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- Herausgeber: Victor Onyebuchi Katchi
- Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
- Sprache: Englisch
The Last Confession is a gripping Christian novel that delves deep into the human conscience, the weight of guilt, and the life-changing power of grace. When secrets buried in shame begin to surface, one man must confront his darkest past and make peace with God before it’s too late. Victor O. Katchi masterfully weaves a tale of spiritual reckoning, forgiveness, and the liberating truth found only in Christ. This powerful story invites readers to discover how confession is not condemnation—but the doorway to redemption.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Table of contents
EPIGRAPH
Table of Contents
Introduction
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1:
Chapter 2:
Chapter 3:
Chapter 4:
Chapter 5:
Chapter 6:
Chapter 7:
Chapter 8:
Chapter 9:
Chapter 10:
Chapter 11:
Chapter 12:
Chapter 13:
Chapter 14:
Chapter 15:
Chapter 16:
Chapter 17:
Chapter 18:
Chapter 19:
Chapter 20:
Chapter 21:
Chapter 22:
Chapter 23:
Chapter 24:
Chapter 25:
Chapter 26:
Chapter 27:
Chapter 28:
Chapter 29:
Chapter 30:
Beyond Shame
EPILOGUE
About the Author
landmarks
Title page
Table of contents
Book start
A Christian Novel of Grace, Guilt, and Redemption
By Victor O. KATCHI
Dedication
To God Almighty, the Author of Mercy and the Giver of Grace. In Him, truth is never buried, and light always returns.
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt gratitude to every soul who walks in truth despite the weight of silence. To those who wrestle in the night but rise with healing in the morning — your story is not forgotten. Special thanks to the readers, encouragers, and silent watchers who see the world with spiritual eyes. You are the reason this story breathes.
— V. O. Katchi
EPIGRAPH
“ But nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light.” — Luke 8:17 (ESV)
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1: Smoke and Silk
Chapter 2: The First Stone
Chapter 3: The House of Secrets
Chapter 4: The Prophet is Dead
Chapter 5: The Missing Tape
Chapter 6: The Woman Called Silence
Chapter 7: Eyes Like Cameras
Chapter 8: The Secret Place
Chapter 9: Operation Leviticus
Chapter 10: When the Prophet Cried
Chapter 11: The Broadcast Breach
Chapter 12: Flame and Fallout
Chapter 13: Letters from the Dead
Chapter 14: The Disciples’ Revolt
Chapter 15: The Wages of Silence
Chapter 16: Breaking the Seal
Chapter 17: The Judas Gospel
Chapter 18: Midnight in the Furnace
Chapter 19: The Last Sermon
Chapter 20: When the Stone Moved
Chapter 21: Through the Fireline
Chapter 22: The Confession Table
Chapter 23: Ruin in the Font
Chapter 24: The Tapes Are Released
Chapter 25: Phebe’s Letter
Chapter 26: The Repentance
Chapter 27: The Sound of Revival
Chapter 28: The Last Confession
Chapter 29: The Prophet’s Legacy
Chapter 30: Grace Beyond Shame
Introduction
In a world where pulpits echo with rehearsed promises and altars hide unspoken sins, one man’s death stirs a storm no church wall can silence. The Last Confession is not just a novel — it is a story of spiritual fire, betrayal, truth, and the grace that survives the wreckage.
Behind every veil lies a face. Behind every sermon, a soul. This is the confession we never heard — until now.
PROLOGUE
The room was silent except for the ticking of a wooden clock — the kind no one uses anymore. The man in the chair had stopped breathing. And yet, everything he ever feared would one day breathe through the walls.
His name was Bishop Eli Aziel.
He died kneeling.
Not in a pulpit. Not under lights. Not with applause. But in the vestry of a cathedral built on too many lies.
A note clutched in one hand. A journal under the other. And a story the world was never meant to hear.
Until now.
Chapter 1:
Smoke and Silk
Lagos, 11:38 p.m. The sanctuary was silent—too silent for a night like this.
The last of the worshippers had long trickled out under the soft command of the choir’s final chords. The carpet still held the imprint of knees and heels. Fragrance of frankincense drifted faintly in the air, mixed with sweat and something else—grief maybe, or the weight of too many unspoken prayers.
