CHAPTER 1
I didn't fall in love with him because he was spiritual.
I fell in love with him because he listened.
He's the kind of man that lets you talk without checking his phone; the kind of man that prays before eating, opens doors, smells like Dettol and Diesel, and says things like "God will do it" with his full chest.
His name is Ebube. He's thirty-four. A choir master. Head of youth ministry. Drives a clean Camry and wears white like Jesus is physically coming for him next Sunday.
I met him at a night vigil.
Not the type I usually attend. But I was heartbroken. My ex had just married the girl he told me not to worry about. So when my colleague Ugochi said, "Let's just go and pray," I followed. I wore no wig. I didn't apply my usual makeup. Just my wrapper. Afterall, it was a night vigil not a beauty contest.
That night, I didn't pray much. I just cried. Quietly. The type that you press into your scarf so no one will know. But he noticed.
After the vigil, he walked up to me.
"God told me to pray with you," he said.
I smiled like a fool. That "God told me" line always works on women like me — broken ones.
We became friends. Then prayer partners. Then more.
Within two months, we were doing morning devotion together on WhatsApp, video-calling before bed, and forwarding each other gospel memes.
He never k¡ssed me.
He said he was waiting till marriage.
I was impressed and worried at the same time. Because I wasn't that strong. But I wanted to be.
Eventually, we got married. Though it was a quiet one— registry and church blessing. He moved me into his one-bedroom flat. Simple and Holy life or so I thought.
The first time I noticed something was off, it was a Saturday morning. He had gone to church for rehearsals, and I was cleaning. Normally I don't touch his Bible. He always keeps it zipped up in his black leather case like it's a sacred scroll. But I needed to sweep the table, so I moved it.
The zip was slightly open.
Something white peeked out.
I thought it was a folded paper. A church bulletin. Or maybe a tithe card.
But when I pulled it out…
It was a c0ndom.
Not one.
Five.
All tucked neatly between the Book of Psalms and Proverbs.
My hands froze.
I stood there, holding holy scripture and rubber sin at the same time.
I wanted to believe it was old. Maybe he used to struggle and kept it there to remind himself not to fall. Maybe it was for "just in case."
But one was missing.
FOUR were left.
I checked the expiry date.
2028.
Fresh.
My legs felt weak. I sat on the chair, shaking. My husband — my prayer partner, the man who wouldn't even kiss me without permission — was hiding c0ndoms inside his Bible.
Why?
Who were they for?
Because I knew they weren't for me.
We'd never touched.
That night, I didn't say anything. I just watched him as he led night devotion with a straight face, eyes closed, quoting scripture like angels were standing beside him.
And as he prayed — "Father, protect us from temptation" — I just stared at him and asked myself a question I wasn't ready to answer:
What if I married a man I don't know at all?
What if…this whole marriage is a lie?
Should I ask him about it??
*Chapter 2*
I didn't confront him immediately.
You don't shout when you don't understand what you're angry about yet. You observe.
And that's what I did.
For two weeks, I acted normal. Played the godly wife. Cooked. Cleaned. Even joined him in midnight prayers. But I watched.
I noticed how his phone never rang after 9pm. How he always slept with the screen facing down. How his chats disappeared. How he never let the Bluetooth connect in the car when I was around.
I watched how he smiled too much when Sister Thelma from the ushering department came to greet him after service. How she touched his arm lightly, like someone who had touched him deeper before.
Then I saw it.
The chat.
I wasn't even snooping. He forgot to lock his phone. I was about to pass it to him when the message popped up:
Thelma: "Same time tonight? I miss you in me."
That's when something inside me cracked like dry bone.
He was cheating.
Not just cheating — cheating while leading the youth ministry. Cheating while holding my hands to pray every night. Cheating with women who called me "Mummy G.O." in public.
That was one terrible night for me.
I couldn't hold it anymore; I walked into the bedroom, packed my bag, and left.
Before that, I left a note on the pillow:
"Don't ever use God to cover what's k¡lling your soul."
That was three months ago.
He's been calling. Texting. Begging.
Sending voice notes that sound like sermons. Quoting Psalms. Saying he's sorry. That it was a weakness. That he needs me to help him become better.
But I'm tired of raising grown men.
I didn't leave because he cheated.
I left because he used God to hide it.
He used scripture like a shield. A mask. A mirror to reflect everything holy except himself.
And that's the worst kind of betrayal — not the sin itself, but the pretending.
I've moved back to my old apartment. Started therapy. I joined a small book club. I finally finished reading the Book of Proverbs slowly, this time without fear of what I might find inside.
I'm healing.
One verse at a time.
I still believe in love. In God. In good men. I just know better now.
Next time, I won't fall in love with a man because he listens during prayers.
I'll wait to see if he listens when no one is watching.
And maybe that's the lesson:
Holiness isn't always loud.
And demons don't always live outside the church.
THE END.