There are sins born from impulse, and then there are sins carefully nurtured,watered by years of silence, betrayal, and the rot of false righteousness.
This was the second kind.
Annah wrote in her journal that night: "Some men don't deserve to carry the title of shepherd. Some shepherds let their flock get devoured because their own hands are stained with cowardice."
Pastor John's compound sat near the edge of Mumbuni, surrounded by overgrown banana trees and a rusting tin fence. On Sundays, it overflowed with believers. But it was Tuesday, and he would be alone.
She waited until dusk. A slow, intentional hour when the light fell just right and the shadows lengthened.
She carried only her journal, her burner phone, and a small parcel tucked into her handbag.
When he opened the door, she gave him the smile of a prodigal daughter returned. "I've been thinking about what you said."
Pastor John, in his white tunic and tired eyes, stepped aside. "Come in, child."
The sitting room smelled of candle wax and old Bibles. An old sermon played softly on the radio.
She sat on the same floral couch they had used for family counseling sessions for a long time.
"You told my mother to let go of Lucy. To stop questioning," she began softly.
"I told her to trust," he corrected, pouring her tea.
"You told her it was God's plan. That her fight for justice was pride. That she should fold her hands and pray harder."
His movements slowed.
Annah's eyes were steady. "You knew we were scared. I came to you after Lucy died . I told you she'd been acting strange. You said 'Don't stir spirits where peace is already hard-won.'"
He looked up, the smile now cracked. "You have every right to grieve, Annah. But pain makes monsters of memory."
She took the tea but did not drink. "Or maybe memory reveals the monsters hiding in pulpits."
Silence. Then she leaned forward, setting the small parcel on the table.
Inside: a printed transcript. Pages of online forum posts she had found ,written anonymously years ago, a girl describing spiritual manipulation, cover-ups, and shame.
One of the entries was signed L.M.
Lucy Mumo.
Pastor John's face lost color. "This isn't...this is nonsense."
"She came to you, didn't she?" Annah said, standing now. "She told you what was happening to her. She wanted help from God through you."
He rose, a hand half-raised in defense. "I tried to counsel her. I never touched her."
"But you told her to keep quiet. To pray it away. You told her mother that she was acting out."
"I didn't know..."
"Yes, you did!" she hissed, eyes wide now, hands trembling. "You silenced her. You told her God would be angry if she made noise. You were the first grave she was buried in."
Pastor John stepped back. "Annah, I never hurt anyone. I only wanted peace."
"But peace without truth is just silence."
From her bag, she retrieved a small glass bottle.
Chloroform.
He turned to run,but age had slowed him.
She was fast. Unapologetic. The cloth pressed against his mouth, and though he fought,clawing, kicking,his body gave in.
He slumped to the floor.
She stood over him, breath steadying.
This was not vengeance. This was clarity. She knew now that every death she brought was a message.
She removed a folded note and placed it in his hand. Written in black ink:
"A shepherd who lets wolves feast on his flock is worse than the wolf. . –A.M."-
Confession two
Then she staged it,too well. A study Bible open beside him. A lit candle nearly burned out. No signs of violence. No proof.
A quiet death for a man who'd preached silence.
As she left the compound, the stars above seemed brighter, more watchful.
In the distance, a child's laughter echoed. Faint. Like wind through trees.
Lucy?
She didn't answer. She just walked on, and the night swallowed her whole.