My story is simple, not complicated at all and I do not understand why people don’t get it. we all cannot be religious.
We all cannot be hypocrites. I chose not to be a religious hypocrite.
That’s who my parents are—hypocrites. I struggle to understand how they believe their hypocrisy will be acceptable to God.
I believe in God, but I am not religious.
Let me share my story.
I grew up in a strict religious household in Nigeria, a place that no longer feels like home to me. My parents were devout Christians. We were the family that prayed at mealtimes and bedtimes, never missed church, and actively participated in church activities. My father was a deacon, and my mother, though I’m not sure of her exact role, was deeply involved in the church.
At 14, I wasn’t doing well in school. My parents believed I was possessed by demons, but I was simply being a teenager. I skipped classes, experimented with fake cigarettes—just rolled-up paper lit for pretend smoking—and exchanged letters with boys, which my parents discovered.
I was just a teenager.
Convinced the devil was at work in me and I would get pregnant before I turned 20, my parents flogged me repeatedly before deciding I should live with their pastor and his wife. That’s when the real devil entered my life.
Under the pastor’s roof, with his wife pretending to be righteous, I was raped by the pastor—a hypocrite hiding behind a facade of holiness. He threatened to kill me, using the Bible. He said there were verses in the Bible that, when read to some people, they would go mad! And if I spoke out, my parents and I would run mad!
For all my teenage bravado, I was terrified and believed him.
Pregnancy doesn’t stay hidden for long. By the fifth month, the pastor’s wife accused me of being pregnant. She acted as though she hadn’t noticed her husband’s predatory behavior—the way he eyed me, left their bed at night to lie with me in the sitting room where I slept, or how I avoided him whenever he entered the room. Her accusation was the beginning of a nightmare I couldn’t escape.
She said, “Titi, I am accusing you of being pregnant.” I was in SS1 at the time.
And that was it.
I couldn’t run to my parents every Sunday at church to tell them their beloved pastor—the man they practically saw as Jesus Junior—was a child rapist.
At the time, I didn’t even know it was rape. I just knew I was being molested in the pastor’s house. And his wife? I’m certain she either saw what was happening or chose to pretend she didn’t.
My parents already believed I was possessed by demons. How could I explain to them that I wasn’t? That instead, when my menses stopped, I had been taken over by a new kind of demon—one that tortured me for nine long months.
Speaking of, when my menses first stopped, I was almost relieved. In my young mind, I thought I was finally free from the cramps and nausea that came with it. It took a few weeks to realize that the nausea of pregnancy was far worse. Until the pastor’s wife accused me, I didn’t even know I was pregnant.
I just knew something had taken over my body. It controlled my sleep, my appetite, my senses—everything.
When my parents were summoned, the demon-possessed pastor and his wife, along with my parents, all accused me of being a spawn of the devil. They had feared I would get pregnant before 20, I did at just shy of 15 years.
They shamed me, beat me, and told me I was destined for hell. In those months leading up to the birth, I often wished someone would show me the road to hell—I would’ve gladly gone there myself.
No one taught me how to handle pregnancy. No one prepared me for how my body would change, what to eat, what to avoid—none of the basic advice you’d give to a pregnant woman.
The only language I was spoken to in was abuse, curses, and shame.
I carried all of it—the abuse, the shame, and the pregnancy.
They tried to beat the truth out of me. I stayed silent, fearing for my parents. They starved me for days. I stayed silent for my parents. But one day, when the pastor’s wife burned me with a coal iron, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I blurted out the truth: “It’s your husband. It’s the pastor!”
When I think back on those moments, I cry out because they knew I was telling the truth.
They knew. Yet no one—not even my parents—assured me that I wasn’t the devil in this situation. I was a child. I was a minor. And no one protected me.
Did telling the pastor’s wife the truth save me?
No, it didn’t. It only led to more beatings, with my parents present, and my mother crying as though she had given birth to the devil himself and deserved pity for it.
They knew the truth—they must have—but they never admitted it.
They didn’t take me to the hospital to deliver the baby. Instead, they arranged for a midwife from the general hospital to come to my aunt’s house, where I had been shipped off in shame. That’s how I gave birth at the age of 15.
As soon as the baby was born, I wanted nothing to do with her. The midwife told me it was a girl, but I didn’t even want to see her face. I avoided it because I knew I would see the pastor’s face in hers.
To be honest, neither the midwife, nor my mother, nor my aunt encouraged me to hold the baby or even look at her.
By then, I had already resolved to run away from my family. I thought maybe they’d kill me, or perhaps they’d just be relieved if someone else helped them finish the job.
Not once did my parents check in on me to see if I was doing well…they still wanted to punish me.
Not once did the pastor’s wife question her husband. Instead, that hypocrite of a pastor claimed I was possessed by the devil, sent to destroy his ministry. He is the one they pitied
In the end, I didn’t have to run away. My parents arranged for me to travel to the UK to live with one of my father’s stepsisters, who worked for the NHS at the time.
That was the turning point. That was when I felt human again.
My dad’s step sister became the mother I had always wished for. She believed my story, though I wasn’t an easy child even then. I was still angry with adults, distrustful, always bracing for the moment when she would throw me out.
But she never did.
She helped me get my life back on track. She spoke to me about counseling—this was nearly a year after I moved to the UK. That’s when I began to trust her.
I returned to school.
Over the course of 25 years, I rebuilt my life.
Yeah, 25 years, some of us are slow like that.
The trauma I endured left deep scars. I experienced flashbacks, and I even began to wet the bed—something I had never done before. It was all part of the PTSD.
It took me years to even consider going to church again, even with my new mum. I begged my aunt to adopt me, and she became my mother.
She gave me hope, and because of her, I believe in God. My aunt—my new mum—was truly heaven-sent during that dark period.
I never asked about the child I gave birth to. As far as I was concerned, the child belonged to the pastor. I couldn’t care less about her or what became of her.
I wanted nothing to do with the pastor or my parents—ever. To this day, they have stopped trying to contact me. My parents still belong to that church. From what I’ve heard, the pastor is now deceased, and I can’t muster an ounce of care about it.
Since moving to the UK, I’ve fought hard to erase them from my memory.
But…
A few months ago, I was with friends at Finsbury Park. We were having a drink, celebrating the send-off of one of our friends who was moving abroad—to the Philippines.
I was enjoying myself when a young woman approached me.
She asked if I was me—so-and-so. I said, “Yes.”
Then she asked if I knew someone—my mother’s name. I replied, “Yes…but I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
And then she said, “Well, I’m your daughter. You gave birth to me.”
I didn’t let her finish. I said, “There is a reason I walked away over 27 years ago. That reason still exists. Don’t ever come looking for me again!”
I had to leave my friends. I rushed out of the pub, feeling ambushed, cornered—just like I had been years ago, when I tried to tell my parents about the abuse I was enduring, only to be silenced because I was accusing a so-called man of God.
This will not happen to me again.
Does it sound cruel?
Maybe. But what could I possibly offer her? I still have my own unresolved issues.
Why didn’t she approach me through an email, a phone call, or even through someone else?
Why did she have to stand right in front of me, announcing her presence like that?
No.
She would only serve as a constant reminder of the part of my life I’ve fought so hard to erase. Having her in my life wouldn’t be good for either of us in the long run.
She’s done well for herself—judging by her appearance, she doesn’t need me in her life. I’m certain of that.
(Series written and edited by Peju Akande and based on true stories)