Some called it the Jenzi church. Every young lady in the town loved it. They never missed a service. Not because the pastor performed miracles, but because he ran things the way they liked it, the Gen Z way. The church sat at the edge of Agbada Town. From the outside, it looked like any other building, but inside it was something else entirely.
Unlike other churches, Power of Faith Ministry had its own rules. Very different rules. Rule one, no long gowns. Rule two, no head ties or traditional wrappers. Rule three, only short dresses, mini skirts or skintight jeans. Rule four, your makeup must be flawless. Colorful lip glosses were preferred.
Rule five, your shoes must be bright. heels only. Red, green, yellow. The flashier the better. The rule was clear. If your beauty couldn’t make angels look twice, you were not welcome. Every Sunday, the osher stood at the gate like fashion judges. Old women were turned away. Women in long flowing dresses were told to go home.
Anyone who didn’t fit the image was not allowed past the gate. And the strange part, the young women loved it. They dressed like they were attending weddings. They curled their wigs, painted their nails, and snapped selfies before entering the church. Men came too, but only a few. And not because of the preaching. They came for the women, for the colors, for the show.
The people of Agbad town could not keep quiet for long. Every Sunday when the drums from power of faith ministry started shaking the air, old men would sigh and look toward the church. One hot afternoon, the elders gathered under the big mango tree near the village square. Their walking sticks rested beside them.
Their faces were wrinkled like folded cloth. Elder Aodelli was the first to speak. He cleared his throat. This thing I am hearing about that new church, he said. It is not good. Elder Musa nodded slowly. Every time my grandchildren come back from there, their faces are full of powder.
Their skirts are short like handkerchief. Is that how people worship God now? Another elder shook his head. My own daughter said they told her to buy red heels before she can join choir. Red heels for what? The men murmured. The mango leaves above them danced gently in the breeze. Elder Iodell hid his stick on the ground. This is not church, he said.
They dress like dancers, not worshippers. The pastor is spoiling our young girls. They all agreed. So they decided to visit Pastor Oliver and warn him. The next morning, three elders dressed in white and walked to Power of Faith Ministry. They met Pastor Oliver outside leaning on his white car. His suit was shining like glass.
His shoes glowed like mirror. Good morning, Pastor. Elder Audel greeted. Pastor Oliver smiled lightly. Good morning, elders. What brings you here? The elder took a deep breath. We came in peace. He said, “This church is not like other churches. Your women dress without shame. We want to advise you. This is not the way of God.
” Pastor Oliver’s smile disappeared. He straightened his tie and said, “Elders, times have changed.” The youth of today want a different kind of worship. I am giving them that. But pastor, another elder said softly, “Decency never goes out of fashion.” “You cannot open the gate of God’s house to vanity.
Pastor Oliver<unk>’s eyes became sharp. Go and build your own church if you don’t like mine,” he said. His voice was cold. “Then you can run it the way you want.” The elders looked at one another in silence. Elder Audel’s hand trembled slightly on his stick. He said quietly. You are still young, pastor. But pride is a dangerous fire.
It starts small, but it burns everything. Pastor Oliver did not answer. He just turned and walked back inside. The sound of music followed him, loud, bright, and full of laughter. The elders stood there for a while. At first, people thought it was just a phase. A young man trying to make church attractive to the youth.
They believed he would calm down eventually. But what he did one Sunday changed everything. Her name was Amaka. A tall, beautiful lady, educated, graceful, the type of woman whose presence turned heads without even trying. That Sunday, she decided to attend Power of Faith for the first time. She wore a flowing boooo dress with a soft, elegant head tie.
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Her hair was neatly tucked in. Her face was bare but calm. Her nails short and clean. When she arrived at the church gate, the usher looked at her from head to toe. The girl usher frowned. Good morning. Are you sure you came to the right place? Amaka smiled politely. Yes, I came to worship. The boy Usha tilted his head. You can’t enter like this.
Amaka blinked. Why not? He pointed at her dress. Rule number one, no long gown. Rule number two, no head tie. You must change your dressing first. Amaka’s eyes softened. But this is how I dress to every church. It is decent. The boy Osha sighed acting tired. Then go to your other church, sister.
This one is not for you. He turned around and waved his hand. Next person, please. Then he shut the gate right before her face. Amaka stood there quietly. She didn’t shout. She didn’t cry. She peeped through the iron bars and saw inside young women with long lashes, body hogging dresses, and no head ties. Some wore high slitted gowns.
