This video reveals how religious leaders can exploit their positions of authority to manipulate followers through hidden rituals, psychological conditioning, and supernatural claims, creating a system where victims remain trapped by fear, financial dependency, and the power of silence, even when they witness wrongdoing firsthand.
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I Could Only Remove 12 Pots From the Church Basement P2#anonymousoj #youranonymousojAñadido:
Hi, Odhiambo.
You remember what I said in part one, that I removed 12 of the pots buried beneath the church's altar.
They were 50.
And not a single one of the many people who walked into that building on the New Year's Eve had an idea what was buried beneath their feet.
Yes.
I'll give you the full detail in this part two.
It was in December 2021. The church was preparing for the annual crossover night.
The New Year's Eve service that was broadcasted on television stations and you people across the country and beyond.
They expected thousands that night.
Maybe more.
People had been saving to attend for months.
The event was the centerpiece of the year.
The night the pastor announced the miracles of the year ending and prophesied the blessings coming.
It was the most watched thing the church produced.
The most attended.
The most donated to.
Three days before the 31st, we were called to the basement.
There were seven goats.
The pastor stood before us and explained what he called the covenant of masses transfer.
He spoke the way a man speaks when he is not asking permission.
When the explanation is a formality and the decision has already been made.
He said, "This ritual would bind the financial destinies of every person who entered the auditorium on the New Year's Eve to the church's altar. Not permanently."
He said, as if the word offered comfort conditionally.
As long as they kept attending, kept giving, and kept serving, their prosperity would flow.
The moment they left, the moment they questioned, the moment they pulled back even slightly, the blessings would not simply stop.
It would reverse.
He had made covenants, he said, with the principalities that govern growth in this region.
He named them, Ojay.
He said their names the way businessmen name their suppliers.
Mami Wata, Sasabonsam.
Not with reverence or care or fear, with the flat effect of a man reading from an inventory list.
Then he brought out the clay pots.
50 of them, small enough to fit in a closed fist.
Fire in dark clay, the color of dried blood.
I watched as each one was filled.
Blood from the animals, ground bones, graveyard dirt, road dirt, Ojay, taken from the Osu cemetery the night before, brought in a cloth bag that still had the smell of the place on it.
Pieces of currency notes torn small.
The pastor sealed each pot with wax and red thread and spoke over them in that language I'd never heard before, a hundred times by then, and still could not name it.
Then he told us the assignments.
Before the crossover service, we were to place the pots throughout the auditorium, under seats, behind pillars, inside a ventilation panel, beneath the stage, in the ceiling above the VIP section.
50 pots hidden in the building like something sleeping.
And thousands of people would walk in on New Year's Eve with their hands raised and their eyes shut and their hearts completely open and they would sit directly above what had been put there for them.
They would praise.
They would give.
They would go home believing they had been in the presence of God.
As these vessels remain hidden in this house, the pastor said, "So shall the destinies of those who worship here remain bound to this altar."
I went home that night and lay on my back in Medina and stared at a ceiling fan turning and I thought about all those people.
I thought about my auntie.
I thought about the nurse from Tema I had seen at the altar the month before weeping, pressing both hands against the stage, begging God for a miracle for her son who was in the hospital.
I thought about the young man who came in exactly the way I came in.
One down, hoping, running out of options.
I thought about what they were walking into on the 31st and Odje.
After almost 3 years, something in me finally moved.
On the morning of December 31st, all the ushers were still arranging chairs and the sound team were doing levels on the stage.
I went into the auditorium.
I told Brother Kim I was doing a VIP walk-through.
He had no reason to doubt me.
I I given him no reason to doubt me in 3 years.
I found 12 pots. I could not find them all.
They had been hidden carefully and I had an hour at most before the building filled with people and I was working alone and afraid.
Stopping whenever I heard voices, crouching behind pews and stage equipments, moving fast, but I found 12.
I put them in a bag I had brought that morning specifically for this.
I walked out of the church, went three streets up towards the ring road, and buried them in red earth behind the construction site that had been abandoned for months.
