You cannot rehabilitate a person that beheads a person.
You cannot rehabilitate someone that offs people for sport.
You cannot rehabilitate someone that kidnaps and rapes children.
As a pastor, maybe I should learn the holy art of silence.
Maybe I should fold my arms, bow my head, and speak only in safe parables that offend nobody and challenge nothing.
Maybe it pays better that way.
Maybe it is wiser to keep quiet while a nation bleeds slowly in broad daylight.
Maybe that is what “wisdom” has become.
Because according to the experts, according to the polished voices behind pulpits and microphones, people who look like me are the false prophets.
Too loud.
Too emotional.
Too confrontational.
Too unwilling to pretend.
So maybe the falsehood in me is the reason I cannot look away.
Maybe the falsehood in me is why I cannot baptize suffering with silence.
Because if we are speaking honestly, if we are using metrics and not emotions, if we are measuring by the blood on the roads, the fear in the homes, the kidnappings, the hunger, the exhaustion in the eyes of ordinary people, then this government is not merely failing.
It is excelling at failure.
And this is not hatred.
This is not party politics.
This is not rebellion.
This is simply a human being refusing to lie about what he can clearly see.
I do not care who sits in power.
I only care that power remembers its assignment.
But maybe if I were a “genuine” pastor, I would smile and move on.
After all, I have things to build too.
I need resources too.
Crusades are not filled with prophecy.
Stadiums are not paid for with discernment.
Logistics do not answer to anointing.
Money moves ministry.
Connections preserve relevance.
Silence protects invitations.
So maybe I really should keep quiet.
Maybe I should join the choir of selective blindness and call it maturity.
Maybe.
But there is something deeply terrifying about watching people suffer and still choosing public silence because it is profitable.
And perhaps that is my own weakness:
I still cannot pretend not to see.
So no, I do not support the apparent cluelessness of this government.
Not while mothers bury children.
Not while fear travels faster than hope.
Not while survival has become a national ambition.
And on days like this, it becomes difficult to say,
“May Nigeria win.”
Because the words feel heavy in the mouth.
But still…
somehow…
through disappointment,
through anger,
through grief,
through exhaustion
may Nigeria win.
If you run a Montessori and you need the kids to learn about long straight lines, take them to the bustop at OAU gate during rush hour.
50 buses.
What’s the significance of 50 again?
Oh jubilee.
I see.
The Church must return to her prophetic function. She has become skilled in motivation, psychology, and social influence, but something essential has been neglected (I dare say, even opposed).
She must recover her prophetic edge. The dimension where nothing in the future unfolds without her awareness, because she is deeply aligned with the Spirit of Christ.
Only then can she fulfill her assignment as the pillar and ground of truth for the whole earth.
To The SNC, To The Forge
No one knew me until you guys came along. Before you, I was largely unseen. Now, every day, I hear, “I found you through one of your people. They posted you, they spoke about you etc”
You (through God) have given my voice reach.
My desire is simple, to make you as proud as you make me.
I am deeply honored.
Christian brother and sister.
Because you saw yourselves marry in a dream doesn’t mean you guys should even be friends talk more of getting married.
Peter saw a sheet of unclean meat in his vision at Joppa. It didn’t mean he should go and buy unclean meat at Sabo and eat.
Be calming down.