Others had backs open and shoulders exposed. This is how this church runs, she thought. She turned around quietly and went home to change her clothes. Meanwhile, inside the church building, Pastor Oliver was already getting ready. He stood before a large mirror. His white suit reflected the warm lights.
His cologne filled the air. His smile was perfect, sharp, calculated, but his eyes were empty. He adjusted his tie, looked at his reflection, and whispered, “Let them see glory, but never know the cost.” People in the town often wondered, “Why does this church operate like this? Why are the rules for women so specific? Why is beauty more important than prayer?” But no one knew the full answer.
Because the answer didn’t lie in the present. It lay in Pastor Oliver’s past. Years ago, before the rise of power of faith, Pastor Oliver was a humble youth pastor in the largest church in Akbada. He was well respected, disciplined, always on time. He fasted often and led the prayer teams.
His sermons were deep and gentle, always focusing on holiness and discipline. He never allowed the choir girls to dress carelessly. He never entertained flirtation. He didn’t even have a girlfriend. Some said he was waiting for a divine revelation. He was the kind of pastor who believed God still spoke through dreams. The kind who locked himself in church overnight just to hear from heaven.
But God tests his servants. And Pastor Oliver’s test came in the form of a woman. And the woman’s name was Rebecca. Rebecca was not like the others. She was beauty and confidence woven together. Her skin was smooth and dark like polished mahogany. Her voice was soft but firm. Her eyelashes curled naturally. Her laughter was like music.
She joined the church choir and quickly became everyone’s favorite. But her eyes were on Pastor Oliver. She waited after choir practice just to greet him. She brought food to his office. Fried rice with plantain neatly packed. Pastor, I thought you might be hungry. He always smiled politely. Thank you, Sister Rebecca. God bless you.
But that was it. He never asked personal questions, never lingered in conversation. She tried more. She asked him for prayers, asked for private counseling. Once she said, “Pastor, how will you know who your wife is if you never give anyone a chance?” Oliver looked up from his Bible. “The work of God keeps me company.
” She smiled softly. “But even the Bible says it’s not good for a man to be alone.” Oliver chuckled lightly. “When God speaks, I will hear him. For now, my focus is his work. Rebecca’s smile faded. Maybe you are not hearing him well, she said, half joking, half serious. Oliver’s voice was calm.
Sister Rebecca, God does not shout. He speaks in peace. If I haven’t heard, it means he hasn’t spoken yet. She folded her arms, pretending to pout. Hm. Maybe you are avoiding his voice. Oliver stood up, gently closing his Bible. Be careful with your words. The devil also speaks through play. Her eyes narrowed slightly. So I am now the devil. He smiled softly. No.
But don’t let temptation use you. She looked at him long and hard. Then turned around and left the room. That night she did not sleep well. Her pride had been hurt. She whispered into the dark. We shall see if you can resist me forever. From that day, something in her changed. If she couldn’t get him the godly way, then she would do it her own way.
She would test his faith. One afternoon, while Pastor Oliver was in his office alone preparing notes for youth fellowship, a soft knock came. He turned. Who is it? The door opened before he could finish. Rebecca stepped inside. Her hair was loose, her perfume thick like nightflower. Rebecca, he said surprised.
Why are you here this early? She smiled slowly. I came to pray with you before service. He frowned. You should be with the choir. She took one step closer. I wanted to pray for you alone. He shook his head. Rebecca, not now. I am preparing for service. But she kept walking. Her voice was soft. Her eyes fixed on him.
Pastor, you pray for everyone. But who prays for you? Rebecca, please, he said quietly, stepping back. This is not right. She reached out and touched his chest. Pastor, she whispered. You used to care for me. Now you act like I am a stranger. He grabbed her hand gently and pushed it away. Rebecca, stop this. But before he could say more, she leaned forward and kissed him.
Quick, hard, and unexpected. Oliver froze, then pushed her back. “What is wrong with you?” he shouted, breath shaking. Rebecca’s eyes filled with fake tears. She covered her mouth and ran out of the room, crying loud enough for people outside to hear. By the time Oliver stepped outside, confused and sweating.
