I didn’t realize I was being brainwashed. At the time, I thought I was just being faithful. Obedient. Deep in devotion. That’s how it often starts — you’re chasing peace and meaning, and before you know it, someone else is running your mind for you.
I recently came across a description of brainwashing in psychology. It said that to change someone’s beliefs, you first have to break them down completely, then rebuild them with what you want them to believe. That’s exactly what churches do to their followers — especially those who come in already broken, lonely, or desperate for direction.
The formula is simple: make people feel unworthy, then sell them salvation. That’s the real currency of religion. You’re told how sinful and lost you are, and you begin to doubt your own sense of right and wrong. Once you accept that you’re nothing without the church, the pastor can shape you however he wants.
That’s how it was for me. I used to fast the way the pastor commanded — 14 days straight, and if you could survive 30 or even 40, you were considered “spiritually strong.” During those days, I’d even delay my daughter’s meals so she could “fast” with me, believing it would bring us more blessings. I used to wake up every single night, Monday to Thursday, for 3 a.m. prayers led by the pastor himself. Fridays were for keshas — overnight vigils that went till dawn. Saturday was for cleaning the church and attending endless meetings in different departments. And Sunday, of course, was service day.
That was my whole week. My entire life.
It’s only now that I see how deliberate it all was. The fasting controlled our eating. The night prayers and keshas controlled our sleep. The constant guilt and submission controlled our minds. He kept us tired, hungry, and emotionally drained — because tired, hungry people don’t ask questions.
When you’re in that state, you stop thinking clearly. You start believing that exhaustion is holiness, that suffering is love, that obedience is faith. And the worst part? You start to feel proud of your pain. You start comparing who can suffer more for God.
It’s easy to look at tragedies like Shakahola and think, “How could they do that?” But the truth is, I understand it. It’s the same manipulation, just taken further. When you’re under that kind of influence, you stop being yourself. You belong to the system — body, mind, and soul.
I used to feel embarrassed about it all. The fasting. The 3 a.m. alarms. The way I thought denying myself made me holy. But now I see it for what it was — psychological control dressed up as faith. I wasn’t stupid. I was broken. And church preyed on that.
Leaving wasn’t a sudden revelation. It was slow. A question here. A small act of defiance there. Until finally, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I stopped showing up. I started sleeping through the night. I fed my child without guilt. I started thinking again — for myself.
Now, my faith is in what’s real. In life. In reason. In my own voice. I don’t need to be broken to be worthy. I don’t need to starve to feel blessed. I don’t need someone to speak for me to the universe.
I’m free — and that’s more sacred than anything I ever found inside those church walls.