My Aunt Used My Photos for Religious Clout — I Disowned The Fake Image of Me and Lost Relatives

My phone lit up in the dark, and my own face appeared on a live video titled "Sister Lena's Testimony: Delivered From Vanity." The voice preaching was my Auntie Grace's, but the name on the screen was mine. In the comments, strangers wrote prayers for me, and one message hit like a slap: "We will announce you on Sunday."

I sat up so fast my bedsheet slipped off my shoulder. The room in Adabraka, Accra, felt suddenly too small, as if the walls were leaning in to listen. On the screen, my graduation photo floated beside a Bible verse I had never posted. Then another photo came up, one from my cousin's wedding in Tema, and the caption claimed I had "repented publicly" that very night.

My hands shook as I scrolled. There were dozens of posts. Long paragraphs written in a voice that was not mine, confessing sins I had never committed, promising obedience I had never offered, thanking Grace for "saving my soul".

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A WhatsApp call buzzed before I could breathe, breaking the silence.

I answered, still half-asleep. "Hello?"

"Good evening, Sister Lena," a man said, cheerful and familiar, as if we had prayed together for years. "I just watched your live. Powerful. We need you to share this testimony at our women's fellowship in Kaneshie on Saturday."

My throat tightened. "Sir, I did not do that live."

Silence.

Then his tone dropped. "So you are denying your testimony?"

I looked back at the screen where my face smiled calmly under Grace's words. Outside my window, a trotro horn blared while normal life carried on. Inside, my stomach sank as another message came in: "Do not backslide. The whole community is watching."

My name is Lena Mensah, and I grew up in Mamprobi, Accra, in a home where faith spoke louder than silence. It sat on your forehead as if a mark people read before deciding whether to respect you. In our community, we viewed the church not only as a place of worship but also as a symbol of reputation, connection, and protection.

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People noticed who attended consistently, who greeted elders properly, and whose family looked "serious".

My Auntie Grace Mensah understood that world better than anyone. Grace was loud, confident, and deeply invested in the way our family appeared.

She led women's prayer meetings, organised donations when someone died, and spoke with the authority of someone who believed God was always on her side.

When people praised her, she accepted it as if it were her assignment. When people questioned her, she fought back as if it were spiritual warfare.

As a child, I followed her because it felt safe. I joined the youth choir. I attended programmes. I learned the rhythm of being seen. When Grace introduced me to visitors, she always added a line that carried weight: "This is my niece. She fears God."

However, as I grew older, I began to distinguish belief from performance. I did not stop praying. I did not start mocking the church. I just stopped advertising my spirituality. I wanted my relationship with God to be private, not a public badge I wore to satisfy expectations. I also wanted space to question, to grow, and to think without being accused of rebellion.

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Grace did not call that privacy. She called it danger.

Each time I missed a service because of work, she warned me. Each time I refused to post religious messages online, she said I was becoming "too modern". At family gatherings in Dansoman and Teshie, she would pull me aside and speak in a low, concerned tone.

"Lena, people are watching," she would say. "Do not let them think you are drifting."

I tried to keep the peace. I answered politely. I avoided arguments. I assumed our tension would remain small, like a crack you learn to step over.

What I did not realise was that Grace treated my silence as a space she could fill, and she believed she had the right to fill it because she saw my life as part of the family's public story.

It began with praise that didn't fit my life.

Two days after the night call, I stepped out of a trotro at Makola to buy fabric for my mum. A woman in a white headscarf grabbed my hand.

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"Sister Lena, your testimony blessed me," she said. "God will use you."

I pulled back. "Madam, I think you have the wrong person."

She smiled, certain. "No. Auntie Grace's niece. I watched you."

That evening, my old classmate Efua sent me screenshots. My photos sat under a profile name that matched mine. The bio read, "Saved by glory. Guided by Auntie Grace." The posts were dramatic confessions, describing me as a former party girl who had repented, cut off friends, and vowed to submit to spiritual authority.

I stared until my eyes watered. I had never written any of it.

I called Auntie Grace.

"Auntie, did you make a page using my pictures?"

She did not deny it. "Yes. And what about it?"

"People think I am posting testimonies," I said. "Delete it."

She sighed. "Lena, you have refused to speak. I am helping you find your way."

"You are lying with my face," I replied, my voice shaking.

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"Do not talk to me like I am your mate," she snapped. "This family will not produce a girl who looks lukewarm."

The next beat landed at work.

I work in an office near Ridge. By mid-morning, my colleague Yaw leaned over my desk with a grin.

"Madam Pastor, you did not tell us you are doing live videos."

My stomach dropped. "Who shared it?"

He turned his phone off. Someone had forwarded the live recording in a WhatsApp group. A client had even commented, "We will support your ministry." I felt exposed. This issue was no longer church gossip. It could affect how people trusted me at work.

Before the close of the day, a youth leader sent a voice note. "Sister Lena, the girls need you. Please, do not disappoint us." My hands went cold. They recruited me into a life I never sought.

At lunch, I called Grace again. "Auntie, this has entered my workplace. Please stop."

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She laughed softly. "So now you see the power of testimony."

"It is not my testimony," I said. "You are putting me in trouble."

"You are only afraid because you want freedom," she replied. "If you were clean, you would not panic."

The third beat came at a family gathering.

A relative died in Nungua, and mourners and neighbours filled the house, watching everything. Grace arrived wearing white. When she saw me, she hugged me and raised her voice.

"My star. Our Sister Lena. She has been on fire for God."

Someone clapped. Another woman smiled at me as if I belonged to her.

I pulled back. "Auntie, stop."

