FA Yuletide Writing Prize — Shortlisted Story
Theme: Dark Yuletide
Year: 2025/2026
Author: Peter Ann Caroline

Let me tell you about the night I killed my church—and myself—with a single carol. 

Not because I think you’ll forgive me. I doubt that God has. 

But because someone should know how easy it is to damn yourself for all the right reasons. 

I used to have the largest church auditorium in Abuja, you see. We had it all in The Victor’s  Sanctuary.  The best choir in the city, the billionaires, the reputation… Name it.  

I was proud of my achievements, the success of being at the peak in ministry.  Until it all started crumbling, piece by piece. 

Members trickled out; the offerings dropped. My wife looked at me with disappointed eyes. Until almost nothing was left. 

We moved into a small building in Mararaba. 

That was when Mr. Emmanuel walked into my office. 

It happened three weeks before Christmas. 

He appeared very well-dressed, but something felt off. 

I thought maybe it was his smile. It was too still, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

But he offered two million naira for a Christmas Eve service. That took me by surprise, at first. Two million, in this time and age, for free? 

God provides, doesn’t he? I made myself believe that this was a provision.

He had one condition: that we sing a specific song in the carol. 

I had no problem with that. 

The sheet music he gave me had symbols that hurt to look at too long.

Before he left, he said, “The carol only works if everyone sings. Full congregation. Christmas Eve.” 

We shook hands. 

Sister Bukky warned me when I called her to look at the song. She said that the carol felt wrong. 

I told her I’d stopped listening to women years ago. Especially women that questioned my  authority. 

I should’ve listened to her. But proud men don’t listen. 

We rented a school auditorium that had dust motes in their cheap light, metal chairs that could  seat about two hundred people. 

And the smell from the jollof that wafted through the air from the canteen. That jollof, sha. 

Before long, the hall was packed to full capacity. Two hundred and forty-three people. I counted them. I always did.

I saw some of our members who left for another church and scoffed. 

Brother Tunde and his wife held hands. Mama Blessing moved slowly. Elder Amos’ eyes were always wandering. Little Michael sat quietly beside his parents. 

We started the program: welcome, offering, testimonies, then the special carol. 

Surprisingly o, I saw Mr. Emmanuel at the back row, though no one else seemed to notice him.

And he looked like he didn’t mind. 

When Sister Bukky found the first notes of the song, a chilly breeze swept over our heads, and  through the room. 

I saw the first drops of rain hit the high windows. And I thought, rain in December ke? 

The choir stood, twenty voices. 

The melody was beautiful. Too beautiful, like something designed to seduce. 

No one knew the language of the song, but everyone sang it. Their mouths formed the words  they didn’t understand. 

In the congregation, some swayed, some cried. I felt fulfilment singing through my bones.
The rain outside increased.

The choir sang, their harmonies layered impossibly. I can still hear it now. 

Then there was silence. 

In that silence, I heard things I’d never heard in my fifteen years of ministry. It started with a giggle. I’ll never forget it. 

Little Chidera’s giggle cut through the silence like a blade. 

Aunty Jennifer said, “Abeg make them share this food make I comot.” Nervous laughter followed.

Chidera was always outspoken—just Chidera being Chidera. Then the girl cocked her head, listening to something none of us could hear yet. And then: “Ebube wants to give her virginity to somebody after service.”

Ah! 

The laughter died. 

Aunty Jennifer sprung to her feet, her bracelets clanging. “Wetin I hear so? Who?” 

I watched her head turn toward Ebube, a girl of maybe seventeen, who’d gone pale. 

Someone’s stomach growled loudly at the back. A long obscene sound that pushed more nervous  laughter, but thinner now. Uncertain. 

I stepped forward, raised my hands. I used my pastor‘s voice. The one that always worked. “Brothers and sisters, let us—” 

“Lord, you took my husband but left Pastor Gabriel? You took the wrong man.” 

I was dazed. 

It was Sister Bukky’s voice. She sat at the piano, looking melancholic, staring at nothing. Like she didn’t know she just wished I was dead. 

