A man posing as a pastor gathered residents in Uromi, Edo State, for a community crusade over the weekend. He asked them to hand over their phones for blessings. Then he disappeared with the devices. Videos showed the aftermath: mostly women, crying and stranded, minus phones they had worked hard to buy. The police have not confirmed the details, and the suspect remains at large.
The trick is old, and the setting is not accidental. Nigeria has run a miracle economy since the 1980s, when the oil crash gutted wages and preachers began selling hope at the gate. The 1990s boom in crusades turned that trade into an industry. Each economic squeeze since has widened the market for anyone promising a shortcut to relief. A phone is a small stake. The willingness to surrender it is the larger story.
Bishop David Oyedepo said many fake pastors operate in ministry. He is right, and the admission from inside the Pentecostal establishment is more useful than any police statement. Where the state fails to regulate, reputation does the work, and reputation is slow. A crusade needs a permit, a venue and a crowd. It does not need a licence to preach, which is why the same script keeps working.
The winners are the suspect and whoever buys the phones in a second-hand market in Benin City. The losers are the women who lost their devices and the legitimate pastors whose pulpits now face a more suspicious crowd. There is a political lesson here. The trust that made the crowd gather is the same trust politicians court at rallies. Once spent, it does not come back cheaply.
Winners: The fleeing preacher, second-hand phone buyers. Losers: The worshippers, honest pastors, and public trust.
Bottom Line: A crowd that will hand over a phone for a blessing will hand over a vote for less. Trust is the real currency, and it is being stolen twice.