There are moments when a public scandal refuses to remain a scandal. It insists on becoming a reckoning. The unfolding saga involving Pastor Chris Okafor and Doris Ogala is one such moment. What we are witnessing goes far beyond personal indiscretions, social media drama, or the now-familiar cycle of accusation, apology, and collective amnesia. It touches the very core of what the Nigerian church has become, and what it has tolerated for far too long.
Much has been made of Pastor Okafor’s public apology. It was choreographed, emotional, and predictably effective. Many hailed it as humility. But apologies, especially in environments saturated with power and reverence, often function less as repentance and more as strategy. In this case, the apology appears calculated not to address allegations comprehensively, but to manage them; to contain damage, placate key figures, and regain moral control of the narrative.
What made the so-called apology even more perplexing was how it began. Rather than opening with remorse or accountability, Pastor Okafor chose to start by publicly attacking his ex-wife, a woman he separated from nearly fifteen years ago. For over a decade, she had lived quietly, made no public appearances, raised no accusations, and did not seek to weaponize her past. Many Nigerians scarcely knew she existed. Yet this was the point of entry into an apology that was supposedly about restitution.
The disjoint was startling. What did condemning a long-absent ex-wife have to do with Doris Ogala or the issues at hand? How did allegations of fornication or pregnancy from a marriage that ended fifteen years ago advance repentance or truth? If anything, the move felt calculated: a move to manipulate emotions, redirect anger, and frame the story before the true allegations were addressed.
The irony is that this tactic backfired. The very woman dragged into the open has now spoken, not in defence, but with allegations of her own, accusing the same pastor of repeated affairs within the church, of fathering multiple children by church members, including deaconesses, and of conduct she says she is willing to substantiate by naming names. At that point, one must ask: what kind of apology opens by igniting a fresh line of accusation? What kind of restitution begins by tearing open a past deliberately left buried?
One of the most concerning aspects of Pastor Okafor’s apology was the altar scene, where he presented a daughter as a defence against molestation allegations. Unbeknownst to most, the girl he brought was not the one who had made the claims.
He has two daughters named Chidera Okafor from two different women: Precious Chidera Okafor, the one who accused him of sexual molestation, and Daniela Chidera Okafor, the one he brought to the altar. By bringing Daniela instead of Precious, Pastor Okafor staged a moment to manipulate the audience, creating the appearance of vindication while avoiding the real allegations. What seemed like hesitation or fear now looks like deliberate orchestration, a calculated attempt to control perception and dodge accountability.
The problem goes deeper. Summoning a child to answer questions about such personal matters in front of a public audience was wrong in itself. The real question is why she was placed in that position at all. If the allegations were false, the alleged victim would have spoken out long before this staged moment. Silence in today’s world is rarely accidental. A voluntary, independent denial would have carried far more weight. Instead, there was quiet, followed by a carefully managed performance, something no child should ever face.
Together, these revelations turn what was presented as repentance into a performance. It raises serious ethical, psychological, and moral questions: questions the church cannot afford to ignore.
Perhaps the most unsettling aspect of this entire episode is the response to the gravest allegation of all. A man of God was accused of killing and burying a human being under an altar. Yet instead of challenging his accuser or invoking the law to clear his name, he apologized to his accuser. That choice alone is revealing. No rational person apologizes for murder he did not commit.
Apology, in this context, reads less like repentance and more like risk management. It suggests fear of what a full confrontation might uncover. If you have nothing to hide, you open everything up; if you do, you apologize and hope the matter dies. I guess the latter option was what Chris Okafor considered.
But the controversy does not end there. Multiple allegations now exist, emanating from different women and spanning years. Ebere has alleged repeated abortions and the existence of a child. An ex-wife has spoken. There are claims, still allegations, but disturbingly consistent, of inappropriate relationships within the church structure itself, including members of the choir, some allegedly resulting in children. None of these claims has been meaningfully addressed. Instead, public attention is being redirected toward forgiveness, humility, and emotional closure.
This is where the Nigerian public must pause. You do not resolve systemic allegations with selective repentance. You do not neutralize serious claims by appealing to religious sentiment. And you certainly do not ask a deeply emotional society to “move on” without answers.
The prevailing reaction: “he has apologized, he is a man of God”, is precisely why this cycle persists. It is the same logic that enables political impunity: display remorse, invoke God, wait for the crowd to tire, and resume business as usual. The assumption is always the same, that Nigerians will forget.
Doris Ogala herself has admitted she is not proud of what she did. That admission matters. But whatever her moral failings may be, they do not erase the significance of what she appears to know. If anything, they heighten the urgency of proper investigation. The impression being created is that the apology was less about truth and more about appeasement, about preventing further disclosures that could unravel far more than one ministry.
It is not surprising that pastors like Chris Okafor continue to rise and thrive within the Body of Christ in Nigeria. Too many pastors, when faced with accusations of infidelity, fraud, or even alleged diabolism, continue to prosper, shielded in large part by a supposedly inefficient Christian Association of Nigeria(CAN) and the Pentecostal Fellowship of Nigeria (PFN). For too long, these institutions have been enmeshed in controversy themselves, allegedly running internal caucuses, condoning misconduct, and remaining mute in the face of obvious shenanigans and alleged atrocities. This systemic failure has created an environment where power often outruns accountability, and reputation is protected far more than truth.
At this point, the Chris Okafor’s matter has outgrown the church space. It is no longer about personal morality; it is about institutional responsibility. If there is anything left of credibility within the Christian Association of Nigeria, the Pentecostal Fellowship of Nigeria, and related bodies, now is the moment to act. Not with statements, but with decisive action. Suspension, independent inquiry, and full cooperation with security agencies are not acts of hostility; they are acts of preservation. Churches must be closed when necessary. Altars must not become shields. Titles must not confer immunity.
The Nigerian church is at a crossroads. It can either confront this moment with courage and transparency, or it can continue down the familiar path of denial, sentimentality, and quiet decay. This is bigger than Pastor Chris Okafor. It is bigger than Doris Ogala. It is about accountability, and whether we still have the will to demand it.
- Babs Daramola is a Lagos-based broadcast journalist