The damage had begun. People were already gathering near the church gate. Rebecca was on her knees, wailing, her voice cutting through the morning air. “Pastor, try to touch me,” she cried. “He locked the door and tried to force me.” Women gasped, men shouted, children whispered. One woman covered her mouth, “Ah, the holy man has fallen.
” Another said, “I always knew it.” All these pastors that act too holy. Oliver tried to speak, but nobody listened. He shouted, “It’s not true.” She came to my room, but the crowd drowned his voice. Phones came out. Cameras clicked. Someone was recording her tears and by noon the video was everywhere on phones, in shops, on the streets of Agbada.
People watched Rebecca crying and shouting, “Pastor Oliver tried to touch me.” The same man who taught holiness, the same man who told girls to dress decently, was now the center of shame. Holy Rock Chapel, once peaceful, was on fire with gossip. And in one single morning, brother Oliver’s name, his years of fasting, his quiet prayers, his spotless record was buried beneath one loud lie.
That afternoon, the elders of Holy Rock Chapel gathered in the small office behind the pulpit. The room was thick with silence. Outside, the members whispered and pointed. The air was heavy with gossip. Inside, Brother Oliver knelt on the floor. His eyes red from tears. Before him sat three elders, Elder Cheek, Elder Bameidel, and Elder Ease.
Their faces were hard like carved stone. Elder Cheek spoke first. Brother Oliver, he said slowly. You have brought shame to this church. Shame to the name of God. Oliver lifted his hands. Please elders listen to me. It is not true. She planned it all. Elder Bameidel slammed the table. Enough. Do not add lies to your sin.
The girl cried in front of everyone. Oliver’s voice shook. You didn’t even ask me what happened. She came to my room, not me, to hers. But the elders refused to hear. They had already decided. The noise from the crowd outside made their minds heavy with judgment. Elder East stood up and said coldly, “You will leave this church today.
Before evening, your things must be gone.” Oliver’s knees grew weak. He pressed his hands together, tears falling on the floor. “Please, sir, please. You know me. You know how I serve. I fasted. I prayed. I never enough.” Elder Chike shouted again. Go before we call security to drag you out. Oliver bowed his head. His voice broke. I did nothing wrong, but nobody cared.
At the corner of the room stood Rebecca, her head down, her handkerchief wet with fake tears. She sniffed quietly, her body shaking as if she was still afraid. Everyone looked at her with pity. “Poor girl,” one elder whispered. She’s still in shock, but Rebecca’s eyes flickered for a moment, just for a second, and behind those tears was a small, proud smile.
That night, Oliver sat alone behind the church, staring at the sky. He had given the church his youth. He had walked through rain to clean the floor. Now they chased him away like a thief. He whispered to himself, “God, where are you?” But the sky was silent. Weeks passed. Oliver stopped going to church.
He started drinking, walking the streets alone. People whispered when they saw him. That’s the pastor they caught. He used to be holy. One night he drank too much and missed his way home. The row was quiet, the moon small. Then he saw a man standing ahead. The man wore a black suit and smiled. “Pastor Oliver.” He turned quickly.
A man stood a few steps away, tall, neat, wearing a black suit that looked too clean for the dusty road. His shoes didn’t have a single stain. His face was smooth. His smile gentle but not warm. Oliver frowned. “Who are you?” The man took two steps closer. A friend, he said softly. A friend who knows what they did to you. Oliver looked at him with tired eyes.
You don’t know anything about me. The man chuckled lightly. Oh, but I do. You gave your life to serve God. You were loyal. You were holy. And yet they cast you out like dirt. Oliver’s hand tightened around his Bible. They lied against me. The man nodded slowly. Yes, they lied. They took your name and crushed it.
But your story doesn’t have to end this way. Oliver’s voice was low. What do you mean? The man smiled wider. I can help you rise again. Oliver<unk>’s heart beat faster. Help me. How? The man lifted his hand slowly, his voice calm like honey. Start your own church, he said. A new one. A church that will make people talk again.
A church that will make your name known. Oliver frown. Start a church. Yes, the man said. But this time, don’t follow the old rules. Make your own. Follow my guidance and you will be greater than before. Oliver looked down. What do you want in return? The man’s eyes glittered. Only one thing, one simple rule.
Oliver looked at him carefully. And what is that? The man’s smile deepened. Only allow beautiful women in your church. The ones whose beauty makes men stare. Their beauty will feed your altar. Their shine will be your power. Oliver’s face changed. That sounds evil. The man’s eyes darken. Evil? No, it is strength. It is reward. You suffered enough.
