The false Shepherd

[8/16, 9:36 AM] MahershalalHashbaz🫆: *CHAPTER ONE: AGHARAOZA’S DESPAIR**

The sun in Agharaoza village was unforgiving—hot, heavy, and relentless. It scorched the dry red soil, cracked the shallow wells, and left the once-green yam fields looking like patches of dying memory. The village, tucked deep in the heart of Izzi Local Government Area in Ebonyi State, had grown silent. Not the silence of peace, but of exhaustion.

Children no longer played freely in the compounds. Most sat idly by their mothers, chewing roasted maize and watching the sky like it held answers. The elders wore their tiredness like wrappers—soft, faded, and worn thin by years of hardship. For three planting seasons, nothing had yielded well. Yams shriveled underground. Cassava rotted before harvest. Goats were either stolen or dying off. And the worst part? The young people were leaving—either by bus, bike, or barefoot.
[8/16, 9:37 AM] MahershalalHashbaz🫆: There was talk—there was always talk in Agharaoza. Some blamed bad governance, others the economy, and some whispered darker things. That someone among them had “tied the village.” That there were spiritual chains wrapped around their blessings, strangling their future. And when the whispers grew loud enough to reach the elders' ears, a meeting was called in the village square.

Under the ogbu tree, men with wrinkled eyes and tired voices sat on carved stools. The air was thick with dust and worry. One of the younger elders, Nna Ogbonna, rose and spoke with a mix of frustration and fear.

“Every year we plant, and every year the land rejects us. Is it not time to admit this is more than just ordinary suffering?”

Murmurs followed. Heads nodded.

“Somebody in this village,” he continued, “has buried our future. We must cleanse our land.”

It wasn’t the first time such words had been said. But this time, they landed deeper. The pain in Agharaoza had grown sharp, and when people are desperate, belief becomes a weapon and a cure.
[8/16, 9:37 AM] MahershalalHashbaz🫆: Two days later, a small group of young men traveled to the neighboring town of Okpuitumo. They had heard of a prophet—a man with fiery prayers and unfiltered revelations. A man said to carry the fire of Elijah in his tongue. His name was *Prophet Ubadimma*, and according to rumors, he had exposed witches in three villages, healed barren women, and brought deliverance to cursed lands.

“We must invite him,” one of the boys said. “He will reveal the person behind our suffering.”

And so, by the third week of the dry season, Agharaoza began preparing for a three-day crusade that would change everything.

Flyers were printed. Loudspeakers mounted. The village square was cleared. The local women’s group cooked rice and stew in large iron pots. Hope returned to the faces of some—fear to others.

But no one knew that the fire they were calling would not only expose what was hidden—but burn what should have been left untouched.

Don't forget to follow me for chapter two