POPULAR PASTOR BURRIED His Wife and Two Children Alive Under His Church | Then This Happened
In the quiet town of Obosi, where mango trees whispered secrets and the air carried the scent of yam and dust, Pastor Bartholomew was a man of contradictions. Once a barefoot boy with a Bible pressed to his chest, he’d walked the sandy paths at seventeen, praying for the sick with a fire in his bones. Orphaned and alone, he greeted vendors like Mama Ijeoma with prayers for her aching legs, asking nothing in return. His small plywood church by the town borehole stood empty most Sundays, its benches silent as he preached to ghosts and the occasional madman who clapped at the ceiling. Yet Bartholomew never wavered, sweeping the floors, wiping the pulpit, and whispering, “Lord, send them.” The big churches with gold-watched pastors and shouting crowds mocked his faith, but he clung to it, a boy carrying hope heavier than his frame.
One scorching Tuesday, everything shifted. A child lay dying on a bamboo mat, her lips cracked, her chest heaving. Bartholomew prayed over her, his touch gentle, his voice steady: “Lord, not this one.” The next morning, she stood, ate, and asked for pap. Word spread like wildfire. The grandmother, her wrapper slipping in her haste, ran to Bartholomew’s church, shouting, “She’s alive!” His eyes watered, but the old woman’s words lingered: “A good heart is not enough.” She spoke of a place in the bush where “real power” lived—power to fill churches, to make crowds shout his name. That night, Bartholomew stood at her gate, his Bible left behind, and followed her into the forest.
Deep in a clearing, seven women with chalk-painted faces and black wrappers stood around a smoking clay bowl. Their leader, her eyes pupil-less and white, offered a black ring, promising miracles: “Wear this, and the sick will rise, crowds will gather.” But power came at a cost. “When we ask for sacrifice, you must obey alone. If anyone sees, they must die and be buried where they stand.” Bartholomew, trembling, accepted the ring, its icy weight sinking into his veins. The next Sunday, an old woman’s legs moved after years of stillness. The church overflowed, and “Brother Bartholomew” became “Pastor Bartho,” a name plastered on buses and billboards. Miracles poured—blind eyes opened, wombs filled, madness fled. Money followed, then cars, suits, and a gleaming Fire Mountain Cathedral with marble tiles and red carpets.
Amaka entered his life like sunlight, her gentle smile and shared meals warming the congregation. They married, and their sons, Muna and Favor, filled the church compound with laughter. But the spirits’ hunger grew. The old woman returned, demanding blood to cement the church’s foundation—seven cows, their bones buried in the soil. Bartholomew obeyed, slaughtering in secret under the moon. The cathedral rose, a monument to his power, but the spirits whispered, “More.” Each sacrifice grew larger, and Bartholomew, now driven in black jeeps, dug beneath the altar at night, pouring blood, whispering names, and sealing the ground by dawn.
One rainy night, as Amaka slept and the boys dreamed, the old woman demanded thirty cows. Bartholomew drugged his family to ensure silence, but Amaka stirred, drawn by a faint cry from the church. She crept to the altar, the air thick with rust and fire, and saw him—hands red, a cow’s blood pooling, candles flickering. “Jesus,” she gasped. “This is evil, Bartho.” She ran, vowing to expose him, but he caught her, pleading, “No one must know.” Her screams pierced the night until her body stilled under his hands. Then Muna and Favor appeared, clutching a teddy bear, their small voices asking, “What happened to Mommy?” The rule was clear: no one could see. Tears streaming, Bartholomew silenced them too, their tiny bodies joining Amaka beneath the altar’s tiles.
By morning, the church gleamed, the graves hidden. Bartholomew told the congregation his family had “traveled.” The miracles continued, the crowds roared, but a sour smell crept from the altar. Flies gathered, first a few, then dozens. Cleaners scrubbed, Bartholomew sprayed imported scents, but the odor grew angrier. A young corps member, Samuel, noticed a crack in the tiles. Curiosity drove him to chisel deeper, uncovering a strand of hair, then a hand with a gold ring. His scream shattered the silence: “There’s a body!” The church erupted. Police dug, revealing Amaka, Muna, and Favor, their graves exposed like truth clawing free.
Bartholomew stood frozen as the crowd wailed. Handcuffed, he confessed everything—the ring, the sacrifices, the covenant. In court, his tears fell like rain, but the judge’s verdict was final: life imprisonment. In his cell, staring through bars, Bartholomew mourned the boy who only wanted God’s power. The old woman’s promise had built a cathedral but buried his heart. He had sought to be seen, to heal, but the power he chased—born not of faith but of blood—had cost him everything, leaving only silence where his family’s laughter once rang.