Max Okpara stood alone behind the pulpit, wiping down the glass lectern with the edge of his sleeve. It was unnecessary, but he needed something to do with his hands. He always did when Phebe came to mind.
She hadn't been in church for over three years—not since the scandal, not since the tapes. Not since Bishop Eli vanished like smoke. And now tonight, just as the choir sang “Refiner’s Fire”, someone had said she was spotted sitting at the far-left corner of the mezzanine. Black hat. Veil. Red clutch. Gone before the final prayer.
“ Was it really her?” he whispered to himself.
No answer. Only the sound of the AC humming behind the baptistry wall.
He descended from the pulpit and walked slowly through the rows of empty seats, his fingers brushing over the soft blue upholstery. Every fifth row had a scratch, a tear, or a worn patch. The House of Fire International Cathedral was once Lagos' brightest star, drawing crowds of thousands every weekend. Now, it felt like a stage after the actors had fled mid-play.
He reached Row M. The mezzanine overhead still caught faint street light through the stained glass. That’s where she’d have sat. Max raised his eyes to the balcony.
“ Phebe,” he murmured. “Why now?”
He bent to pick up a white scarf someone had forgotten on the pew, only to pause mid-bend.
There it was.
A slim red clutch bag. Resting upright on the cushion. Neat. Untouched.
His throat tightened. Carefully, he reached for it—not like a man reaching for a woman’s purse, but like a man reaching for a live grenade.
It wasn’t locked. The clasp clicked open with a soft metallic snap.
Inside: a small brown envelope, no name, no address. Just a single word scribbled on the flap in bold cursive ink:
CONFESSION.
Max stared at the word. Then again. Then closed the bag with trembling hands.
He looked around the sanctuary one more time. Empty. Yet, the air carried the heat of something left behind—a presence, a shadow, a decision that refused to stay buried.
He moved back toward the altar and sat on the third step—where Bishop Eli used to pray for hours, head bowed low, breath barely audible. Max used to watch him back then. Not the way a man watches a mentor, but the way a child watches a mountain: awe mixed with the fear of falling.
Now the mountain had crumbled. And all Max had were remnants of its fire.
He opened the envelope.
Inside were three items.
A folded handwritten letter.
A USB flash drive marked “A/V”.
A photograph.
The photograph was old—creased at the edges, faint coffee stain on the bottom left. It was of Bishop Eli… and Jonah.
Max’s heart stalled.
Jonah. His brother in ministry. His blood in the Spirit. His friend since Bible school. Now the church's poster boy. The miracle worker. The television preacher with more followers than most politicians.
Max flipped the photo. There was writing on the back.
“ When fire falls on unclean altars, it doesn’t purify—it burns.”
Max swallowed hard.
Then slowly, with a weight he could not explain, he unfolded the letter.
His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the note, the paper coarse and yellowed, as though it had passed through many hands—or maybe just time. The ink bled faintly at the edges. Someone had written this in a hurry. Or in tears.
Max,
If you're reading this, then I failed. Not at preaching. Not at praying. Not even at loving. I failed at being silent when I should’ve screamed.
This altar is stained. Not with wine or oil. But with secrets. And silence.
The fire fell once. You remember, don’t you? That night in Jos. It wasn’t hype. It wasn’t staged. It was pure. Because we were clean—or trying to be. But then the crowds came, and the money came, and Darien came.
Jonah is drowning. But he’s shouting Hallelujah. And they think he’s swimming.
I kept a file. On everything. And on everyone. Not to destroy. But to one day deliver. Maybe now is that day. Maybe you’re that man.
If you choose to burn this, I won’t blame you. But if you choose to read it all, the fire may return.
Either way—don’t let Phebe carry this alone. She was the lamb among wolves.
Forgive me. But don’t forget me.
— Eli.
Max exhaled slowly. For a moment, it felt like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he opened the envelope.
The letter slipped from his fingers onto the marble floor, floating like a feather into stillness.
He looked up at the giant crucifix suspended above the altar. “What do I do now?” he whispered aloud. “Lord, what do I do?”
There was no answer—only the sudden flicker of lights above him, as if the building had heard the question and shivered in its bones.
Outside, the rain had begun.
