Thus said the fraud: the Church of Wile, by Bamidele Johnson

One of the most bewildering developments in the modern Nigerian church is the rebranding, reloading and reissuance of prayers with prophetic accessories. What used to be a humble appeal to God has morphed into a glitzy, high-stakes, “receive-it-now-by-fire” spectacle.

At the centre of this theatre is the modern Pentecostal preacher, equal parts pastor, performer and profit-chasing prophet. He or she ensures that congregants, among whom I numbered until 2006, no longer pray. They forecast in tongues, speak into people’s destinies like forex traders, and invoice the Holy Spirit.
“I see a breakthrough.”“Your helper is calling.” “Before midnight, your alert will drop.”

This is the language of Nigeria’s prophetic economy, where faith is traded like crypto and pastors double as divine dispatch riders, promising expedited miracle delivery with angelic tracking numbers.

This is sold and bought as theology. It is no theology. It is pulpit Broadway. It is theatre so well-polished that Netflix originals look like something from the Yemi My Lover cinematic era. With what I now see, it seems that God never heard prayers in Nigeria until Pentecostalism arrived, took root and mutated into the circus it now is.

What used to be a simple “May God bless you” has been flamboyantly upgraded to:
“I see God blessing someone here. Before 3pm tomorrow, receive your dollar alert, visa, marriage, contract, fruit of the womb, pawpaw of the head.”

From the day this spectacle caught fire, we stopped praying and started subscribing to supernatural forecasts with the accuracy of horoscopes. The engine of this fraud is a carefully engineered confusion, deliberately blurring the line between prayer and prophecy, mashed together and rebranded as “prophetic prayer.”

It sounds holy. It smells powerful. But it is spiritual guesswork garnished with “I see…” and seasoned with “It is done.”
Heads they win. Tails you did not sow enough.

There is no transition, no doctrine, no accountability. One moment it is “Father, we ask…” and the next, “I decree, you are moving to America next week.” Not sure they will be decreeing America until Trump leaves. But carry on.

The crowd, eyes tilted heavenward in a display of stylised piety, shouts in faith before pulling out phones for cash transfers to tap into the prophecy. This is not ministry. This is performance-enhanced Pentecostalism. The congregation becomes a live studio audience, waving handkerchiefs like flags at the World Cup final, while the man of God downloads divine PDFs from heaven on a spiritual hotspot.

It is a well-oiled machine. The prophecies are vague enough to fit everyone, yet personal enough to feel tailor-made.
Want marriage? “I see a ring.”
Unemployed? “I see three job offers.”
Want to japa? “I see you at the embassy. A white man is stamping your passport.”

This carousel of bilge is not prophecy. It is spiritual customer service. It is hope-peddling for profit. It is why the prophecies come with payment plans.
“Sow ₦24,000 in 24 hours.”
“Your ₦1 million seed will break generational curses.”
“Do not block your testimony;tap into this prophecy.”

You know the exponents. Funke Adejumo. Jeremiah Fufeyin, the special one; Oyedepo, Adeboye, Ibiyeomie, Selman and Suleman. And just for institutional stunt-pulling, look no further than the RCCG’s Covenant Partners scheme. That is Scripture-draped CBEX.

If the prophecy fails, the fault is yours. You did not fast enough. You did not sow deep enough. Or, of course, your enemies intercepted the prophecy. Meanwhile, the prophet cruises in a 20-SUV convoy, freshly returned from a “crusade” in Malawi with hard drives filled with paid testimonies.

I was there, inside Pentecostalism from 1996 to 2006. My first taste came in 1991 or 1992. And at every turn, it was clear this was not Christianity. It was organised hope-peddling. A spiritual Ponzi scheme powered by desperation. Many dropouts from this circus know the truth. Pastors’ suppositories cannot handle it.

In the quieter, less desperate times, true prayer was gentle and reverent. It was not boastful. It did not issue ultimatums to God. In my pre-Pentecostal years, I never heard anyone say they were prophesying, let alone every three minutes. No one stood to say “as I was praying, the Spirit of the Lord revealed…” Spirit ko, hydrogen peroxide ni.

What is peddled today are Coldstone prophecies: sweet, shallow, and designed to make you feel good. No rebuke. No repentance. These prophets do not see sin or pride. They see Range Rovers, skyscrapers, and a life so paradisal that even heaven starts looking like Oshodi before Fashola.

Prophecy has become a vending machine. Insert seed. Collect miracle.And what has this produced? A shortcut-addicted society. A country where everyone keeps hearing: “Your miracle is on the way.”

Maybe it is. But it is probably stuck in traffic on Kara Bridge.

But theirs never delays. Because it does not come from heaven. It comes from shafting you.