Pastor Daniel Muhendo had led the Faithful Hope Church in Mbarara for fifteen years. The small sanctuary, with its peeling paint and creaky benches, was his life’s work. Every Sunday, he preached salvation to a flock of fifty, their tithes barely covering the rent. Daniel was a man of faith, but lately, doubt gnawed at him. The roof leaked, the congregation dwindled, and his prayers for provision went unanswered.
One evening, after a sparse midweek service, Daniel stopped at a betting kiosk near Bwizibwera Road. It wasn’t his first time. For months, he’d wagered small sums—UGX 5,000 here, UGX 10,000 there—on football matches, a secret he buried beneath his robes. He called it “testing God’s favor,” a quiet rebellion against a life of scarcity. That night, he bet UGX 15,000 on a wild accumulator: five underdog teams across Europe. He chuckled as he pocketed the slip, expecting nothing.
The next morning, his phone buzzed: “Winner! UGX 400,000,000. Claim at Mbarara office.” Daniel stared, disbelieving. Every team had won, defying logic. He rushed to the betting office, where a crowd gathered as he collected a sack of cash. Word spread fast—Pastor Daniel was rich.
At first, he planned to save the church. He’d fix the roof, buy new pews, and maybe even start a school. But as he sat in his cramped office, counting the notes, a different vision emerged: a house in Ruharo, a car, a life unburdened by begging for offerings. The church, he realized, tethered him to struggle. Why toil when fortune had knocked?
Two weeks later, he stood before his congregation. “God has blessed me,” he said, voice steady. “And now, He’s called me elsewhere.” Gasps filled the room as he revealed he’d sold Faithful Hope Church to a local developer for UGX 40 million. The buyer planned a fuel station—progress, they called it. Daniel promised to build anew someday, but his eyes betrayed him. He was done.
The flock splintered. Some cursed him as a sellout; others begged him to reconsider. Agnes, who’d prayed beside him for years, wept, “You’ve traded our souls for shillings.” Daniel left without a reply, the weight of their stares heavier than the cash.
He bought a gleaming Toyota Prado and a bungalow with a view of the Rwizi River. The betting slips returned—bolder now, chasing the rush of that first win. But the thrill faded, and the money dwindled. In Mbarara, the fuel station rose, its pumps humming where hymns once rang.