Pastors Charged Me Thousands for 'Healing Rituals' — I Exposed the Network, Turned To Medical Care
Kojo screamed as I rubbed pepper and oil across his lips, my hands shaking, my heart begging. The room smelled of incense and crushed pepper, sharp enough to sting my eyes. Prophet Elijah's voice thundered from the speakers, loud prayers clashing with Kojo's sobs.
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"Speak now," I shouted, fear splitting my voice open.
"Say something, Kojo. Anything at all."
Kojo clawed at my blouse, his small body slick with sweat, his mouth trembling, his eyes wide with confusion and terror. The ceiling fan rattled overhead, chopping the air into harsh, uneven beats that matched my racing heart.
Time slowed cruelly, every second stretching long and heavy, as if it wanted to punish us both. Outside the room, church members clapped and sang loudly, convinced a miracle was unfolding before their eyes. Inside, my child was breaking down in my arms, and I was helping them break him.
My name is Ama. I am a petty trader at Kejetia Market in Kumasi, and I sell tomatoes, pepper, onions, and dried fish from dawn until late afternoon. I survive on small profits and careful budgeting, counting every cedi as if it might disappear at any moment.
Kojo is my only child. He is four years old, slim, observant, and unusually quiet. He does not speak, but he understands everything said to him.
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He responds when his name is called and reacts appropriately to laughter, anger, and warnings. Sometimes, his understanding feels deeper than that of children who speak loudly and endlessly.
When he was two, I noticed the difference clearly. Other children pointed at passing cars, flying birds and sang broken nursery songs with joy. Kojo only watched, his eyes tracking movement, his face thoughtful, his mouth still.
At first, I told myself not to worry.
"Every child grows differently," I said repeatedly.
However, the silence did not fade, nor did it soften. It settled into our home quietly, sitting between conversations and filling spaces where words should have been. It followed us into public spaces, into church, into family gatherings, and into my thoughts.
People stared weirdly and longer than necessary, and some whispered behind their hands without shame. Others asked questions too loudly, as if Kojo's silence was a public announcement rather than a private struggle.
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At the hospital, the doctor did not panic. She spoke slowly and clearly, as if grounding me.
"He needs assessment and speech therapy," she said gently.
She explained delayed speech carefully. She talked about milestones, evaluations, and early intervention. Her voice carried calm, not fear.
Yaw sat beside me throughout the consultation, listening quietly without interrupting or challenging the doctor's words. He nodded often.
"We will do whatever helps Kojo," he said later.
His voice was steady. Then he added, "Ama, you are with him more. You will lead this."
I accepted that responsibility without hesitation. I always handled Kojo's routines.
The church became louder than the hospital. After the service, women surrounded me. Their concern felt heavy, not comforting.
"This is not medical," one woman said firmly.
"You cannot treat spiritual matters with hospital machines."
Another leaned closer.
"Check your prayer life," she warned softly.
"Children reflect their mother's altar."
Their words planted themselves inside me, settling quietly and refusing to leave. They did not shout. They whispered and grew roots.
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I began replaying my life in fragments. Missed dawn prayers. Anger, I never confessed. I remembered moments of exhaustion. Days I chose sleep over devotion. Times I complained instead of praising.
At night, guilt sat beside me. It breathed with me. It watched Kojo sleep. I stared at my son's quiet mouth. I wondered what unseen punishment I had invited.
Yaw remained calm, almost detached.
"Ama, Kojo understands everything," he reminded me.
"He laughs. He responds. He is fine."
But fear spoke louder than logic, and it spoke through many voices. Fear wore the language of faith and certainty, and it felt convincing.
By then, the idea had taken shape. Kojo's silence was not random. It was my fault. And once I believed that, I became desperate to fix it.
The referrals began quietly, almost kindly.
“Ama, go see Prophet Elijah,” a church elder suggested.
“He has helped children who were silent like Kojo.”
His chapel was crowded, electric with pounding drums and flashing lights. Kojo clung to my skirt, sensing something I could not yet name.
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When Prophet Elijah called me forward, the hall went silent.
“This child’s tongue is spiritually tied,” he announced.
“There is nothing medical here.”
My stomach sank.
“What must I do, Prophet?” I asked.
“You need tongue-loosing oil, seven days of midnight prayers, and a seed of GHS 3,500,” he said confidently.
I hesitated. “That will solve everything?”
He nodded. “If your obedience and faith are complete.”
That night, my home became a battlefield. The oil smelled thick and bitter. The crushed pepper burned before it even touched Kojo’s lips.
