I’d been posted to a town far from family, with no familiar faces in sight. With no extra money for a transfer, I settled in. My new workplace felt fine at first. I was introduced to colleagues and the new office but didn’t meet my boss—apparently, she was busy with church duties. Her face was plastered around the office in pictures, advertising her church rather than the company.

Being a Methodist, I intended to find a local church right away. But the nearest one was a long walk, so I skipped it the first Sunday. The following Monday, my boss summoned me to her office. “Sam, have a seat,” she said with a warm, disarming smile.

"How are you?"

“I’m fine, Ma’am, and you?”

“The Lord is good; I am doing well by grace. I heard you don’t want to worship with us—don’t you like us?” she asked, her tone kind but direct. It surprised me because I hadn’t voiced any preference. “I didn’t say that,” I responded carefully.

“Then why don’t you join us this Sunday? You’ll love it.”

She was right; I did enjoy it. The congregation was small, about 20 members, and 10 were my colleagues. It was pleasant enough to get me back the following week, but this time, I began noticing unusual things. “Mummy,” as the others called her, would deliver intense prophecies and tell people to quit their jobs or cut off certain family members, claiming they were cursed or trying to harm them. People obeyed her without hesitation.

During one service, she confronted a man for not quitting his job as she’d advised, her voice filled with anger. “Do you want to die?” she demanded. The man looked scared and stopped attending services. Strangely, he was found dead just a few weeks later.

It was unsettling, so I mentioned my concerns to a colleague, Anne. She looked at me with complete faith and replied, “Mummy is our gift from God. She sees the future and saves us. Many people have died after ignoring her prophecies.”

I felt deeply uneasy. I took out my Bible and read through it. The scripture spoke of how God had not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, yet this church ran on fear. It didn’t feel right, so I decided to skip the next Sunday’s service.

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The next morning, I woke up and tried to get out of bed, but I couldn’t move. My ankle was swollen and in pain. I cried out, and my neighbors helped me get to the hospital. I informed work about my situation, and Anne came to visit during her break.

“Mummy can pray for this to go away,” she said, leaning over my hospital bed. “She’s a gift from God. I’m sure this happened because you missed last week.”

Shocked, I asked, “How could missing one day at church cause this?”

Without hesitating, Anne offered, “Let me call Mummy to pray with you. After that, you’ll be fine.” Reluctantly, I agreed, and true to her word, after the prayer, my ankle felt better by the end of the day. When I dressed for church that Sunday, it wasn’t out of devotion but out of fear of what might happen if I didn’t attend.

Things only got worse. Eventually, Mummy stopped paying salaries, saying that God had spoken to her and required us to contribute our wages for one reason or another. People feared her so much they dared not question it or report her actions.

One day, I’d reached my limit. I sent an email to headquarters, begging for a transfer, mentioning that my life felt threatened, though I didn’t go into details. They accepted, and I left that town behind, blocking every coworker’s contact.

Occasionally, I wonder about those still there, trapped under her influence. I hope that one day they’ll wise up and leave that toxic place—before it kills them.