MADMAN Entered a Church and REVEALED the PASTOR’S Secret
In the quiet village of Ikot Aba, where mango trees shaded dusty paths and the air hummed with the songs of crickets, Pastor Nathaniel Udo began his ministry humbly. Preaching under a sprawling mango tree beside the old community hall, his voice carried a quiet weight that made passersby pause. His first congregation was small: Mama Eno, a retired teacher with a kind heart; Desmond, a mechanic plagued by suspicions of his wife’s witchcraft; and Sister Glory, a seamstress barren for eleven years. They gathered on plastic chairs, swatting mosquitoes, shouting “Amen” with unyielding hope. For over a year, Nathaniel spoke of repentance, fasting, and enduring faith. No miracles came, only the Word and his assurance: “Hold on to God. He hears you even when He’s silent.” Desmond once asked, “When will God answer?” Nathaniel smiled: “Soon.”
One sweltering Sunday in late July, change arrived like a storm. Nathaniel emerged in a deep blue robe embroidered with gold, flowing like a river of glory. Whispers rippled: “Something will happen today.” He prayed, his voice thunderous yet calm: “Lift your hands. The Lord is here.” Midway through his sermon on faith reviving dry bones, he paused, eyes closed. “There is someone here who came to walk, not listen. You’ve been lame for six years, but the Lord says, ‘Rise.'” Heads turned to Musa, thin and pale in his wheelbarrow. Shaking, Musa gripped the edges, his stiff legs stirring. With a crack like breaking wood, he stood, then ran circles around the compound, tears streaming: “I can walk!” Videos spread like wildfire, drawing crowds from afar.
Yet, across the road sat John, a madman with tangled hair and torn clothes, watching every service. Nathaniel never prayed for him, but sent identical meals twice daily—fried rice, expensive wine, whatever the pastor ate. Some called it kindness, whispering John was once his friend. Others wondered: if Nathaniel could heal, why not John?
The next Sunday, the church overflowed, people perching on trees and blocks. Nathaniel sang, his voice wrapping the crowd in reverence. Then: “I see a woman mocked for ten years, barren despite doctors and herbs. God has remembered you.” Sister Glory rose, weeping, clutching her belly: “It’s me!” He laid hands on her, declaring, “Fruitfulness!” Nine months later, she birthed twins without a hospital, silencing her mockers.
Miracles multiplied: blind eyes opened, lame legs danced. Gifts poured in—a Toyota Camry, a house from America, ten million naira from a silent senator. The church transformed with new speakers, roofs, and generators. A bishop donated twenty-five million; a tycoon gifted a Prado Jeep. Families pledged half a million monthly. Offerings required auditors. Nathaniel traveled to Abuja, Port Harcourt, even London, blessing governors and judges.
One Thursday, Chief Akinola called: after ten miscarriages, his wife birthed a son. “I’m giving you a private jet.” That Sunday, the church brimmed with anticipation, TV crews filming. As Chief testified, a ragged voice boomed: “It is time!” John burst in, barefoot and wild, climbing the altar: “Seven days you didn’t feed me. Why?” Nathaniel trembled, sweat beading. John revealed: years ago, desperate for growth, Nathaniel sought a dark prophet. The price for miracles: a human sacrifice—someone close, driven mad, fed identically forever. If broken for seven days, the victim regains sanity and speaks.
John had refused, but Nathaniel returned alone, sacrificing his friend. “I am the price for every miracle.” While touring abroad, Nathaniel instructed his steward on John’s meals, but the steward pocketed the money, starving John. The covenant shattered. Lights flickered, fans halted, air chilled. Chaos erupted—screams, stampedes, fleeing crowds. Nathaniel pleaded: “He’s lying!” But his voice held no power.
The church emptied, posters torn down, music silenced. Police arrested Nathaniel for fraud and conspiracy. Jailed in plain clothes, the man who raised the dead now faced bars, his glory built on blood crumbling to shame. The altar that once echoed “Amen” stood dust-covered, a testament that false power devours its own.