“Speak now,” I commanded through tears. “Say something, my son.”
Kojo screamed, pushing me away.
Midnight prayers stretched endlessly, my knees aching, heart pounding.
When nothing changed, the blame shifted.
“You doubt too much,” Prophet Elijah said.
“Your words carry negativity. Doubt blocks miracles.”
Then came another accusation: “Someone in your family is fighting this miracle. Ancestral resistance is strong.”
I went home unsettled and suspicious. I replayed family histories in my head. I wondered who secretly wished my son harm.
Then I was referred to Accra. Apostle Daniel. His instructions were harsher and more frightening.
“A white hen is required,” he said plainly.
“And new padlocks.”
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“For what?” I asked, confused.
“To lock the child’s mouth from demonic interference,” he replied without hesitation.
He laid out strict conditions.
“You must fast dry,” he said.
Yaw questioned me softly that night.
“This does not sound right.”
I snapped. “You are not the one they blame if Kojo does not speak.”
I sold my freezer. I emptied my susu savings. Kojo stopped sleeping peacefully, woke screaming, and withdrew further. Hope lingered.
At another church, Prophetess Comfort staged a testimony.
“He was just like Kojo,” she declared, bringing a young boy forward.
He spoke clearly, and the congregation erupted in applause. Tears filled my eyes, hope surged.
“This will be us,” I whispered.
Later, the truth hit. The boy was the pastor’s nephew. He had always spoken. That night, alone in the dark, Kojo beside me, the room smelling of oil, sweat, and fear, I finally wondered: What if this was not about faith at all?
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Fear pushed the thought away. I had already given too much. And so I kept going, even as everything slipped further out of control.
The hospital waiting area felt different from the churches immediately. There was no shouting, no music, no urgency demanding belief. Only quiet movement, soft voices, and the steady rhythm of ordinary care.
Footsteps echoed gently along the tiled floor. A faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air, clean and honest. The light was bright but calm, not dramatic or blinding.
Kojo sat beside me, lining up toy blocks carefully on the bench. His hands moved with focus, his breathing slow and steady.
That was where I met Esi. Her daughter sat nearby, arranging toy cars again and again with deep concentration. We exchanged polite smiles at first. Then she noticed Kojo.
"How old is he?" she asked gently.
"Four," I replied.
"He understands everything, but he does not talk."
She nodded slowly, as if hearing something familiar.
"My daughter is five," she said.
"She is autistic."
I told her everything without planning to. The prayers. The rituals. The money. As I spoke, her face changed. Her eyes sharpened. Her jaw tightened.
"Did you say Prophet Elijah?" she asked carefully.
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My chest tightened.
"Yes," I said.
She paused, then asked again.
"And Apostle Daniel in Accra?"
My hands began to shake.
"Yes," I whispered.
She exhaled deeply, like someone releasing a long-held weight.
"You are not alone," she said quietly.
"And this is not your fault."
She showed me her phone and added me to a WhatsApp group immediately. The name read: Parents for Truth.
That evening, messages flooded my phone nonstop. Names, stories and losses. A father named Kwame wrote first.
"My wife stopped chemotherapy because pastors promised healing," he said.
"She died three months later."
A woman called Abena shared next.
"They told me my baby did not need hospital care," she wrote.
"I buried her."
More voices followed. Others from Kumasi, Accra, Cape Coast spoke, people spoke, and I realised I was not alone in this. The same words appeared again and again.
"Spiritually tied."
"Faith is weak."
"Someone is blocking the miracle."
Even the prices matched. The rituals matched. The instructions matched. I was shocked, staring at my phone like someone who saw a ghost.
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It was no longer a coincidence. It was a pattern. Then a former church worker joined the group quietly.
"I cannot stay silent anymore," he wrote.
He sent audio recordings. Clear voices. Familiar voices. Pastors were laughing, planning testimonies and assigning people to pretend healing.
"Rotate the boy," one voice said casually.
"Different church next month."
Another discussed money splits.
"How much did she pay?"
"Send my share."
My hands trembled as I listened. The phone felt heavy in my palm. The room around me seemed suddenly smaller. The air felt thin. This was not spiritual warfare. It was organised deception.
Testimonies were recycled. Assistants posed as healed patients. Churches rotated leaders to avoid suspicion. I sat on my bed that night in complete silence. No prayers. No begging. Only truth settling painfully into place.
