After two years of marriage and no child, our pastor started “special prayers” with me, alone in the office. Every Friday.
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He said my husband’s “spiritual blockage” was the problem. That I needed “cleansing through intimacy with anointed vessels.”
I was desperate. I agreed. Weeks later, I got pregnant.
My husband danced in church like David.
He gave testimony.
Donated a new keyboard to the church.
The day of the naming ceremony came.
Our pastor came, smiling, proud.
He named the child “David-Oluwasegun,”
meaning “God has finally given us victory.”
But two months later, my husband got suspicious.
He did a secret DNA test. The child wasn’t his.
