POPULAR PASTOR Found With His Own Children’s Heads – | African Folktales with moral lessons
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Popular Pastor Found With His Own Children’s Heads — An African Folktale With Moral Lessons
It was a rainy Thursday in Enugu when police stopped a shiny black Jeep with tinted windows at a busy junction. The officers had received a strange phone call just thirty minutes earlier: “Stop that car. Something inside isn’t right.” The Jeep halted. Out stepped a man in a spotless white suit, bright red tie, and gleaming shoes. His bald head shone under the rain, and his golden tooth sparkled as he smiled. “Good afternoon, officer,” he said, voice smooth as warm water. “I’m Pastor Silas Obina, general overseer of Divine Light Power Ministry. I’m on my way to lead a revival.” But the officer was unmoved. “Please open your boot,” he said. Silas hesitated, offering a thick bundle of foreign cash instead. “Take this, my brothers. Let me go and do the Lord’s work.” The officers refused. Silas’s smile vanished as he slowly followed them to the back. When the boot clicked open, silence fell. Wrapped in white cloth were two human heads, fresh and still bleeding. The smell filled the air. Phones came out. People screamed, some fainted. A woman cried, “No, not Pastor Silas, the man of miracles.” Within minutes, news spread across Enugu like wildfire.
Pastor Silas wasn’t just any man. He paid school fees for struggling families, helped with rent, and prayed for those in need. His hands were known for giving, not hurting. Children called him daddy; women called him man of God. But now, the police announced: the heads belonged to his daughters, Kaya and Oub—the same girls he always claimed were studying in Canada. Shock and confusion gripped the city. “What kind of father would do that?” people whispered, but no one answered.
Long before the fame, Silas was simply the quiet son of Reverend Matthew Obina, “the lion of Living Word Assembly.” His father’s prayers shook walls and supposedly healed the mad. Silas was the third of four sons, all following their father’s footsteps. Paul, the eldest, had a thunderous voice and performed miracles that made crowds roar. Tony, the second, was sharp and stylish; his church dazzled with lights and cameras, and politicians loved him. Caleb, the youngest, was quiet, claiming to hear angels. When he touched people, they fell. Silas, the last son, didn’t shout or wear fancy suits. He prayed gently, like a soft breeze. After their father died, Silas took over the family church, renamed it Divine Light Power Ministry, and became known for kindness rather than miracles.
But inside, Silas felt hollow. He watched his brothers rise like stars, performing miracles, traveling abroad, while he remained in the shadows. The crowd clapped for him every Sunday, but his heart felt empty. He longed to burn bright like fire, but all he carried felt like water.
One Sunday evening, everything changed. At a massive crusade in Ai, all four Obina brothers were challenged to prove their calling. Four afflicted people were brought forward: a blind man, a mute woman, a mad man, and a cripple. Paul healed the cripple with thunderous prayers—the man stood and walked, the crowd exploded. Tony restored the blind man’s sight with a gentle touch—the man cried, “I can see!” Caleb made the mute woman speak with oil and a whispered prayer. Then it was Silas’s turn, facing the mad man. Silas prayed, shouted, wept, knelt, but nothing changed. The mad man grabbed Silas’s collar and screamed, “Leave me alone, empty man.” The crowd fell silent. Whispers drifted: “Maybe God didn’t call him. Maybe he’s just empty.” Silas went home alone, unable to sleep, haunted by failure.
Desperate, Silas sought answers from his brothers. Paul told him to pray and fast, but Silas already did. Tony spoke of branding, strategy, and looking the part, but Silas only wanted real power. Caleb told him, “Some vessels carry fire, others water. Stop chasing what isn’t yours.” Silas returned to his empty church, where the singing had stopped, chairs sat empty, and even the cleaner no longer came. His wife, Mama Joy, packed her things and left, saying, “This stress is too much. I’m leaving before I lose myself.” His daughters, Adah and Miracle, stopped laughing and locked themselves away. Silas told everyone they had traveled to South Africa to study, but he had locked them in himself, convinced he was protecting them from witches and jealous pastors.
Days became weeks, weeks became months. One morning, the silence behind their door felt too final. Now their heads were in his boot, wrapped in cloth and soaked in blood. The world kept asking why, but the answer wasn’t in any police report—it was sitting quietly in his empty house.
