If you only knew my father from church, you would never believe me.
On Sundays, he was light.
He stepped out of the car in perfectly pressed suits, Bible tucked under his arm, smile calm and reassuring. People rushed to greet him. Some knelt. Some whispered prayer requests before he even reached the altar.
"My spiritual father." "My mentor." "My role model."
He carried those titles like a crown.
When he preached, his voice softened. He spoke about love between husband and wife. About how a man should protect his home. About how children should feel safe under their father's roof.
The congregation would nod.
My mother would sit beside me, elegant and composed, her lips curved in a gentle smile.
If anyone had looked closely at me during those sermons, they might have noticed I never smiled back.
Because I knew something they didn't.
My father only sounded like that in church.
At home, he was different.
Not loud at first. Not always violent. Just… heavy.
The atmosphere changed the moment his car entered the compound. We could hear the gate slide open. My mother would quickly adjust her scarf. I would lower the volume of the television. Daniel would stop running around.
Preparation.
When he stepped inside, we studied his face the way sailors study the sky before a storm.
If he looked tired, we stayed out of sight. If he looked irritated, we became invisible. If he looked calm… we were careful not to ruin it.
He didn't like noise.
He didn't like questions.
He didn't like being challenged.
One evening, my mother asked an innocent question at dinner.
"Will you be home early tomorrow?"
That was all.
He placed his spoon down slowly.
"Why?" he asked.
"I just thought we could—"
The inhale came.
Slow. Deep. Measured.
"You are asking too many questions these days."
The rest of dinner was silent.
That was how it worked. His breathing would fill the space until no one else could.
I began noticing how different he treated people depending on where he stood.
At church, he listened patiently when women cried about their marriages. He prayed for husbands who were unfaithful. He rebuked men who disrespected their wives.
At home, my mother apologized for things that weren't her fault.
Once, I saw her flinch when he raised his hand to adjust the curtain.
He hadn't even touched her.
But her body remembered.
That image stayed with me.
The strange thing was, my father cared deeply about his reputation.
He monitored how we dressed. How we spoke. How we appeared in public.
"People are watching," he would say. "A pastor's family must be an example."
An example of what?
I often wondered.
Because the example we lived with was not the one the church saw.
Sometimes, late at night, I would hear him pacing in his study. His footsteps were slow and steady. Occasionally, he would stop and make a phone call.
His voice would change during those calls.
It became softer.
Almost gentle.
Not the commanding tone he used at home.
Not the authoritative tone from the pulpit.
Something else.
I could never hear clearly what he was saying, only the rhythm of it. Low. Private. Careful.
The first time I noticed that change in his voice, a small thought entered my mind.
Who does he talk to like that?
It wasn't my mother.
He never used that softness with her.
One afternoon, I walked into the living room unexpectedly and saw him quickly end a call.
"Who was that, Daddy?" I asked without thinking.
He looked at me for a second too long.
Then he inhaled.
Not angrily.
But warningly.
"You are growing up," he said calmly. "Learn to mind your business."
I nodded.
But that day, something shifted inside me.
For the first time, I felt curiosity stronger than fear.
My father had two faces.
The church knew one.
We lived with the other.
And somewhere between his sermons and his silence, I was beginning to sense there was more he was hiding.
Not just anger.
Not just control.
Something deeper.
Darker.
And whatever it was, it followed him home every night.