For Shawty, the days began to blur into one another. She would wake up to the sound of her alarm, drag herself through the motions of getting ready for lectures, and sit in class with her notebook open but her mind far away. There were assignments to finish and group discussions to attend. In between, her phone never seemed to stop buzzing with endless WhatsApp messages from the women’s group at church. On the surface, her life looked full, even busy, but inside she felt hollow. The laughter and energy she used to carry so easily had vanished, replaced by a heaviness that clung to her everywhere she went.
She tried to avoid the Prophet as much as she could, keeping her head down during services and slipping away quickly afterwards. Yet somehow, he always found a reason to summon her. His voice would come through the phone or through one of the aides, telling her to come to his office. And she would go, because refusing would raise questions she was not ready to answer.
The day he locked the office door behind her, she felt her chest tighten. A cold wave of fear swept over her, freezing her in place. Her heart thudded against her ribs and her breath grew shallow. She prayed silently, her lips moving without sound, begging for rescue. But the door stayed shut and no one came.
When it was over, she walked home as if in a daze. The streets of Gweru bustled around her. Vendors called out the prices of bananas and roasted maize. Kombi conductors banged on the sides of their vehicles, shouting for passengers to Mkoba and Ascot. Children ran past her with ice creams in their hands. Somewhere nearby, a street preacher’s voice rose above the noise. Yet all of it sounded distant and muffled, as if she was walking under water. Her mind kept spinning in tight, painful circles. Who could she tell? Who would believe her? Prophet Love was celebrated in newspapers, printed on flyers, and praised in the hearts of his followers. To accuse him was to challenge something sacred, something untouchable.
At home, she looked at Rio and felt an almost unbearable urge to scream. She wanted to pour it all out, to make him see the darkness that had entered their lives. But the words would not come. Each time he turned to her with that tired but trusting look in his eyes, she would nod and force a small smile. She pushed the truth deeper down, burying it under layers of silence.
Their home, once alive with shared jokes and whispered plans for the future, became cold. Shawty barely spoke. Rio hardly noticed. He was always out, serving the Prophet, running errands, leading meetings, and managing church programs. Most nights he came home late, too tired to do anything more than eat and collapse into bed. On the few occasions when he sensed her distance, he told himself it was just stress from her studies and exams.
While their home grew colder, the ministry itself was beginning to change. In the quiet corners of church offices, in hushed conversations outside the tent, staff began to grumble.
“Where is our pay? The Prophet promised us blessings, but we can’t eat blessings,” one whispered.
Another voice joined in. “The tent is always full. Offerings keep coming in. So where is all the money going?”
Others, like Rio, refused to lose faith. “The Prophet said we must be strong. This is just a trial. God is preparing something greater,” they would say.
But outside the walls of the ministry, the whispers were spreading. A few members quietly stopped attending services. Others hinted at taking their concerns to the police. Still, most stayed. Some feared bringing curses on themselves if they spoke out. Others were too confused to take sides, and many clung to the hope that things would somehow return to the way they had been before.
Then, on a Wednesday evening, everything shifted again. Prophet Love appeared live on national television.
The studio lights shone bright, making the gold trimming on his chair sparkle. Amai sat beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her face calm but unreadable. The choir stood behind them in matching robes, ready to sing. The camera zoomed in just as the Prophet lifted a handkerchief to wipe away a tear.
“My children,” he began, his voice trembling with emotion, “the devil is attacking. The ministry is under siege. Our faith is being tested. But God always wins. Stand with me. Pray with me. This is our time of trial, and I promise you, your harvest is coming.”
His words rolled out like warm honey. He spoke of enemies plotting to destroy the work of God, of lies and accusations sent to break the church apart. His tone rose and fell like a seasoned storyteller, moving from sorrow to fire, and every sentence ended with the assurance that victory was near.
Across the country, people reacted differently. Some wept in front of their television screens, their hands lifted in prayer. Others cheered and sent messages of support, vowing to give even more to the work of God. A smaller, quieter group turned off the television and sat in heavy silence, feeling the last fragments of their faith fall away.
Rio was among those who still held on tightly. He believed with all his heart that this was a storm the Prophet would overcome. Shawty, on the other hand, felt a deep ache that no sermon or declaration could heal. No amount of preaching could erase what had happened to her.
That night, as the streetlights of Gweru flickered and the city settled into its usual evening hush, the church was no longer one. It had split into three clear groups. There were those who still believed, their loyalty unshaken. There were those who doubted, uncertain yet still holding on. And there were those who had already decided to leave quietly before the storm consumed them.
Shawty lay awake long after Rio had drifted into sleep. The ceiling above her seemed too close, pressing down on her. She thought about the Prophet’s speech, about the cheers of the congregation, and about her own silence. The weight of her secret pressed harder than ever, making it almost difficult to breathe. She prayed again, asking for clarity, for strength, for a way forward. But the answers did not come.
Instead, there was only the sound of her own heartbeat in the stillness and the quiet knowledge that the time of trial had only just begun.
