The First Prophecy

The sun was already hot like enemy by 7:30 a.m., but Ezinne Okoye still took her time knotting her gold George wrapper. Today was Sunday, and in this Lagos, you don’t just go to church, you appear.

“Obi, are you ready?” she called out, adjusting the small fascinator on her head.

From the bedroom, her husband grunted. “Almost. The buttons are not going in properly.”

Ezinne smiled a small smile. Six years of marriage and Obinna still couldn’t button up his own dress properly without her helping out. Small things like that used to make her heart soft. These days, they just reminded her of the big thing that was missing.

No child.

Every month her period came like a wicked landlord, collecting rent she never wanted to pay. And every month, the questions from family and church members grew louder. “Ezi, when are we coming for naming ceremony na?” Her own mother had even started sending her prayer points at 5 a.m.: Every arrow of barrenness, back to sender!

She finished dressing and stared at herself in the mirror. Fine girl. Good job at the agency. Respectable husband. But somehow, it was not enough.

“Sweetheart, let’s not be late today,” Obi said, coming out looking sharp in his senator. “You know Sister Divine is ministering.”

Ezinne nodded but said nothing. Sister Divine. The new prophetess that had taken RCCG Victory Zone by storm. The whole church was shouting her name like she was the second coming. Even some of Ezi’s colleagues who never used to go to church were suddenly “receiving impartation” every Sunday.

The drive to church was quiet except for the praise and worship blasting from the car stereo. Obi was singing along, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping her thigh affectionately. For a moment, everything felt normal.

But normal in Lagos is usually the calm before gist.

Inside the massive auditorium, the atmosphere was already on fire. Ushers in white and gold were directing people. The choir was jumping like someone poured hot water on them. Ezi and Obi took their usual seat in the third row — deacon and wife position.

Service moved fast. Testimony time. Offering. Then the moment everyone had been waiting for.

Sister Divine Babalola mounted the altar.

She was a small woman, but her presence filled the whole place. White garment. Gold girdle. Hair packed neatly under a scarf. She closed her eyes, raised one hand, and the whole church went silent.

“Thus says the Lord…” her voice rang out, sharp and clear. “There is a man here. A deacon. The Lord has blessed your hustle. But something is blocking your full breakthrough. A strange woman in your life is sitting on your destiny!”

Murmurs rippled through the church.

Ezi’s heart skipped. She glanced at Obi. He was looking straight ahead, face serious.

Sister Divine continued, eyes still closed. “This woman… she is close to you. Very close. She has been eating with you. Sleeping in your bed. But she is the reason you have not taken that big contract. The reason your wife has not conceived. The Lord says I should tell you today — separate from her spiritually!”

Ezi felt cold all over. People were turning to look in their direction. One aunty behind them even hissed “chai!”

But it was what Sister Divine said next that nearly made Ezi fall down.

“This strange woman… she has one small scar on her lower belly. From appendicitis operation. And she likes drinking cold stout when nobody is watching.”

Ezi’s legs went weak.

Only three people in this world knew about her appendicitis scar — her mother, her husband, and her doctor. And the stout? That was her secret shame on stressful Fridays when the pregnancy test came back negative again. She always hid the cans at the bottom of the dustbin.

How did this woman know?

Obi’s hand left her thigh. Slowly. Like he was withdrawing from something unclean.

The prophetess opened her eyes and pointed directly toward their row.

“Man of God, if you are here, come out. Let us pray. The Lord wants to deliver you tonight!”

Two ushers were already moving toward them. Obi stood up like a man in trance. Ezi tried to hold his hand but he gently removed it.

“Baby, it’s just prayer,” he whispered, but his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

As they led him to the front, Sister Divine smiled — small, almost kind. But something in that smile made Ezi’s stomach turn.

While the church roared “Holy Ghost Fire!” and Obi knelt before the prophetess, Ezi sat frozen in her seat. Her phone vibrated. A WhatsApp message from her best friend, Amara:

“Babes, I just heard Sister Divine is calling someone out in your church. Hope it’s not you people o. That woman na correct fire.”

Ezi didn’t reply. She was staring at her husband on his knees, head bowed, while Sister Divine placed both hands on his head, praying aggressively.

And then she saw it.

Right before the prophetess closed her eyes again to pray, she looked straight at Ezi.

And smiled.

Not the gentle, anointed smile she showed the church.

A different smile.

The kind of smile that says: I know what I’m doing. And you can’t stop me.

Ezi’s heart began to beat like Lagos traffic.

To be continued…