THE AMEN WOMAN
In Uyo, everyone knew Sister Beatrice Udoh as the Amen Woman. She never missed a church program.
First to arrive. Last to leave.
Her voice was loudest during prayers, her hands always lifted high.
“Amen!” she would shout, eyes shut tight.
And the whole church would echo it back.
People said, “If holiness had a face, it would be Sister Beatrice’s.”
But holiness has shadows.
At home, Beatrice was a different woman. Her husband had died years earlier under strange circumstances sudden illness, unexplained bleeding. No autopsy. Just prayers and burial.
Her children Ini, Mfon, and little Edidiong were afraid of her. Not because she beat them but because of how she looked at them.
At night, Beatrice would call them to kneel.
“Let us pray,” she would say softly.
But her prayers were strangespoken under her breath, mixed with words no child should hear. Names that were not biblical. Names that made the kerosene lamp flicker.
Sometimes, Ini would wake up to find her mother standing over her bed, smiling.
Not a normal smile.
A smile too wide. Too still.
By morning, Ini would be weak, dizzy, her dreams full of fire and running.
Doctors found nothing wrong.
Church members said,
“Maybe spiritual attack.”
They didn’t know the attack lived in the house.
Every market woman on Oron Road respected Beatrice.She helped widows. Paid school fees. Gave alms generously.
But behind closed doors, she despised people.
She hated neighbors who prospered.
She hated women whose children excelled.
She hated anyone who rose faster than her.
At night, she would disappear.
Her children once followed her quietly.
They watched as their mother entered a bush path behind the old water works where no church member ever went.
There, under a moonless sky, Beatrice knelt with others.
Their clothes were white.
Their feet were bare.
Their eyes reflected no light.
A calabash was passed around.
Inside it something dark, moving.
“Blood sustains power,” someone whispered.
Beatrice smiled.
That night, Mfon fell ill but by morning, she could no longer speak.
Things changed the day a new pastor arrived Pastor Daniel Okorie.
During his first service, while Beatrice shouted Amen louder than everyone, the pastor suddenly stopped preaching.
He stared straight at her.
“The spirit that eats its own children,” he said calmly,
“God is calling you out.”
The church laughed nervously.
Beatrice froze.
For the first time in years, fear crossed her face.
That night, thunder shook the sky.
Beatrice screamed in her sleep.
Neighbors heard her arguing with unseen voices.
“Leave me alone!” she cried.
“I gave you everything!”
But something was no longer protecting her.
Pastor Daniel insisted on praying in her house.
As soon as he stepped in, the air turned heavy.
Edidiong, the youngest child, began to convulse. Beatrice laughed.
Not her voice.
A deep, layered sound came out of her mouth.
“She belongs to us,” the voice said.
“She feeds us well.”
The pastor prayed.
The walls shook.
Mirrors cracked.
The lamp exploded.
Beatrice fell to the floor, twisting, screaming names ancient names.
“I only wanted power!” she cried between sobs.
“I didn’t want to be poor again!”
The prayer lasted hours.
At dawn, silence fell.
Beatrice lay still, alive but emptied.
Beatrice survived but she was never the same.
Her hair turned white within weeks. Her eyes lost their fire. Her voice became quiet.
She stopped attending church. Her children slowly recovered but not fully because some scars don’t heal.
People still whisper when she passes.
Because sometimes, late at night, neighbors hear her crying:
“They promised me glory…
But they wanted my bloodline.”
Moral:
Not everyone who shouts Amen is praying to God. Not every holy appearance hides a holy heart. Some wars are fought in church pews.
Others are fought in bedrooms where the enemy already knows your name.
Written by Askamodesta #everyonefollowers #highlightseveryone
In Uyo, everyone knew Sister Beatrice Udoh as the Amen Woman. She never missed a church program.
First to arrive. Last to leave.
Her voice was loudest during prayers, her hands always lifted high.
“Amen!” she would shout, eyes shut tight.
And the whole church would echo it back.
People said, “If holiness had a face, it would be Sister Beatrice’s.”
But holiness has shadows.
At home, Beatrice was a different woman. Her husband had died years earlier under strange circumstances sudden illness, unexplained bleeding. No autopsy. Just prayers and burial.
Her children Ini, Mfon, and little Edidiong were afraid of her. Not because she beat them but because of how she looked at them.
At night, Beatrice would call them to kneel.
“Let us pray,” she would say softly.
But her prayers were strangespoken under her breath, mixed with words no child should hear. Names that were not biblical. Names that made the kerosene lamp flicker.
Sometimes, Ini would wake up to find her mother standing over her bed, smiling.
Not a normal smile.
A smile too wide. Too still.
By morning, Ini would be weak, dizzy, her dreams full of fire and running.
Doctors found nothing wrong.
Church members said,
“Maybe spiritual attack.”
They didn’t know the attack lived in the house.
Every market woman on Oron Road respected Beatrice.She helped widows. Paid school fees. Gave alms generously.
But behind closed doors, she despised people.
She hated neighbors who prospered.
She hated women whose children excelled.
She hated anyone who rose faster than her.
At night, she would disappear.
Her children once followed her quietly.
They watched as their mother entered a bush path behind the old water works where no church member ever went.
There, under a moonless sky, Beatrice knelt with others.
Their clothes were white.
Their feet were bare.
Their eyes reflected no light.
A calabash was passed around.
Inside it something dark, moving.
“Blood sustains power,” someone whispered.
Beatrice smiled.
That night, Mfon fell ill but by morning, she could no longer speak.
Things changed the day a new pastor arrived Pastor Daniel Okorie.
During his first service, while Beatrice shouted Amen louder than everyone, the pastor suddenly stopped preaching.
He stared straight at her.
“The spirit that eats its own children,” he said calmly,
“God is calling you out.”
The church laughed nervously.
Beatrice froze.
For the first time in years, fear crossed her face.
That night, thunder shook the sky.
Beatrice screamed in her sleep.
Neighbors heard her arguing with unseen voices.
“Leave me alone!” she cried.
“I gave you everything!”
But something was no longer protecting her.
Pastor Daniel insisted on praying in her house.
As soon as he stepped in, the air turned heavy.
Edidiong, the youngest child, began to convulse. Beatrice laughed.
Not her voice.
A deep, layered sound came out of her mouth.
“She belongs to us,” the voice said.
“She feeds us well.”
The pastor prayed.
The walls shook.
Mirrors cracked.
The lamp exploded.
Beatrice fell to the floor, twisting, screaming names ancient names.
“I only wanted power!” she cried between sobs.
“I didn’t want to be poor again!”
The prayer lasted hours.
At dawn, silence fell.
Beatrice lay still, alive but emptied.
Beatrice survived but she was never the same.
Her hair turned white within weeks. Her eyes lost their fire. Her voice became quiet.
She stopped attending church. Her children slowly recovered but not fully because some scars don’t heal.
People still whisper when she passes.
Because sometimes, late at night, neighbors hear her crying:
“They promised me glory…
But they wanted my bloodline.”
Moral:
Not everyone who shouts Amen is praying to God. Not every holy appearance hides a holy heart. Some wars are fought in church pews.
Others are fought in bedrooms where the enemy already knows your name.
Written by Askamodesta #everyonefollowers #highlightseveryone