Now it is your turn to re. Oliver stood up. I don’t want your kind of power. The man tilted his head, his voice suddenly deeper. Then remain forgotten. Oliver took one slow step backward. The air around him felt heavy, the ground beneath him cold. “Who are you really?” he asked. The man’s smile vanished. His eyes turned bright red like fire hiding behind smoke. The wind howled.
The mango leaves shook violently though there was no storm. “Do not ask questions,” the man said in a voice that echoed almost not human. “Just obey!” Oliver covered his face, trembling. “Leave me,” he shouted. When he opened his eyes again, the man was gone. Only the cold night remained, but the air was different.
Something unseen pressed against his chest, like a hand resting over his heart. It was not pain, but it was not peace either. He fell to his knees, breathing hard. “What was that?” he whispered. There was no answer, only the rustling leaves and the faint sound of an owl. He stood slowly, shaking, and though he didn’t understand what had just happened, something heavy entered his heart that night.
Something he could not see, but could feel growing inside him, like a shadow slowly learning how to breathe. Many moons passed after that night on the lonely road. The cold season ended. The Hamatan dust left the air and Agbad town returned to its busy rhythm. But one morning, the people woke up to a surprise. By the side of the market road, a brand new banner stood tall and shining.
The words were written in bold gold letters. Power of faith ministry, Pastor Oliver Okafur, senior prophet. Women selling tomatoes stopped and stared. A man carrying yam on his head lowered it slowly and said, “Is that not the same brother Oliver?” they chased out of Holy Rock. Another replied, “The same man?” But now see, he has started his own church.
They stood talking for a while, shaking their heads. After that scandal, h people are no longer afraid of God. But curiosity filled their hearts. Everybody wanted to see what this new church would look like. That Sunday, before the sun reached the middle of the sky, loud music began to pour from the new building. Not the soft kind.
It was loud, fast, and full of drums. Boom, boom, boom. The speakers shook the road. You could hear it even from the next street. Cars began to stop. Young girls in short, bright dresses stepped down, their perfumes filling the air. Heels clapped on the tiled floor. Phones flashed like lightning. Girls posed beside the church wall, snapping pictures with wide smiles.
Take me from this angle, one said. I want the church name behind me. The ushers dressed in white and gold greeted each one warmly. Sister, welcome to Power of Faith. You look beautiful. Inside the hall, colored lights danced on the ceiling. The floor was white, smooth, and shining like glass. A camera stood in one corner, ready to record every move.
When Pastor Oliver stepped out from his office, the crowd began to scream, “Papa! Man of God! Daddy of glory. He walked slowly to the pulpit, his white suit glittering under the lights. He lifted the microphone and smiled, his voice rolled out deep and calm. “My sisters,” he said. “You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
” The girl screamed in joy. “Preach, pastor. Say it louder.” He smiled wider. His teeth shone, but his eyes looked different. darker, colder. No one noticed. He lifted his hands again. God is beauty. When you shine, heaven celebrates you. The crowd clapped. The drums rolled louder. The choir danced. They closed tight and bright.
It didn’t feel like a Sunday service anymore. It felt like a show. Every girl wanted to be noticed. Every man wanted to be seen sitting near them. The cameras caught everything. The laughter, the colors, the smiles. By evening, the church’s videos were already on social media. People in other towns watched and said, “See this new pastor.
He understands the youth.” Others said, “This is not a church. This is a fashion parade.” But that didn’t stop the crowd. Every week more people came. By the third month the hall was full from front to back. Every Sunday looked like a wedding. Heels clicking, perfumes mixing, laughter echoing. Power of faith had become the most talked about church in Akbada.
Even the elders who once warned him now kept quiet. Maybe he has truly changed. Some said, “Maybe God has forgiven him.” But they didn’t see what was happening behind those bright lights. They didn’t see the shadow that followed Pastor Oliver wherever he went. They didn’t see the way his eyes sometimes glowed faintly when he stood before the mirror after service.
From the outside, he was a star. From the inside, he was sinking. Behind the smiles, behind the white suit and the polished shoes, Pastor Oliver’s eyes were darker than before. But then, quietly, it began like wind before a storm. No one noticed at first. No one suspected anything. One Sunday, a new face appeared in Power of Faith Ministry. Her name was Amaka.
