THE GOD OF POVERTY

In a time when Africa's heart beat with the rhythm of age-old traditions and vibrant community values, foreign beliefs crept into its borders, claiming to offer salvation, progress, and civilization. Yet with these beliefs came a paradox—an expectation to reject what was sacred to Africa, and to adopt what was alien, strange, and sometimes harmful.

For generations, African societies thrived on practices that promoted communal living, respect for elders, and an understanding of life’s mysteries through cultural customs and spirituality. In these societies, practices like polygamy were not sins but were often ways to strengthen community bonds and provide stability within families. It was a choice with cultural roots, accepted and guided by the values of the society. But the new faith, imported from foreign lands, cast judgment over these customs. Polygamy was labeled sinful, and a man’s multiple wives became a subject of shame. Yet, in those same foreign lands, other practices—ones Africa could not reconcile with—were accepted, even celebrated.

The concept of freedom twisted itself into strange shapes: homosexuality, bestiality, and relationships crossing the lines of age and innocence were accepted in the name of choice and identity. Meanwhile, African values and traditions were considered backward, something to be uprooted. Foreign faith promoted a selective morality, deciding what was right for Africa but wrong for itself, creating a confusing double standard. Africans were told that their cultural practices were unholy and had no place in a modern, “civilized” society. But certain practices that were once unspeakable in the foreign cultures themselves began to find acceptance, even to the point of celebration.

Even the idea of independence became an illusion. Whenever Africa dared to rise, to ask for a voice on the global stage, or to stand up for its right to determine its own path, it was quickly reminded of its “place.” Uprisings for justice, for land, and for dignity were labeled “rebellious” or even “dangerous.” Sanctions were imposed, leaders were overthrown, and those who demanded freedom for their people found themselves silenced, exiled, or imprisoned.

Meanwhile, the wealthy and powerful—the foreign powers and their allies within the African elite—used faith and power to justify their actions, reaping resources and exploiting labor, all the while hiding behind a veil of righteousness. The impunity of the powerful became a global right, while the voices of the poor were suppressed. The world preached about justice, but justice was reserved for a select few.

Thus, The Foreign Faith became a kind of mask, hiding complex and sinister agendas. It was not only a belief system but also a tool—one that rendered Africa’s traditions sinful and outdated, while the foreign customs were celebrated as rights and freedoms. As African people awoke to this truth, many began to question the narratives they had been fed. They asked why their beliefs, their traditions, and their values were forced into shadows, while others’ sins were rebranded as progress.

A quiet revolution began as Africans sought to reconnect with their roots, to find value in what had once been declared shameful. In the face of a world that preached double standards, Africa began to reclaim its narrative, its dignity, and its true identity, rising above the foreign faith that had sought to diminish its spirit to a dark and looming shadow cast itself over the minds of a continent rich in culture, spirit, and resilience. Africa, a land where the soil held stories of ancient wisdom and where traditions bloomed in every village, became the focal point of an otherworldly deception—a deception that arrived on a foreign wind, wrapped in the guise of salvation.

With the colonizers came a message of salvation—one that proclaimed a God whose inheritance lay not in the earth, but far beyond the stars. The promise of heavenly rewards came at a high earthly price, for with it arrived a silent plague: The God of Poverty.

This “god” wasn’t a deity in the traditional sense; instead, it manifested as the unyielding belief that one’s material suffering would be relieved by sacrificing all to religious leaders, men whose titles commanded respect and trust. The pastors and so-called prophets, endowed with persuasive voices and the aura of “holiness,” emerged as figures who seemed to hold the keys to heaven. But the doors they unlocked were not of prosperity, nor of spiritual elevation—they were doors to poverty, dependence, and a sustained cycle of exploitation.

In Africa, churches became mega-businesses, rising in opulence as the masses sank into despair. Magnificent buildings stood tall, covered in glass and gold, while the faithful who built them with their offerings walked home barefoot. Week after week, people gathered, listening to sermons that promised healing and deliverance, tales of success and blessing, of miraculous cures and divine interventions. Many gave all they had, filling the church coffers with their hard-earned money, seeking to buy favor in a heaven they were told to imagine vividly but to question sparingly.

Yet, the god they were sold was elusive. The healing didn’t come. The deliverance was postponed. The cycle of poverty continued, deepening its roots. African culture—rich in rituals, wisdom, and connection to the earth—was labeled as superstition and witchcraft. Traditional healers and community elders, who once served as custodians of local wisdom, were cast as “agents of the devil.” The people were encouraged to abandon their heritage and to reject the gods of their ancestors in favor of this new god, this foreign deity who required more in tithes than it offered in blessings.

This spiritual pandemic was an invisible disease, infecting the very core of African societies. The message of divine favor became a tool of control. Those who dared to question were told their faith was weak. Those who failed to receive blessings were condemned as sinners. And so, the people fell deeper into their belief, desperate for the day of deliverance, pouring out their resources, their strength, their very lives in pursuit of a heaven they might never see.

The God of Poverty held a firm grip, not by providing solutions, but by selling hope. And hope—unfulfilled and misdirected—became the god of this age, the deity that kept people subservient to the men who wielded power over their beliefs.

One day, whispers began to stir. Small voices—soft but determined—questioned the system. Young people began exploring their roots, relearning the value of their own traditions, reclaiming the wisdom that was once dismissed as mere superstition. The ancestors’ voices, silenced for centuries, began to echo in the hearts of a generation that saw through the gilded deception of those who had profited from poverty. A revival was dawning, not of foreign faith, but of an indigenous strength that could restore not just material wealth, but the wealth of spirit.

And so, Africa stood at the brink of a new awakening, ready to dismantle the oppressive deity of the “God of Poverty” and to reclaim its dignity, heritage, and the true divine power within its own people.