
“Them?”
“The ones who built this machine.”
That word lingered.
Machine.
“You still believe,” she added.
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Belief evolves,” he said at last.
She stood.
“If you ever decide to speak honestly,” she said, “call me before it’s too late.”
After she left, Obinna remained seated.
Machine.
Transparency.
Control.
Belief evolves.
He felt something then.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Something closer to irritation.
She believed he was redeemable.
That assumption unsettled him more than accusation would have.
Later that evening, he received another call.
“It’s escalating,” his superior said bluntly. “She’s interviewing finance staff.”
“And?”
“She’s closer than we thought.”
“What’s the plan?”
A heavy pause.
“Delay her. Distract her. Get access to what she knows.”
“And after that?”
Silence.
Longer this time.
“Some things correct themselves.”
The line went dead.
Obinna stood by the window again, Lagos lights flickering below.
He knew what that meant.
He could warn her.
One call.
One message.
“Be careful.”
But warning her would create suspicion.
Suspicion would create investigation.
Investigation would cost influence.
And influence, he had learned, was survival.
He placed his phone face down on the table.
And did nothing.
- Writer
