The Day a Spirit Paid Rent, and Dragged the Pastor for Filth

The first time Mr. Okafor barked like a dog in church, the congregation was stunned into silence. It wasn’t just the sound, it was the detail.

He barked like a Doberman from Festac with PTSD. His jaw locked, his arms curled, and his shirt buttons burst open like even his clothes had seen enough.

The Pastor squinted, adjusted his mic, and announced what everyone already feared: “There’s a spirit in him. Ancestral. Stubborn. Violent.”

Cue the ushers, the prayer warriors, and the mother of the church with her “Anointing Oil of Fire” that looked suspiciously like groundnut oil from Shoprite.

But Mr. Okafor wasn’t growling anymore. He spoke. Clearly.

“I just paid rent. I’m not going anywhere.”

A gasp rippled through the pews. You could feel the collective pause — a split second where everyone mentally calculated their own rent situation. Suddenly, the spirit didn’t seem so evil. Maybe just… economically trapped.

The Pastor stuttered. He hadn’t trained for this.

“Which kind spirit dey pay rent?”

The reply came fast.

“A responsible one. Do you think the afterlife is free? You think because you people wear suits and fake accents that ancestors don’t need shelter? Oga, I paid for 3 months.”

Somewhere in the front row, Sister Blessing’s wig tilted in disbelief.

Mr. Okafor — or whoever was speaking through him — adjusted his imaginary wrapper, sniffed imaginary snuff, and sat down cross-legged on the altar.

“I’ve seen what you do with spirits. You drive them out like goats. As if we didn’t build the villages you run away from. As if we didn’t carry you on our backs. Now you want to exorcise me? For what — being inconvenient?”

The congregation was still. Even the choir’s Yamaha keyboard refused to make eye contact.

The Pastor tried again. This time, louder:

“You are not welcome in this temple!”

But the spirit stood up. His eyes scanned the room — slowly. He pointed at the Pastor.

“You. You who preaches against idols but collects offerings in six baskets. You who sells olive oil like it’s iPhone charger. You want to talk about what’s holy?”

The silence turned into squirming. A few people remembered their receipts from last week’s Deliverance Night. Others remembered how the Pastor’s car was newer than the church roof.

Still cross-legged, the spirit sighed.

“I didn’t come to torment. I came to rest. But even in death, I see that rest is a luxury.”

Mr. Okafor’s body slumped. Just like that. As if the rant had drained him. As if the spirit had said what it came to say and then dipped. Left the body, left the church, left the whole conversation hanging like a bad punchline.

He woke up minutes later, confused, tired, and hungry.

They tried to make him testify the following Sunday. He refused.

But from that day on, the Pastor stopped shouting about generational curses.

And quietly renewed his rent.