“Amaka baby,” she whispered like someone delivering national secrets, “one small church pastor just dey cast us for TikTok. See ehn, him don blow. If we ruin am, the person go give us ₦1 million.” I blinked. “One what?” “One. Million. Naira,” she repeated. The plan was simple: seduce the pastor, get video evidence, make it look like a scandal, and disappear. I’d done worse for less. So I agreed. I found the church. Dressed like holy confusion—ankle-length skirt but slit up to heaven, blouse loose enough to bounce but tight enough to distract. I pretended to be broken, lost, desperate. Cried crocodile tears during altar call. Told them I needed prayers. Pastor Ayo was young, fine, and surprisingly humble. He didn’t look at me like other men. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t offer to “counsel” me in his office late at night. That made me curious. I kept going. One Sunday, I cried during worship—real tears this time. Something cracked inside me. I told myself it was hormones or maybe my makeup reacting to cheap glue, but deep down, I knew something had shifted. The more I tried to tempt Pastor Ayo, the more I found myself getting drawn in. Not just to him—but to peace. He preached with so much fire, and every word somehow burned me like it was aimed straight at my soul. “You are not what you’ve done,” he said one day. “You are who God says you are.” I felt seen and it terrified me. Because for the first time in years, I realized I didn’t even know who I was anymore. One day, Jessica called me. “Where’s the footage?” I stammered. “I—I’m working on it.” She laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re catching feelings for a pastor.” But I was. Not romantic feelings—soul feelings. Like I wanted to become clean again. Like I wanted my life back. I stood in front of the mirror that night and stared at myself. My wig sat perfect. My nails were fresh. My body was banging. But my eyes looked tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of being a tool. Tired of chasing money that never filled the hole inside me. I deleted all the videos. Blocked Jessica. And the next morning, I returned to church. Not to seduce—but to surrender.
The church was already halfway full when I arrived that morning, not in my usual heels and body-hugging dress, but in the one long gown I hadn’t touched since my father’s funeral—the only thing modest enough to make me invisible in a place where I used to shine. I kept my face down as I slipped into a back seat, hoping no one would recognize me or worse—remember me. I had deleted Jessica’s number, blocked every sugar daddy that had me on payroll, and removed all the suggestive content from my Instagram. But shame is not something you can block. It finds you, even in church. And that morning, it found me with a vengeance. As the choir sang and hands went up in worship, my eyes filled with tears I didn’t plan to cry. I didn’t know what I was doing there. I didn’t even know if God wanted someone like me. But when Pastor Ayo mounted the pulpit and opened his Bible, his first words felt like thunder inside my chest. “This morning, I want to speak to someone who thought they had gone too far. Someone who thought they had no right to come back.” I froze. Did someone tell him about me? Did he somehow find out what I was sent to do? Was this a setup? My heart raced, but I kept listening. “You see,” he continued, “the world knows how to shame people but doesn’t know how to heal them. But God—God knows your whole story, and He still says, ‘Come home.’” I sobbed quietly in the back. For the first time in years, I wasn’t crying because I was heartbroken, or broke, or bitter. I was crying because I finally felt seen by someone who wasn’t trying to take anything from me. After the service, I wanted to slip out unnoticed, but a female usher tapped me gently on the shoulder. “Pastor would like to see you. If you’re okay with that.” My legs almost failed me. Not because I was scared of confrontation, but because I was scared he’d reject me now that he knew who I really was. I followed her to his office, heart pounding in my ears. Pastor Ayo was seated, flipping through a Bible, but he looked up and smiled softly when I walked in. “Amaka, right?” My voice trembled. “Yes… sir.” He motioned for me to sit. “I’ve been praying for you.” That broke me all over again. “You knew?” I asked. “Not at first,” he replied gently. “But I could tell you were battling something deeper than what people could see.” I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, choking back tears. “Why didn’t you expose me?” I asked. “Why didn’t you throw me out?” He leaned forward. “Because I wasn’t sent to condemn you. I was sent to remind you that even in the pit, God still reaches out.” I cried like a child. He handed me tissue, not judgment. He asked nothing about the plan or the people behind it. He didn’t care about gossip or scandal. He only asked one question that shifted my entire life: “Are you ready to become who you were born to be?” I nodded slowly. Not because I understood everything, but because for once, I wanted to try. That day, I gave my life to Christ—not in a dramatic altar call—but in a quiet office with tear-streaked cheeks and trembling hands. He prayed with me. He gave me a Bible. He told me about a women’s discipleship group and said they could walk with me on my journey. I left the church that day different. Not perfect. Not polished. But different. A few days later, Jessica texted me from another number. “I hope the pastor paid you more than the deal. You just messed up our bag.” I didn’t respond. Because for the first time in my life, I realized peace was more expensive than any bag. And baby, I had found it.
