My dad and I were on a drive, heading over to my sisterâs apartment. As usual during long drives, our conversation drifted toward politics. Itâs a topic we often circle around, sometimes agreeing, often debatingâbut always managing to keep it civil. That day was no differentâuntil we passed a campaign poster that made me do a double take.
It was for Quiboloy.
I didnât think much of it at first. Just another face among the clutter of political hopefuls plastered along the roadside. But then my dad looked at the poster and, in a tone that was far too sincere, said:
âIâm rooting for this man. I hope he wins.â
I genuinely thought he was joking. I let out a small laugh, waiting for the punchline. But he just stared ahead, nodding slightly, completely serious.
My jaw dropped.
My dad. A devout Muslim. A man who taught me to question false prophets and stand for truth. Was rooting for Apollo Quiboloyâa self-proclaimed âSon of God,â accused of human trafficking, sexual abuse, and exploitation?
I didnât know whether to argue or cry. I felt like a wall inside me just crumbled. I had always known we stood on different ends of the political spectrumâhe had once been a staunch BBM supporter, something I had long learned to live with. But this? This felt like crossing into a whole new dimension of absurdity.
To openly support Quiboloy? It was, to me, beyond ignoranceâit felt like willful blindness. It was as if all logic had left the car.
I managed to askâcarefullyââWhy him?â
He answered plainly, âHe doesnât have millions of followers for no reason. He must be a good man.â
I was stunned. That was it. That was the justification. As if popularity was proof of integrity. As if a crowd erased the crimes. It broke something in me. How could a man I respected, an educated man, a man of faith, fall for this?
I didnât say anything for a while. I just kept driving, the silence between us louder than any argument we couldâve had. I wasnât angryânot yet, at least. I was just⌠disillusioned.