She was tall, brown-skinned, and confident. Her smile drew people close. Her voice was warm. She joined the choir that same week. After service, she told her friend BC, “This church has strong power. I can feel it when pastor is praying.” By laughed and rolled her eyes, “Power or perfume? Even our pastor has style. You didn’t see his shoe.
” Amaka chuckled. “No, BC. I’m serious. When he says fire, I feel it in my body.” By teased her. Maybe it’s not fire you’re feeling. Maybe it’s crush. They both laughed. That Sunday, Amaka wore a bright red gown that hugged her body like a second skin. When she danced during praise, the cameras focused on her. The men clapped. The girls cheered.
“New choir sister is fire!” Someone shouted. After the service ended, Pastor Oliver smiled from the pulpit and said, “Let the first timers come to my office. I want to pray for you, especially Amaka stood.” Bissi whispered, “Go now. Maybe you will get miracle husband.” They both laughed, but Amaka went.
That evening, Bissi called her number. No answer. She called again, switched off. Maybe her battery is dead, she thought. But by nightfall, Amaka had not returned home. The next morning, her mother stormed into the church compound. Her wrapper tied tight around her chest. “Pastor,” she cried. “Where is my daughter?” She came here yesterday and never came back.
“Pastor Oliver looked calm, almost too calm.” He clasped his hands and said softly, “Madam, your daughter was not here yesterday.” The woman gasped. What? But people saw her dancing in this church. He smiled faintly. Maybe she went somewhere else after the service. The ushers standing behind him nodded silently. No one spoke.
The woman broke down crying, clutching her head. That was the first disappearance. Weeks later, it happened again. Another girl, Tolani, quiet and gentle. She loves singing worship songs more than dancing. She posted a short clip on her status after service. Sunday Joy at Power of Faith. That was the last anyone saw of her.
When her mother came to ask questions, Pastor Oliver gave the same answer. Madam, I didn’t see your daughter. The police came once but left with nothing. The ushers all spoke the same line. She wasn’t in church. Abad town began to whisper. Something is not right with that church. But the pastor’s videos are all over social media. He looks too holy to do evil.
And so the fear turned into silence. Then it happened again. The third girl’s name was Joy. She was bright, beautiful, and loved by everyone in her street. Her cousin Bulma was the one who drove her to church that Sunday morning. She was cheerful as they left home. Cousin, this is my first time going there. Everyone says their service is lively.
Bulma laughed. Just don’t go and lose your mind with their fashion. I’ll be fine, Joyce said, smiling. When they reached the church, Bulma parked beside the gate. Joy adjusted her hair and said, “How do I look?” Bulma smiled. “Perfect. Just don’t let those oshers judge your shoe color.” They both laughed. She stepped down, waved, and walked toward the gate.
He took a quick picture of her from the car, smiling. She turned, waved again, and entered. That was the last time he saw her. By evening, she hadn’t come home. Homer called her phone. No answer. He called her friends. No one had seen her. Panic filled his chest. He drove back to the church, banging on the gate. The gateman came out slowly.
“Brother, what is it?” “My cousin came here this morning,” Bulma said breathlessly. “She didn’t come back home.” The man shrugged. I didn’t see her. Bulma pulled out his phone. Look, I have her picture entering this church. The gateman looked at it, his face blank. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just then, Pastor Oliver came out from his office.
His white suit glowed in the fading light. His voice was smooth. What’s the matter? My cousin, Bulma shouted. She came here for service and never came back. Pastor Oliver folded his hands. I didn’t see her. Please don’t accuse the house of God. Bulma stared into his eyes. For a brief second, he saw something strange. Something like a small red light deep inside them. He stepped back slowly.
His voice dropped to a whisper. This place is not right. That night when he reached home, he couldn’t sleep. He sat in the dark scrolling through his phone. Then he opened the photo again. The one he took at the gate that morning. He zoomed in. Behind Joy, standing in the shadow of the wall was a tall figure dressed in black. The face was hidden.
The eyes looked like two burning dots. Bulma’s chest tightened. He whispered to himself, “Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.” And outside in the quiet night of Agbada, the wind blew softly past Power of Faith Ministry, the church where laughter rang loud in the day, but shadows moved freely when the night came. That night, Bulma couldn’t rest.