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My son was never the problem. My faith was never the issue. We had been targeted because we were desperate.
stopped everything abruptly, without negotiation or gradual withdrawal. I no longer trusted anything that promised healing through fear. I blocked numbers, ignored invitations, and refused to attend any church that spoke about miracles tied to payment.
There were no dramatic announcements at first. Just quiet decisions made at dawn.
Kojo did not return to midnight prayers. No more oils. No more pepper. Instead, he returned fully to speech therapy and early intervention sessions, where progress was slow but honest.
The therapy room smelled of paper, plastic toys, and disinfectant, ordinary scents that brought unexpected comfort.
The therapist spoke calmly to Kojo, never shouting, never commanding.
"Take your time," she told him repeatedly.
"There is no rush here."
Yaw noticed the change quickly. Kojo slept longer. He cried less. The nightmares softened gradually. The fear loosened its grip on his small body. He was slowly becoming my son, the one I knew.
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One Sunday morning, I dressed deliberately and walked back into Prophet Elijah's chapel. Not to pray. Not to beg. My legs trembled as I stood among familiar faces. The same drums beat. The same voices rose.
When the moment came, I stood up before fear could silence me. My heart pounded violently, but my voice surprised me with its steadiness.
"I paid GHS 3,500," I said loudly.
"I have receipts."
Murmurs rippled through the congregation.
Prophet Elijah froze.
"And I have recordings," I continued.
"Proof of staged testimonies and shared payments."
The hall fell into stunned silence. Even the fans seemed to pause mid-spin. I walked out without waiting for a response. I did not look back.
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Our group moved quickly after that. Parents for Truth gathered evidence carefully. Messages were archived. Receipts were scanned. Audio files were copied.
We submitted everything to a radio station in Kumasi, then to a consumer protection NGO that specialised in religious exploitation. The interview aired on a quiet morning. Calls flooded in immediately. Some people cried. Some argued.
Churches denied everything at first. They accused us of bitterness. They accused us of attacking faith. Then the noise faded. No more threats. No more public miracles.
Kojo did not suddenly speak in full sentences. There was no instant reward for my courage. Progress remained slow, frustrating, and uneven. Some days felt like setbacks. Others felt hopeful.
Then one afternoon, during therapy, Kojo looked directly at me. His eyes were steady.
"Ma," he said clearly.
The room fell silent. My knees gave way. I cried openly, without shame, because that one word carried months of truth, patience, and survival.
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We expanded the WhatsApp group into a registered support network for parents navigating developmental delays. We shared medical resources. We shared warnings. No prayers were banned. Faith was never attacked. But exploitation was named.
I stopped apologising for choosing care over spectacle. I stopped shrinking my voice to protect false authority. Kojo still has challenges. Our journey is not finished. But it is real now. And it is safe. For the first time, I trust the path we are walking.
I learned this lesson slowly and painfully, not through revelation, but through loss, fear, and exhaustion. Faith, by itself, is not dangerous, and belief has never been the enemy of healing.
What destroys people is the misuse of faith by those who understand desperation and know how to profit from it. They dress greed in holy language, speak confidently, and weaponise fear while calling it prophecy.
I watched how quickly blame replaced compassion. When healing failed, faith was questioned. When faith broke, mothers were accused.
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No one asked whether the child was safe. No one asked whether the methods caused harm. All that mattered was obedience and payment.
My son was never broken. He was never cursed. He did not need deliverance. He needed patience, structure, and evidence-based care. He needed adults who protected him instead of testing him.
I also learned how easily silence can be mistaken for weakness. How quickly mothers are isolated when something goes wrong with a child. How guilt becomes a leash when fear is spiritualised.
Once blame entered my heart, I surrendered my judgment. I stopped asking questions. I obeyed voices louder than my own instincts.
Walking away did not mean abandoning faith. It meant refusing exploitation. It meant choosing truth over spectacle. Healing is not always dramatic. Sometimes it arrives quietly, in small words, steady routines, and safe spaces.
There was no instant miracle waiting for me at the end of this journey. There was only clarity, responsibility, and courage earned the hard way. Faith did not fail my son. People did.
So I ask: When fear is disguised as faith, how can you tell the difference between guidance and manipulation? And at what point does obedience become harm, especially when a child's safety is involved?
This story is inspired by the real experiences of our readers. We believe that every story carries a lesson that can bring light to others. To protect everyone's privacy, our editors may change names, locations, and certain details while keeping the heart of the story true. Images are for illustration only. If you'd like to share your own experience, please contact us via email.
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