I remember my days in the University of Benin, Edo State. I hopped from fellowship to fellowship, exploring all religion had to offer after spending my formative years in a strictly Baptist background. I saw the big gatherings and the small ones; the loud ones that preached that you could do anything and simply ask for forgiveness later because your salvation was prepaid and non-refundable, and the quiet ones where women wore long pleated skirts, covered their hair, and spoke about hell like they just returned from there. It was a buffet of belief systems, and like any good undergraduate, I sampled everything before eventually pitching my tent with the Catholic Church.
But before Rome claimed me, I attended one fellowship I will not name. Partly because I don’t want to spend Christmas in jail and also anonymity gives the story universality. In this fellowship, the pastor, through carefully worded sermons, made it clear that the girls should be “proactive” in sourcing funds to offset the church’s never-ending bills. Translation: if you have charm, deploy it. If you have access to men with wallets, activate them. Fundraising, but make it flirtatious.
The pastor was called Papa. Papa in his early thirties. Papa with young, impressionable girls visiting his house to wash, clean, cook and do whatever it is young women are apparently meant to do in the home of a charismatic male authority figure. Papa, whose title alone already collapsed every natural boundary that should exist between a grown man and female congregants.
This Christian gathering was all glamour. In the girls’ hostel, I watched members borrow clothes like they were borrowing destinies, just to look the part. Appearances mattered. God (or maybe Papa), it seemed, preferred well-dressed people.
But my story is not really about the head pastor. It was about a subordinate pastor in the fellowship that I held in high regard, and you can’t blame me. When you are young, confused, and searching for meaning, anyone who looks anointed and organised automatically becomes impressive. It was easy to forget that all of us were just students. I remember feeling blessed that such a “high-placed” man of God even knew my name. Me. A clueless undergraduate calculating her life in monthly allowances.
Then came the fateful day he texted me. Out of surprise and reverence, I called him “Papa” in my reply. His next message, half-joking, half-pulling at moral boundaries, said that if he was truly my Papa, I would send him some money. I said I had none and he insisted that even if it was N2,000. My weekly allowance at the time was precisely that. Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover it. I never responded, and I never went back to that church. That was the first, and last, time I called anyone “Papa.”
The curious, complicated, and often uncomfortable relationship between religious leaders and their female congregants is one that this column cannot cover extensively. There are women who will go ten miles for their pastor for every one mile they go for their partner.
A pastor sneezes, and they organise prayer chains. He relocates, and they follow like the Israelites after Moses. When a new pastor arrives, it is the women who welcome him, furnish his comfort, stock his fridge, and manage his domestic life, sometimes better than his own family would.
This is why many denominations insist their pastors must be married. Marriage is supposed to be a boundary. A spiritual electric fence. But history and current affairs suggest that a wedding ring has never been an effective moral security system. It didn’t stop David. It didn’t stop Samson. And it certainly hasn’t stopped modern men with microphones.
Which brings us neatly to the recent saga involving Pastor Chris Okafor and actress Doris Ogala.The story erupted publicly in mid-December 2025, with Ogala accusing Okafor, founder of Liberation City Church, of a secret romantic and sexual relationship spanning years. According to Ogala, Okafor promised marriage, prompting her to leave her previous husband, only to abandon her for another woman. She shared intimate WhatsApp messages and in a haunting video which looks like a scene from a horror movie, wailed, “After all this, who do you want to leave me for, Chris?”
Ogala alleged the relationship involved multiple intimate encounters, miscarriages she claims Okafor twisted into accusations of abortion, and even the sharing of a private sex video with third parties. She further suggested that after their encounters, her life spiraled into tragedy, including the death of her brother, which she linked to spiritual manipulation by Okafor. The fallout became public when Okafor announced engagement and wedding plans around December 13-14, 2025, sharing pre-wedding photos amid the storm of accusations.
The narrative escalated when Ogala vowed to disrupt the church wedding, declaring that Okafor had “broken her heart and ruined her life.” She went live on social media, breaking down emotionally and even nearly attempting suicide due to the trauma. Shockingly, she also alleged that Okafor’s new wife, a 21-year-old whose mother is the church’s choir coordinator, was allegedly raped by him, impregnated, and then forced into marriage to cover it up. Ogala’s chilling statement, “God led me to expose this man; I never wanted to marry him, I wanted revenge,” encapsulates the deep betrayal she felt. By December 18, 2025, she filed a ₦1 billion lawsuit for breach of promise to marry, citing eight years of emotional and financial support, including gifts for Okafor’s children.
Whether what Ogala is saying is true or not is not for me to decide but the pattern is striking. The combination of power, influence, and spiritual authority creates a unique dynamic between pastors and female congregants.
Women invest emotionally, financially, and socially in these relationships, often placing their pastor above family, friends, or romantic partners. This dynamic can lead to exploitation, as seen in Ogala’s case, but also in the subtler, insidious ways young women are encouraged to prioritise church leaders over themselves.
However, while it’s easy to paint all pastors with the same brush, the truth is nuanced. Many Me usen of God genuinely care for their congregants and serve without expectation of anything in return. Yet the system itself, the reverence, the spiritual hierarchy, the social structures, creates opportunities for abuse. Women are socialised to trust, respect, and even revere spiritual men, which can blur boundaries between mentorship, friendship, and manipulation.
Humor, of course, is part of my navigating this reality. I often chuckle remembering my fellow female students rushing to “Papa” to feel blessed. Or seeing young ladies adorn themselves in borrowed finery to impress a pastor who might not even notice. The absurdity is comic in retrospect, even if the lessons can be painful.
The truth is, churches are microcosms of society: they mirror its ambitions, desires, and flaws. Pastors wield influence, and female congregants often respond with enthusiasm, devotion, and, at times, blind faith. That dynamic, its potential for mentorship, guidance, and tragedy, is why stories like Okafor and Ogala’s make headlines, spark debate, and force churches to reckon with ethical boundaries.
At its core, faith should elevate, guide, and empower, not manipulate or diminish. Women deserve leaders who inspire without exploiting. Yet, while we hold men of God to the highest standards, we must also remember that they are flesh and blood: capable of succumbing to temptation, deserving the same boundaries, and a healthy dose of suspicion, that we (as women) apply to any man.
So, when we talk about relationships between pastors and female congregants, some lessons are painful, some are laughable in retrospect, and some, like Doris Ogala’s public ordeal, are cautionary tales about what happens when faith, love, and authority collide.
I learnt that lesson early, in UNIBEN, with an unreplied text message and a church I never returned to. Some people lose more before they learn it.