It started with hesitation, like someone testing keys on an old piano. Then it thickened—fast, percussive, tapping the stained-glass windows and the tiled roof. Thunder rolled over Lagos, long and low like an ancient warning.
Max rose, clutching the flash drive.
He moved to his office behind the prayer chamber. The light was harsh in there. Cold white fluorescents. A dusty fan oscillated overhead, blades creaking in mild protest. His desk still bore sermon notes from Sunday. “Power Must Change Altars.” How ironic.
He booted his laptop, hands moving slower than usual. Not from fatigue, but reverence. This wasn’t gossip. This wasn’t drama. This was holy ground now.
The computer pinged to life.
He inserted the flash drive.
Two folders appeared.
1. VIDEO: Revival or Rehearsal 2. AUDIO: The Last Meeting (Uncut)
Max opened the video folder first.
It contained one file: SERVICE_0412_LIVE_CAM.
He clicked it.
The screen flickered, then stabilized.
The image was grainy, from a ceiling camera in the main auditorium. Max recognized the angle immediately — it faced the pulpit, capturing the altar and the first ten rows. The date stamp was clear: April 12, 2022.
That night. He remembered it. The night of the so-called “fire fall” miracle service. When Jonah laid hands on forty people and they all dropped like dominoes. The night Phebe vanished from the choir.
The footage rolled.
The auditorium was packed. People dancing, wailing, clapping.
Jonah entered the frame in a white robe embroidered with gold flames. He looked... regal. The crowd screamed his name. "Daddy Jonah! Man of oil!"
Max leaned in.
The Jonah in the video looked confident—no, invincible. He shouted in tongues. He waved his hands over the choir pit. People fell. Ushers staggered. Women screamed.
But then—
Max noticed something.
The same man in Row D fell twice.
First under Jonah’s right hand.
Then again ten minutes later, under his left.
Max paused the video. Rewound. Replayed.
The man had changed shirts.
Black to brown.
Same face. Same limp. Same timing.
Staged.
Faked.
He slumped back in his chair. The breath left him.
Not because he was shocked. But because he had always suspected.
He closed the video.
Hands trembling again, he opened the second folder: AUDIO - The Last Meeting (Uncut).
A .wav file began to play.
Eli’s voice filled the room.
“ Jonah, you know what you’re doing isn’t Spirit-led. You’re staging miracles.”
A pause. Then Jonah’s voice, calm. Too calm.
“ You think the Spirit can’t use a little drama to stir faith? Didn’t Elisha ask for music before he prophesied?”
“ Music isn’t bribing people to fall for cameras.”
“ They fall either way, Papa. Some just need encouragement.”
Silence again.
“ This is sin, Jonah. You’re replacing glory with gimmicks.”
“ I’m replacing silence with results. These people want to see. You taught us fire. I’m just giving them flames.”
Eli sighed. Long and sad.
“ You’ll burn, Jonah. Not now. But one day. You’ll burn for this.”
The file ended.
Max sat there, frozen.
He couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
It was real.
Everything Eli hinted at. Everything Phebe broke over. Everything he himself tried not to believe—
It was all real.
Outside, the rain had become a downpour. A full cleansing. A judgment. A baptism.
Max bowed his head. Not in prayer. But in surrender.
This wasn’t just about truth.
This was about fire.
And the altar had never been colder.
Chapter 2:
The First Stone
Port Harcourt, 6 months earlier
The phone rang three times before going silent.
Jonah stood in front of the full-length mirror, tying the last knot of his designer clergy robe. He looked at himself—not with admiration, but calculation. The robe was flawless. The collar perfectly creased. The embroidery caught just enough light to look anointed.
He picked up his phone, glanced at the missed call.
“ Eli.”
Again.
Jonah sighed.
He tapped twice and deleted the log.
Behind him, the suite buzzed with hotel staff setting up for the evening’s closed-door miracle partners dinner. Every inch of the ballroom shimmered. Gold-draped tables. Crystal glasses. A gospel saxophonist doing soft rehearsal in a corner. A digital countdown lit the stage backdrop: “2 Hours to the Prophetic Overflow.”
Jonah slipped on his gold wristwatch and stepped out onto the balcony. The city’s haze welcomed him like incense. Down below, posters with his face flapped against electric poles, sharing space with campaign flyers and crusade ads.
