I was looking for stories about relationships that left lasting scars when I came across *Bimpe, 29.
In this story, she recounts how reconnecting with a university acquaintance turned pastor pulled her into a controlling, isolating relationship that nearly broke her spirit — and how she eventually found the strength to walk away.
This is Bimpe’s story as told to Adeyinka
I met *Gbolahan when I was in 100 level. He was in his final year at the time and used to organise tutorials for junior students. Everyone called him “pastor” because he always had his Bible and liked to lead prayers before every session, but people admired him because he knew what he was teaching. He broke things down better than the lecturers, and that made him popular. I attended a few of his tutorials and said hi occasionally, but that was it. Nothing romantic; just respect.
After he graduated, I didn’t see or hear from him again until four years later.
On my street in Lagos one Saturday morning, I heard someone preaching. I usually ignored those things, but there was something familiar about the voice. I turned, and there he was — white shirt, clean haircut, Bible in hand. I didn’t even think twice. I called out, “Gbolahan!” and he turned. The way his face lit up when he saw me warmed my chest. He rushed over and hugged me, and we just stood there catching up like old friends.
That same day, he asked for my number, and we started talking again. He told me he’d become a full-time pastor and was beginning his ministry. I was going through a really rough patch — my mum was sick, I was job hunting, and life just felt heavy. Gbolahan became a shoulder. He’d come over to pray, sometimes bring me food or money, and he always had a Bible verse ready for every situation. His presence felt like light in a very dark time.
When he told me he wanted to court me, I didn’t know how to feel at first. I’d never seen myself as the “pastor’s wife” type, but he made it sound so divine, like we were fulfilling some prophecy. He said he’d prayed, and God told him I was his wife. I didn’t hear from God, but I was vulnerable and trusted him. So I said yes.
The first few weeks of our relationship felt peaceful. He still prayed with me, still encouraged me, and I thought, “Maybe I’ve found the right one.” But then things started to change — quietly and slowly in ways I couldn’t name at first. He’d make comments about my dressing. “You know, as a pastor’s wife, you can’t wear trousers too often.” I laughed it off. Then it became, “Why do you still wear makeup?” or “Do you know how distracting your earrings are?” Before long, I started adjusting, telling myself I was just being respectful. But it didn’t stop there.
He started questioning my friendships: “That girl you talk to, is she really saved?” or “You should be careful around people who don’t share your spiritual values.” He made it sound concerned, but he was isolating me. One by one, I cut people off. I told myself I was cleansing my circle, but really, I was shrinking into his control.
Then came the evangelism.
He said I needed to be actively involved if we were to build a ministry together. He asked me to stop looking for a full-time job and instead help with outreach. I resisted at first, but he guilt-tripped me. “Is this how you’ll be when we’re married? Putting the world before the work of God?” So I gave in. I started spending more time with his ministry, going on street evangelism, planning church events, and cleaning the venue. No pay, no recognition, just free service for a man I was dating. By then, I was fully immersed in his world. But the deeper I went, the more I saw the cracks.
There were always girls around him. Young, beautiful, always eager to please. At first, I thought nothing of it — it was church. But then I started noticing how they looked at me. Cold, dismissive. One even told me, “You’re not the only one pastor prays with.” My chest sank. I asked him about it, and he turned it into a lecture. “The devil is trying to sow doubt in your heart. Don’t give in to suspicion. You need to trust me.”
And I did until I couldn’t. I found messages. Not one, not two — dozens. Flirtatious, suggestive, sometimes outright explicit. These were the same girls who called him “Daddy G.” The betrayal broke me, but his response shattered my heart entirely. No apology, just anger. He shouted, told me I was acting like a Jezebel, and accused me of disrespecting his calling. He said if I didn’t trust him, maybe I wasn’t the wife God wanted for him after all.
That was when the first doubts crept in. I felt like I was losing myself in the relationship. But I had already made so many compromises. I had stopped hanging out with my friends, dressed differently, and now spent all my time with him in his ministry. I told myself that all these things were sacrifices, just part of the process, just part of being with him and supporting his calling.
But what was happening was that I was becoming a stranger to myself. The version of me who had dreams, ambitions, and friendships was slipping away. I was suffocating in his world. His voice, his needs, his constant demands on my time and identity—everything about the relationship became about him and his ministry. It wasn’t enough for me to be his partner. I had to fit into the box he created for me — a pastor’s wife with no room for herself.
Then came the turning point: the cheating. I found out Gbolahan wasn’t just texting the girls. He was seeing them. He was being physically affectionate with them, and it wasn’t just once. He had a whole line of them; some young enough to be my younger sisters. The worst part was how dismissive he was when I confronted him. Again, he didn’t deny it. Instead, he got defensive and found a way to make it about how I didn’t understand what “spiritual warfare” was, and that my “suspicions” were just the work of the devil.
It was too much. But by that point, I had already isolated myself so much that I didn’t even know how to reach out for help. I felt trapped in a life I didn’t want, but didn’t know how to escape. I couldn’t stand it anymore.
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The hardest part was finally admitting that I had to walk away. I prayed, cried, and prayed again. For weeks, I went back and forth between feeling an equal mix of guilt, unworthiness, and feeling like I was abandoning something “greater” than me. But one day, something in me just snapped. I couldn’t breathe in the relationship anymore, and I couldn’t be the woman he was turning me into. I knew I had to leave.
I didn’t tell him. I didn’t need to explain myself. I blocked him on everything, deleted his number, and just disappeared from his life. I walked away from the ministry and the life I thought I was building and never looked back. The finality of it was terrifying, but I knew I couldn’t survive another day in that life.
The worst part? My family didn’t see the red flags. All they saw was a God-fearing man who prayed with me, visited regularly, and showed them respect. In their eyes, I had hit the jackpot. Anytime I tried to open up about how I was feeling, they shut me down.
My aunt once said, “Do you know how many women are praying for a man who fears God like this?” Another time, my cousin told me, “Look at Pastor Chris’ wife. Look at Bishop Oyedepo’s wife. Do you think they didn’t go through hard times too? You just need to be patient. These things are part of the calling.”
They made me feel like I was the problem, like I was being dramatic or weak for not enduring what they saw as spiritual trials. One family member even said I should consider myself lucky that a man of God had chosen me—“That’s not ordinary, Bimpe. That’s favour.”
It was gaslighting in its most subtle, spiritual form, and it worked. For a while, I convinced myself I just wasn’t strong enough. Maybe if I prayed harder, submitted more, or became more “worthy,” the relationship would stop feeling like punishment. But no amount of fasting or praying could make up for the fact that I was deeply unhappy.
It’s been over a year now, and I’m still healing. Spiritually, I feel disconnected. I still struggle with trusting men and trusting the church. I’ve gone back to a different church, but I’m careful. The wounds are still fresh, and I’m taking things slow. I’ve started to rebuild my relationships with old friends, but a part of me will never be the same. I’ve learned to value my voice again, but sometimes, I still hear his words telling me I wasn’t good enough or pure enough.
I’m not dating anyone yet, and I don’t know if I’m ready. I deserve a love that lets me breathe, and I’m still figuring out what that looks like, but I know I’ll get there.
People think dating a pastor is heaven. For me, it was the closest thing to hell.
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