I stood there in the December heat with dirt on my hands and thought, "There were 50."
That night, during the first worship service, I took my post at the back of the auditorium in the blue uniform.
Thousands of people filled each seat and stood along every wall.
The choir was extraordinary.
The light show was better than the year before.
The pastor walked onto the stage to the kind of noise that I imagined only kings had in older centuries.
He stopped mid-sentence three times.
The first, I thought he had lost his place.
The second, I saw his eyes move across the congregation.
Not with the confidence I used to see.
Not the surveying look of a man who owns the room, but something else.
Something searching.
The third time, he gripped the side of the pulpit and his knuckles were visible from where I was standing 40 m away.
I sense a disruption in the atmosphere tonight. He said.
Someone had tampered with the covering of this house.
He began praying aggressively, binding and casting out.
The congregation joined without understanding what they were prayed about.
Swept up in the energy of the moment, thinking they were fighting an external attack.
They had no idea the disruption was standing in the back in a blue lanyard.
After the service ended, before I could reach the exit, Badakie appeared beside me.
He put his hand on my shoulder.
Not hard, just there.
Weight without force and looked at me for a long time without speaking.
Did you touch anything in the auditorium tonight? He asked.
Did you move anything or remove anything?
No.
I said.
He held my gaze.
I held his.
I've spent 3 years learning to keep a face perfectly still.
And I used every second of that training in the 10 seconds he stood in front of me.
Eventually, he nodded and walked away.
I left the church in January. No letter, no confrontation, no scene.
I stopped showing up. I let calls from unknown numbers go unanswered.
I moved from Madina to a friend's place in Ashaiman for a few months.
Just to put distance between myself and anything that knew my address.
Then the things It's February, a car accident on the Spintex [music] Road.
A truck came through a red light and hit the taxi I was in from the side. The taxi was written off completely.
I walked out with a cut above my eyes and a bruised rib.
The driver broke his collarbone. I have no rational explanation for why I came out the way I did.
In March, my mother fell ill. Her blood pressure had kidneys.
3 weeks in hospital, she recovered but slowly.
And for a long time, she did not look like herself.
April, I lost my job.
Restructuring, the company said.
Perhaps it was.
Perhaps it was exactly what they said it was and everything else was coincidence.
And I was a man in a fragile psychological state reading patterns into ordinary misfortunes.
But Oje, I was in that basement.
I watched what was done.
I ate the food they prepared after those rituals and told myself it was only food.
I wore the uniform and stood in the building while the handkerchiefs were distributed and I said nothing.
Week after week for years.
Whatever name you want to give it, belief, manipulation, tradition, spiritual contract, psychological conditioning, it had weight.
Real weight.
The kind that follows you through toes.
And the dream.
Every night for 6 months, the pastor in those traditional groups standing over me in a room that was not the basement and not my room.
I know you've been here a few times but if not subscribed to this channel, hit the subscribe button and hit the post notification icon on so that whenever I post a new confession, you'll be the first person to be notified.
I'll see you at the end of this confession. Let's go. I recognized speaking in that language, not angry, not threatening, just pointing at me with the casual authority of a man checking on something he owns.
I went to see a traditional priest in June, not someone operating in secret, not some version of what I had seen downstairs, a proper traditional priest, an old man in Abuabu whose name was given to me by my grandmother years before she died.
A name she said with a particular weight she reserved for things she considered real.
I sat before him and told him everything without leaving anything out.
He listened without interruption for 1 hour.
He examined my hand, my eyes, the back of my neck, and he said there were ties on me.
He said the keyword for what they were, and I am not going to write it here, okay?
I don't want to put it in your head.
I just want you to understand.
He confirmed what I already felt.
I went through the cleansing, 3 months of it, specific baths at specific times with specific things in the water, specific foods to avoid, specific prayers said at dawn at the riverside, which in December in Accra, when the harmattan is coming down from the north and the morning is cold and grey, it's not comfortable thing to do.