“ Apostle Jonah D. Eliason – Come See the Man of Fire.”
He hated the tagline.
He didn’t need fire anymore. He had formula.
The last time he’d spoken to Bishop Eli face-to-face, the man looked fifteen years older than he should have. Tired. Silent. Wearing that long navy kaftan he always wore when he was about to say something eternal.
Jonah hadn’t wanted to hear it.
Eli had called him “Jonah, son of thunder.”
He used to like that. Not anymore.
Thunder scared children. He wasn’t thunder now.
He was lightning.
The call came again. This time from Phebe.
He let it ring.
He hadn’t spoken to her since Jos—since that night when Eli walked out of the revival and never came back. She’d stayed behind, crying outside the vestry, holding his old Bible like it was a child dying in her arms.
He wasn’t going back.
Not to Eli.
Not to her.
Not to guilt.
The door opened behind him.
Darien walked in.
A towering figure in a black suit with red buttons and the unnerving charisma of a man who could smile while setting fire to a house. He was holding a manila folder.
“ Everything’s in place,” Darien said. “Guests start arriving in forty-five. The tape’s ready.”
Jonah didn’t respond. He was watching two birds on the railing, locked in a wild flutter. Fighting. Or mating. Maybe both.
Darien placed the folder on the center table, then walked to the wine station and uncorked a chilled bottle of non-alcoholic champagne.
“ You should rest your voice before tonight,” he added. “You’re doing a triple impartation.”
Jonah finally turned. “He’s still calling.”
Darien raised an eyebrow. “Eli?”
Jonah nodded.
Darien poured two glasses, his smile cool.
“ You want me to handle it?”
Jonah hesitated. “No. I’ll block him soon.”
Darien said nothing. He just handed Jonah a glass and added softly, “You know he won’t stop. Not until he’s gone.”
Jonah’s face darkened.
“ That’s the thing, Dare. He’s already gone.”
Lagos – Present Day
Victor Chike paced in his small office at the back of the media wing. His suit was rumpled, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He held three pieces of paper in his hand — a printed email, a church finance summary, and a photo.
All three told one story: Something wasn’t right.
He had served the House of Fire for eleven years, eight of those directly under Bishop Eli before his sudden disappearance. The man never gave explanations. He only gave prophecies.
But the night he left, Victor remembered how his eyes looked — not wild, not afraid.
Just... emptied.
Like a prophet who saw too much and realized nobody would believe him.
Now, a six-month silence had settled around Eli’s name like fog. Jonah had filled the stage. Max had buried himself in pastoral work. The board had moved on.
But Victor hadn’t.
And last night’s service confirmed it.
He saw Max holding a red clutch. He saw the way his face froze after service. And he saw him enter his office and not come out for two hours.
Victor now knew.
Something had returned.
Or someone.
He picked up his phone and dialed Max.
It rang.
Max answered, breathless. “Victor?”
Victor paused, voice low.
“ Tell me the truth. Was it Phebe?”
Silence.
Then: “Yes.”
Victor sank into his chair.
Then, carefully: “Then it’s beginning.”
Jos, 6 months earlier
The morning Eli left was strange even by prophetic standards.
The sun rose late, veiled by harmattan haze. The courtyard outside the old revival camp was unusually still — no birdsong, no rustling leaves, not even the usual morning chatter of junior pastors sweeping the compound. Everything stood in pause.
Eli stepped out of his room barefoot, his Bible tucked under his right arm, a worn duffel bag over his left shoulder. He wore that same navy-blue kaftan with the frayed cuffs, his hair saltier than pepper, beard unruly and gray.
He didn't look like the man who once prophesied to presidents.
He looked like a man who’d seen heaven…and hell…and decided earth needed neither.
Phebe followed closely behind, silent, unsure whether to cry, scream, or run ahead and block the gate.
“ Papa…” she called.
Eli turned, his eyes soft.
“ Don’t,” he said, voice low. “Don’t call me that today.”
“ But why—? Where are you going? There’s no car. You’ve not eaten. There’s service tonight.”
“ I won’t be at the service,” he replied.
“ But—what do I tell them?” Her voice broke. “What do I tell Max?”
Eli looked toward the mountains. Then slowly, he turned back and said, “Tell Max the fire must fall again, but not while the altar is bleeding.”
