It was late, the kind of cold Gweru night when the wind rattles every loose windowpane and slips in through the smallest gaps. The streets outside were almost empty except for the occasional car that sped past with its headlights cutting through the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then again, and then all fell quiet.
Rio sat alone in his small room. The dim light from a single bulb spread lazily across the walls, making the shadows seem larger than they were. The TV murmured in the background, its blue glow flickering over his face, while he slowly scrolled through old photos on his phone. His thumb moved without hurry, as if each picture carried the weight of another lifetime. There were weddings where he had stood proudly in a suit, church crusades with thousands lifting their hands to heaven, and smiling faces in group photos after Sunday services.
The memories felt warm but far away, like they belonged to someone else. Back then, everything had felt certain. The Prophet’s words had been law, and the miracles had seemed real.
The familiar rhythm of the TV was suddenly interrupted by the sharp burst of the ZBC news jingle. It sounded louder and more urgent than before. Rio’s head lifted slowly from the phone.
On the screen, the news anchor adjusted her glasses and leaned forward slightly. Her tone was steady but heavy, the kind of voice that told you something serious had happened.
“We turn now to breaking news,” she began. “The government has announced a major crackdown on money laundering activities involving several organizations, including a prominent church operating in Gweru…”
A chill ran through Rio that had nothing to do with the cold night outside.
The footage changed, and there it was—a tent he knew better than his own home. The camera swept across the rows of plastic chairs, then to a blurred shot of Prophet Love’s expensive car glinting under the sun. A clip from a past Sunday service appeared on screen, showing the tent packed from the front row to the very back, the choir singing in perfect harmony, and the Prophet on stage in a bright suit, hands raised as he spoke.
Along the bottom of the screen, white letters rolled across a red banner: PASTOR, ASSOCIATES UNDER INVESTIGATION – MILLIONS UNACCOUNTED FOR.
Rio sat forward, his hands gripping the edges of his chair.
The anchor continued, “Authorities allege that church leaders used faith-based donations to channel illicit funds. It is believed the scheme involved the cooperation of insiders. Detectives are appealing for information, and members of the church are urged to come forward.”
His heart began to pound so loudly that he could barely hear the rest. His breathing quickened. He could not look away from the screen, even though every instinct told him to.
Rio thought of the thick bundles of forms people had signed without reading. He thought of the missing money, the promises that had sounded so sure, the prayers that had once felt powerful. In his mind, the Prophet’s voice echoed—strong, commanding, convincing. This is a season of trial!
But now, the season felt like something entirely different. It was no longer about faith or patience. It was about shame.
The camera returned to the anchor, her eyes fixed on the teleprompter. “Sources close to the investigation say more arrests may follow in the coming days. There is speculation that high-ranking members of the church’s administrative team may also be implicated.”
The words struck him like a blow.
His mind began to race. What did they mean by high-ranking members? Did they mean the Prophet’s closest aides? Did they mean him?
He remembered the night he had walked past the Prophet’s office and seen him with the accountant. Papers had been spread across the desk. Their heads had been close together, their voices low. The accountant’s face had been tight with worry, and the Prophet’s hands had been shaking. Rio had felt something shift in that moment—a quiet warning deep inside him that something was wrong.
Now, that warning was on national television for the whole country to hear.
He sat frozen, the sound of the wind outside fading from his ears. Even the occasional barking dog seemed far away. All he could hear was the voice in his own head whispering that nothing would ever be the same again.
He glanced at his phone. Messages were already flooding in. Some came from church members who sounded confused and afraid. Others were from friends he had not spoken to in years, each one short and direct: Is it true? What is happening at your church? Are you safe?
He did not reply to any of them.
On the TV, the report moved on to another story, but it did not matter. The images of the tent, the Prophet’s car, and the bold words MILLIONS UNACCOUNTED FOR were already burned into his mind.
His chest tightened until it was hard to breathe. The room seemed to shrink around him. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, but the darkness behind them was worse. He could still see the Prophet smiling on stage, speaking blessings over the people, while behind the scenes the truth had been rotting for months, maybe years.
The words slipped out of him in a whisper. “I am finished. I am ruined.”
The sound of his own voice startled him. The words felt strange in his mouth, but deep down they rang true. Everything he had built his life around—the loyalty, the faith, the long hours of service—was collapsing in front of him. And if the investigation reached his name, if the police decided that he was one of the insiders, then his reputation would fall with the rest.
He had no plan for what would happen next. He had no one to turn to. Even Shawty, the one person he thought he could trust with anything, felt distant now, locked away in her own silence and battles.
The night dragged on. The wind rattled the window again, and somewhere far off a siren wailed through the streets. Rio sat without moving, as if standing up would make it all real. His phone kept buzzing, but he ignored it.
In his mind, the Prophet’s voice rose again—confident, warm, and commanding. This is your season of breakthrough.
But now, those words felt like poison.
And as Rio sat there, with the cold settling deeper into his bones, he knew one thing with certainty. The season had changed. Whatever lay ahead would not be breakthrough. It would be survival.