The picture of the dark shadow behind Joy burned in his mind like fire. He sat on his bed sweating though the air was cold. By midnight he stood up suddenly and said to himself, “I must see what’s really happening in that church.” He dressed quietly, wore dark clothes, and slipped out of the house. The road was empty.
Only the moon watched from the sky. When he reached power of faith, he hid behind a tree. The gate was locked, but the fence was not too high. He climbed it carefully, one leg after the other, his heart beating like a drum. Inside the compound, the whole place was quiet. Too quiet. Then he saw it, a red light glowing faintly from the main hall, like fire behind a curtain.
He moved closer, his hands shaking. He reached a small side door and peeped through the crack. What he saw made his legs weak. Pastor Oliver stood before a tall mirror, his white suit shining under candle light. Around him were burning red candles arranged in a circle. The air smelled strange like perfume mixed with blood. On the wall behind him hung pictures of aa tlani and joy.
The faces were smiling in the photos, but the shadows of the candles made them look alive. Before him sat a bowl filled with something dark and thick. Oliver was whispering softly, his voice deep and slow. More beauty, more power. Feed the altar. Let their glow become my strength. Bulma covered his mouth to stop a scream. He slowly took out his phone and started recording.
His hands shook, the video blurry, but clear enough to show the candles, the pictures, and the dark bowl. Suddenly, Oliver stopped praying. He turned sharply, eyes glowing red under the candlelight. “Who’s there?” he shouted. Bulma’s heart jumped. He turned and ran, his slippers flying off his feet. “Stop!” Oliver<unk>’s voice thundered through the hall.
But Bulma didn’t look back. He ran through the yard, climbed the fence, and disappeared into the dark. By dawn, he was already at the police station, his breath heavy, his eyes wild. He showed them the video. The officer leaned close and said, “Young man, are you sure this is real?” “Yes, sir,” Bulma said, trembling.
“I saw it with my eyes. The missing girls, he’s using them.” The officer nodded slowly. “Stay here,” he said. “We’ll handle it.” By morning, three police trucks drove straight to Power of Faith Ministry. Their sirens echoed through the streets. The people of Akbada gathered in confusion. “What’s happening?” they asked. But Bulma knew.
He stood at a distance, clutching his phone tightly. “Tonight,” he whispered. The truth will speak. Before the sun climbed the sky, the whole town had gathered. Men, women, and children filled the street, watching as the police entered the church. They searched every corner, every room, every closet, every hidden door.
Then one officer called out, “Over here.” Behind the shining altar, they found a wall that sounded hollow when they hit it. With a loud crack, they broke it open. A narrow passage appeared, leading down into the darkness. The air that came out smelled foul. The officers shone their flashlights and walked carefully inside. Then they saw them.
Three girls sitting weakly on the floor, tied with ropes. Amaka, Tolani, Joy. Their eyes blinked slowly in the light. Their lips were dry. Their voices faint. The crowd outside gasped. Women screamed. Mothers cried. Men shouted in anger. The police carried the girls out gently. The crowd parted as they passed. Someone whispered, “Those are the missing ones.
” Then came Pastor Oliver, dragged out by two officers. His face was pale, his lips dry. The man who once stood tall on the pulpit now looked small and broken. He whispered as they led him past the people. They said, “This would make me great again.” The crowd stood in silence. Among them, a cry broke out. It was Rebecca. She fell to her knees, clutching her head.
It’s my fault,” she screamed. “I lied against him years ago. I ruined him. I destroyed his life.” The elders turned away, tears in their eyes. Elder Chica muttered, “One lie opened the door for all this evil.” The police took both of them away, Oliver and Rebecca. The crowd watched in silence as the trucks drove off. Days passed, weeks rolled by.
The missing girls slowly healed. Their families thanked God. Power of Faith ministry was locked forever. The beautiful lights went off. The cameras were gone. Only dust and silence filled the hall. When people walked past, they spoke softly. Evil wears fine clothes. And one stormy night, thunder rolled over Abada. The wind howled.
The rain poured down hard. The church sign board shook, creaked, and fell to the ground with a loud crash. For a moment, the wind blew through the empty hall, and some say they heard a soft whisper move with it. No more beauty, no more blood, only mercy. I hope you enjoyed the story. If so, please like the video, comment what you learned from the tale, share with friends and family, and don’t forget to subscribe to the channel for more African folk tales just like this one. Thank you.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