I followed every instruction.
I lay awake some nights wondering if I was only descending further into the same world I was trying to climb out of.
If the fetish priest and the pastor were sipping two versions of the same thing I was and I was a man who would spend his whole life being led by people who understood something about the world that I didn't.
The nightmares slowed in August. By September they had stopped.
My mother recovered fully by October.
I found work again.
The small machinery of life resumed its ordinary function.
And so I did the only thing I could think of doing next.
I found the others.
It took months.
Former ushers who had disappeared quietly the way I did.
One former junior pastor who left abruptly in 2019 and whose phone number had changed twice since.
People who had been in the basement and had never spoken because speaking had a cost they could see clearly and a benefit they could not.
We met in a hotel near Tema over two evenings.
Five of us around a low table with the television on low so no one person in the corridor would hear.
We compared what we remembered.
The specific language the pastor used during rituals, the objects on the altar and the order in which they appeared, the names he named, the structure of how Brother Kay ran operations, the handkerchiefs.
The cross The details match in ways that chance cannot explain.
We documented everything we had, then we went to the press.
The first journalist said yes within the hour. She was electric with it. Said she has been looking for a story exactly like this for years.
That it confirms things she had heard, rumors about.
That it was going to be very important.
Few days later she called to tell me her editor had killed it before it reached draft.
Her voice on the phone sounded like someone else's voice coming through her mouth.
I asked if she was all right. She said she was fine and the line went quiet.
And then she was gone.
The second journalist did not return my call. The third at a large online news portal agreed to meet at a specific time and place and did not show up.
When I reached him later, he said he had been advised by his manager not to pursue it.
He sounded genuinely sorry. He said, "These people have connections that go everywhere. Politicians, media owners, businesses.
Nobody is going to burn those relationships for a story like this, no matter what the story is."
He was not wrong, Ojay.
The pastor is still on the pulpit every Sunday, every specific service, every cross over night, still in the designer suits.
Still selling the handkerchiefs at 500 cedis.
The church has not shrunk since 2021.
It has grown.
They built a new wing that launched a second campus in another city.
He gave a television interview last month in which he wept about how God had blessed him beyond what he deserved.
And how his only desire was to serve.
The comments under the video were full of people testifying, thanking him, saying he had changed their lives.
I watched 10 seconds of it.
I turned it off.
Ojay, this is what I promised you when I called you that night.
This is the truth I said I needed you to hear from me directly.
In my own words, because I could not keep carrying it in a container with no opening.
Not because I believe telling you changes anything.
Not because I have any remaining faith that the story will spread and the institution will fall and justice will arrive like it does at the end of films about injustice.
I have watched what happens to every attempt to make this visible, and I know what it cost, and I know what it produces.
I told you because I needed someone who knew me before all of this to know what I became inside of it.
What I allowed.
What I ate and wore and stood beside without speaking.
What I carried out of that building in a bag on the last night of 2021 and buried it in the dark like a man trying to undo something that had already finished being done.
I found 12 pots, Ojay.
They were 50.
And every New Year Eve Saints at night when the church live streams the crossover service and the comments filled with testimonies and praises and people saying they traveled from Kumasi, from Takoradi, from outside the country to be in that room.
I think about the 38 I didn't find.
I think about where they were hidden.
In what vent? Above what section?
I think about people sitting directly above them with their eyes closed and their hands in the air and their wallets open believing with everything they had that they are in the presence of something holy.
I think about the fact that I am the only person alive who knows what I know and tried to do anything with it.
And that strain produced nothing except a cut above my eyes from a car accident.
I cannot fully explain and three months of Don Bart in the Harmattan cold and this the conversation, this confession, this accounting of everything I did and did not do in the building over seven years that I am giving you now like a man paying a debt he knows will never fully clear.
There is nothing I can do, OJ.
That is the sentence I keep arriving at no matter how long I walk around it.
There is nothing I can do.
And the post are still there.
And the church service starts at 9:00.
If you think this confession is strange wait until you watch this one.
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