The murmurings started then. 

“God, make my wife’s body work like it used to. I’m tired of pretending Sandra from accounts  doesn’t make me feel alive.” 

Brother Tunde’s face slackened with horror, but the prayer kept echoing. Sandra from accounts,  Sandra from accounts… 

Someone whistled. Someone laughed, high and hysterical. His wife pulled her hand away from his. 

“Lord, just one chance to touch her. I’ve served you thirty years. Don’t I deserve one small  blessing?” 

Elder Amos? 

What was happening here? 

Sister Sandra stood and screamed. He’d been looking at her the whole time. 

That was when the chairs started moving. Metal scraped on concrete. The sound of it… like nails on my skull. 

My eyes flew to the corps member, Chioma. She looked so beautiful in all the right places, even  in her panic. 

I didn’t know when I prayed it. 

“Lord, let that corps member sister meet me in my office tonight. She’ll never pray for a better  husband than me.” 

My voice. My prayer. My sin. 

Oh, chim! 

I knew in that moment, my wife heard it. She reached the foot of the stage. I couldn’t look  at her.  

I was expecting a slap, but when I finally looked up, she just looked at me like I was already  dead. 

“Thank you that Pastor Gabriel finally noticed me. I know he’s married, but you brought me here  for him, didn’t you?” 

I didn’t need any interpretation, to know it was the corps member’s voice. 

A chair flew past my head. The metal clanged twice when it hit the floor. 

“Mummy, let’s go please.” Young Michael grabbed his mother’s arm, then we heard  his father’s prayer. 

“Let this business deal work so I can finally leave. New city, new wife, new children who aren’t  disappointments.” 

Ah-ahn. 

Someone screamed. Then everyone was screaming. 

Mama Blessing’s husband stood, clutched his chest, and dropped. 

The sound his body made. I’ll hear it forever. 

The stampede started. Bodies pushed toward the exits, but the rain outside was torrential now,  sheeting down so hard, you couldn’t see three feet beyond the door. 

Thunder cracked. I saw lightning through the high windows. It illuminated faces that wished they  weren’t there. 

“Please kill me tonight. Make it look like an accident so my children get the insurance. I can’t do this anymore.” 

Jesus!  Sister Joy! 

She stood at the open window. 

People ran for her, I saw her sway. She stepped back herself, tears streaming, but she stayed at  that window. 

“God, thank you that he doesn’t know. Please let this baby look like him. Please, God, I’m begging.” 

I watched the husband of the new mother in our congregation freeze.  

He looked down at the three-month-old baby in his arms, and dropped him. Someone else barely caught the child. 

Everywhere blurred with multiple fights. Brother Tunde and someone else. A woman pulled  someone’s hair out in clumps. Elder Amos bled from his mouth. 

The air reeked of sweat and fear and blood. 

And in the back, standing in the midst of the chaos, Mr. Emmanuel. 

He caught my eye. And smiled. It reached his eyes this time. 

Then he turned and walked out into the rain. 

I tried to follow him, but my legs didn’t work. My chest felt wrong. Tight. 

In a passing moment, I realized we’d all been praying lies for years. And this carol—this carol just made us hear ourselves. 

The tightness in my chest pulled. Turned to pain.  

My left arm felt numb. I fell to my knees. 

My eyes darted across the room. The chaos raged on. No one noticed I had gone down.

My eyes met my wife’s. She didn’t move to help me. I wondered if I heard her prayer. I wondered if she saw the fear in my eyes. Was I going to die like this? 

It was Chioma who ran towards me, crying. “Pastor, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was wrong. You  said God—” 

I wanted to tell her it was okay. But I couldn’t speak. 

The pain became unbearable. 

Sister Bukky appeared from the corner of my eye and knelt beside me. She didn’t pray for me. She didn’t call for help. She just watched me die. And I deserved it. 

The Cross hung crooked on the wall as my eyes began to close. Rain streamed down the  windows.

I thought, God, these people have seen me as I really am.

And it killed me.