Grace's smile stayed, but her nails pressed into my arm. "Not here," she whispered. "Do not disgrace me."

Outside, my cousin Nana Esi followed me.

"Lena, why are you fighting Auntie Grace?" she asked. "She is building your image."

"My image is not a project," I said. "She is impersonating me."

Nana Esi frowned. "But the posts are good. Why can you not just behave like that in real life?"

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That question hit harder than the fake page. It meant the performance had become the standard.

When I returned inside, an elderly woman asked me to lead the opening prayer. I hesitated, and her face tightened.

"After all your online fire, you cannot pray?" she said.

I stood there, exposed. If I performed, I confirmed the lie. If I refused, I looked like a hypocrite.

For weeks, I told myself the problem was simple. My aunt had crossed a line. If I proved the accounts were fake, the embarrassment would end, and people would stop treating me like a walking sermon.

Then I met Pastor Kwaku in Kaneshie, and everything shifted.

He smiled. "Sister Lena, we thank God for your testimony."

"Pastor, that page is not mine," I said. "Someone is using my name and photos."

His face tightened. "So you are denying it?"

"I am correcting it."

He sighed, judging. "Young people love attention when it is sweet. When accountability comes, you explain."

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I walked away shaking. Even a pastor treated the lie as if it were a vow I had made.

On the trotro home, I replayed Grace's line: I am helping you. I had called it stubborn holiness. I assumed she believed she was saving me.

But the truth was sharper.

Grace did not build those accounts to bring me closer to God. She built them to control how I moved in the community and to keep herself at the centre of my story.

Every post painted me as a girl who had "repented" under Grace's guidance. Every caption thanked her. Every testimony turned her into my spiritual mother, the one who rescued a "lost" niece and presented her as proof of power. My face became her evidence.

And it trapped me.

If I protested, she could say I was "battling spiritually". If I refused to perform the fake beliefs, people called me ungrateful. If I lived normally, they would watch for hypocrisy. It did not matter what I believed. The community only knew what society fed it.

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That was when I understood I was not arguing about impersonation. I was arguing about ownership.

Grace did not want me to be holy. She wanted me to be hers, so she could keep the respect that came with "raising" a perfect testimony.

Once I saw that, my fear transformed. I stopped defending my faith. I prepared to reclaim my name, even if it meant losing relatives who still preferred Grace's story to the real me.

I chose Tuesday night because I knew I would not sleep anyway. After work in Ridge, I sat on my bed in Adabraka, opened my phone, and wrote the clearest message I could manage without sounding like an attack.

"Hello everyone. Any account using my photos and claiming to share my testimony is not mine. I did not create it. I do not speak through it. Please stop sharing it."

My thumb hovered over send, then I pressed it to the family WhatsApp group and posted it on my own pages.

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The replies hit within minutes.

My cousin Nana Esi called first. "Lena, why are you doing this? You want to shame Auntie Grace?"

"I want my name back," I said.

"But the page encourages people," she insisted. "Why can you not just behave like that?"

"I cannot perform a lie to keep peace," I replied.

An uncle in Cape Coast followed with a voice note. "You are disrespecting your elders. In this family we do not fight church people."

"I am not fighting the church," I typed back. "I am correcting impersonation."

That evening, Grace stormed into our compound without greeting. She did not lower her voice. "So you have decided to destroy me," she said, eyes bright with anger.

"You destroyed me first," I answered. "You used my face."

She jabbed a finger at my chest. "I was saving you. You were drifting."

"No," I said. "You were controlling me."

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For a moment, she looked startled, as if I had named something she kept hidden. Then she turned cold. "If you want to be independent, take it. Do not call me family again."

I held her gaze. "I will not let anyone speak as me again," I said. "If you ever use my photos like that, I will report the accounts and tell the truth every time."

Grace clenched her jaw, then spun and left.

By Friday, the fake pages disappeared. The calls slowed, but the consequences stayed. Some aunties stopped greeting me at church. A few cousins removed me from group chats. People who once praised "Sister Lena" now watched me like I carried an evil spirit.

Still, I felt lighter. I locked down my social media, stopped sharing family photos publicly, and refused to attend any programme where Grace tried to present me as her project. I lost the comfort of being protected by the family image, but I regained ownership of my life.

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I used to think maturity meant keeping quiet, especially in family matters. In our homes, we often treat silence as a sign of respect. You endure, you smile, you let elders lead the story, and you convince yourself that peace is the same thing as safety.

This experience taught me a harder lesson. Silence can also become permission.

When Grace used my photos and words that were not mine, she was not only chasing religious clout. She was claiming ownership. She treated my identity like family property, something she could shape to protect the image she worked hard to build.

She wrapped it in faith language, because faith language makes control sound holy. It turns "I want to manage you" into "I want to guide you". It turns violation into "concern".

What shocked me most was how many people did not care whether the account was true. Some cared only that it inspired them. Some cared only that it made our family look righteous.

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When I disrupted that story, they acted as if truth was an insult and boundaries were rebellion.

So my lesson is simple, even if it costs. Your name is not a sacrifice you offer to keep relatives comfortable. If someone benefits from a false version of you, they will fight to keep it alive. The only way to kill it is to speak plainly, set a boundary, and accept that not everyone will stay.

I still believe in God, but I no longer confuse God with public spectacle. I no longer confuse church respect with personal integrity. I choose honesty over applause, even when honesty makes me look difficult.

Here is the question I now ask myself before I choose silence: if I stay silent to preserve "peace", whose version of my life am I allowing to grow?

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.

Source: YEN.com.gh