Six months passed and no one would have recognized me—not even the girl I used to be. My wigs were packed into a black nylon bag I hadn’t touched in weeks. My face, once hidden behind layers of makeup and filters, now bore the glow of someone who had finally stopped running. I wasn’t perfect, but I was finally free. I joined the discipleship group Pastor Ayo had recommended and started learning things I had never been taught, not just about God but about myself. About forgiveness. About healing. About how a girl who once danced in clubs for cash could now lead prayers and mean every word. Of course, the journey wasn’t smooth. There were nights I stared at my ceiling, tempted to go back to the life that promised fast money and fake love. There were days I walked past boutiques with clothes I used to wear and my reflection mocked me: “Look at you. You’re nobody now. Nobody’s calling. Nobody’s booking you. You’re broke, invisible, washed.” But then, I’d remember what Pastor Ayo said on the first Sunday of the month: “Your wilderness is not a punishment. It’s preparation.” And slowly, I believed it. I started helping in the church’s media department. The same camera I once used for sensual selfies, I now used to capture sermons and testimonies. The DMs that used to be filled with sugar daddies offering vacations now carried young girls asking, “How did you do it? How did you leave that life?” One afternoon, while I was sweeping the children’s church, Pastor Ayo walked in and handed me a brown envelope. “Open it,” he smiled. Inside was a letter. I stared at it, confused, until I read the top: “Admission Offer – School of Ministry.” I blinked. “Me?” I whispered. “Yes, you. It’s time to step into the next chapter.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to hug him. But I just fell to my knees and cried. Not tears of regret this time, but of overwhelming gratitude. I had been paid to destroy this man—and now, he was investing in my destiny. But that wasn’t the twist. The twist came three weeks later when I was walking out of midweek service and saw Jessica at the gate. She was standing by a black Benz, chewing gum and wearing a red mini dress like she was still trying to seduce the world into loving her. “Amaka,” she said, surprised. “You really stayed.” I nodded slowly. “I’m not the same girl, Jess.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I can see that. You even have the Jesus look now.” I didn’t take the bait. “Why are you here?” She hesitated, then said, “Because I’m tired too.” I stared at her, unsure if she meant it or was just mocking me. But then her voice broke. “I haven’t slept in days. The guys… the men we deal with… they’re getting darker. I just wanted out. I didn’t know who else to call.” And right there, under the church security light, I saw myself in her—the old me. The lost me. The me that just wanted one reason to believe in hope. So I reached for her hand and said the same words someone once told me: “Come home. There’s still room at the table.” That night, Jessica didn’t go back to her Benz. She stayed. She sat beside me during prayers. She didn’t say much. She didn’t cry. But I saw her silently exhale like she had been holding her breath for years. And I knew. Her story was just beginning. Mine had come full circle. I was once paid to bring a man of God down. Instead, God used him to raise me up. I was once lost in the world’s applause. But now, I’m found in God’s purpose. I don’t post thirst traps anymore. I post truth. I don’t sell my body. I share my testimony. And every time I see a girl like I used to be, I don’t judge. I reach. Because if grace could save someone like me—it can save anybody.
THE END