She shook her head, tears rising. “Then let’s cleanse the altar! Let’s call them out—Jonah, Darien, all of them—let’s—”
But Eli stepped forward and cupped her cheek gently.
“ Phebe. You’re strong. But you don’t win wars by shouting in the dark. You wait for morning. And morning is coming. Just not with me.”
He pressed something into her hand.
A small flash drive.
She looked down.
“ It’s not for now,” he said. “But when Max sees the smoke, he’ll understand the fire. Give it to him. Only him.”
Then he turned and walked toward the east trail that led into the forest.
No car.
No escort.
Just his shadow and silence.
And that was the last time anyone saw Bishop Eli Ezekiel Ikenna.
Lagos – Present Day, 1:14 a.m.
Max hadn’t moved since the audio ended.
He sat, eyes unfocused, as the screen dimmed into sleep mode.
The confession wasn’t just damning — it was a window into the war Eli had been fighting alone.
Jonah hadn’t fallen by accident. He had orchestrated a descent.
Max finally stood, shut the laptop, and walked out into the hallway of the church office. His steps were slow, measured, but heavy with decision. He passed the portraits on the wall: past bishops, founders, mentors, generals of faith.
Bishop Eli’s portrait had been removed three months after he disappeared.
It now sat face-down in a store room behind the boardroom table.
Max turned the corner and entered the media archive room — a room he had once described to a visiting guest as “the memory of the ministry.”
Shelves of tapes. Old sermon cassettes. Revival DVDs. Boxes of undeveloped photos from earlier crusades.
He moved to the far right cabinet labeled “2015–2020: Mountain Fire Archives.”
There, behind two rows of sermon reels, he found it.
Eli's personal box.
Black. Unmarked. Locked.
But he had the key.
A small silver one on his chain. Eli gave it to him before Jos, the night before the fire crusade.
“ You won’t know when you’ll need this,” Eli had said. “But the day you do… don’t hesitate.”
He unlocked the box.
Inside were four things:
A black leather notebook.
A CD labeled “Operation Leviticus.”
A rolled document sealed in red wax.
A sealed envelope addressed: “To be opened when Jonah breaks.”
Max stared at the envelope.
It felt alive.
He didn’t touch it.
Not yet.
He opened the notebook.
On the first page, in Eli’s deep script, were the words:
“ Fire without purity is entertainment. And we’ve been putting on shows for far too long.”
Elsewhere – That Same Night
Jonah stood in front of the mirror again.
But this time, he wasn’t rehearsing his posture or his smile. He was staring into his own eyes. Searching. For what, he wasn’t sure anymore.
Darien was asleep in the next room. The hotel suite was too quiet, but Jonah didn’t want music.
He didn’t want anything.
Not the applause. Not the money. Not even the miracles.
He wanted out.
But there was no exit for men like him.
They didn’t retire. They didn’t resign.
They either died suddenly... or slowly faded into disgrace.
He touched the robe hanging on the rack beside him. Custom-stitched. Embroidered in Jerusalem. Anointed in olive oil flown in from Galilee.
And yet... it felt like paper now.
Thin. Worthless.
He sat on the edge of the bed and opened his phone. There was a missed call from an unknown number. No message.
Then his eyes drifted to an unread message sent twelve minutes ago.
Phebe: “You still have time.”
Jonah’s hand froze.
Then, without knowing why, he deleted it.
Victor’s Office – Same Hour
Victor placed the printed documents into a new file and labeled it with one word: ASHES.
Then he picked up his Bible and flipped to Leviticus 6:12.
“ The fire on the altar shall be kept burning; it shall not go out.”
He closed it.
Then he prayed one sentence aloud.
“ Lord, if we must burn, let it be as a sacrifice, not a show.”
Chapter 3:
The House of Secrets
Lagos – Three Days Later
The air in the boardroom was thick with lemon polish and invisible tension. Twelve chairs surrounded the circular oak table, but only two were occupied. The other members—elders, board executives, financial trustees—were “indisposed,” according to the messages Max received that morning. All within minutes of each other.
Max knew what that meant.
They were afraid.
And when people are afraid, they stop showing up for fire.
Jonah arrived late, as always. But he didn’t apologize.