Consumed by desperation, Silas sought out “Brother Fire,” a mysterious man said to possess real power. In a candle-lit house on the edge of Enugu, Brother Fire told Silas, “Feed the spirits. Not with prayers, but with blood.” Silas recoiled. “What kind of blood?” “The blood of love. The kind that hurts your heart.” Silas fled, but the hunger for power grew. One week later, he returned. Brother Fire gave him a bowl, a list, and marked his chest with burning symbols. That night, Silas made a vow—something inside him broke, and something darker rose up.
The next Sunday, everything changed. The church air felt thick and heavy. Silas raised his hand—“Stand,” he said. A blind woman screamed, “I can see!” The crowd exploded. He touched a boy in a wheelchair—“Walk.” The boy stood, then ran. A barren woman suddenly had triplets. Miracles flowed. Cars lined the road. The small church overflowed. People came from across Africa and beyond, begging for his touch. Silas smiled outwardly, but something darker smiled inside him. He bought luxury cars, built a cathedral, launched a TV program. His name changed—no longer Pastor Silas, but “God’s battle axe.” Behind every miracle was a shadow, sweet on the outside but poison within.
But the spirits demanded payment—not goats or sinners, but the blood of loved ones. Each year, Silas sacrificed someone close: his cousin, uncle, friend, choir leader. They vanished quietly, but no one questioned—the miracles mattered more than the truth. Silas’s smile faded, his laugh grew hollow, his hands shook. Each offering took a piece of his heart until only his own blood remained to give.
One evening, after a strange fast, Silas was stopped by police. He tried to refuse, but they insisted. Inside his boot was a woman’s head, fresh and bloody. Phones flashed, sirens screamed, but Silas didn’t run. He was arrested, his white robe now stained with blood.
In the station’s dim room, Silas—once God’s battle axe—broke down. Tears poured as he confessed everything: Brother Fire, the spirits, the blood sacrifices. “It had to be someone I loved,” he whispered. Six years, six loved ones, ending with his daughters. The officers were stunned. Silas sat, head bowed, chains cold on his wrists—a prophet of fire turned prisoner of darkness.
Far away, in a quiet village, Mama Abe sat under a mango tree. When she heard the news, she collapsed, her wrapper loose, head hitting the red earth. Neighbors rushed to her side. For days, she didn’t eat or speak, only cried. “I carried him in my womb. I anointed his head with oil. How did he become this?” The rest of the family fell silent. Paul stopped preaching, Tony turned off the church lights, Caleb no longer prophesied. The once-honored family name became a curse. Silence filled their homes and hearts.
In prison, Silas sat in a small cell, no suit, no crowd, only dust and regret. “I just wanted to serve God. I just wanted to be great,” he whispered to the walls. He remembered the empty church, his daughters’ laughter, the oath, the blood, the spirits who gave him miracles and fame and then took everything—his peace, family, name, and soul. Now, Silas was a broken chair, a man who chased light and fell into darkness.
When Silas was locked away, the gates of Holy Fire Dominion Chapel were chained shut. Dust covered the chairs, screens flickered to black, the altar stood empty. Pastors fled, some to other states, some out of the country. The fire was gone, not just from the church, but from the hearts of all who once believed. The story ended not with thunder, but with a whisper: not every miracle comes from God, and not every man behind the pulpit walks in the light.
Church members gathered outside, crying, collapsing, holding pictures of Pastor Silas. Some said, “We saw signs.” But when asked why they never spoke, they said nothing—fear is a silence louder than thunder. Whispers filled the city: “If Pastor Silas could do this, who else?” Trust in miracles shattered. The government investigated. Big names trembled. When one snake is caught, the whole forest listens.
The church never opened again. Weeds grew tall around the one sacred building. Dust covered the altar and the great wooden cross, now leaning like a broken promise. People changed. They stopped running to churches without question, stopped shouting “man of God” at every loud voice. They started watching, listening, asking: Where is this power really coming from? Because now they understood—not every hand that heals is holy. Not every voice that shouts fire comes from heaven. Some carry chains, some carry blood. Sometimes, the devil wears a white suit too.
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