When Esther Walked Away
The sitting room was dimly lit, the only sound the hum of the old sewing machine as Hannah, the pastor’s wife, patched a wrapper at the corner. The air was filled with the subtle scent of anointing oil.
Esther struck one final pose in front of the cracked mirror hanging above the TV console. Her imaginary runway was the tiled corridor between the sofa and the bookshelf stacked with devotionals and Bibles.
She didn’t hear her father enter, but she felt it—the stillness. The kind that made your spine straighten involuntarily.
“Esther,” his voice cut through like the first clap of thunder before a storm, “we need to talk.”
She turned, but didn’t flinch. “Yes, Daddy?”
Pastor James stood at the doorway, Bible in hand, eyes unreadable. “This modeling business... it must stop.”
Esther blinked. “Why?”
“You know why,” he said, walking in. “A pastor’s daughter posing half-naked and entertaining people in the name of modelling? Esther, this is not who you were raised to be.”
“Mummy, you see?” she turned to her mother. “They always act like modeling is the same thing as prostitution.”
“Esther, no one said that,” Hannah muttered, fingers still pushing fabric under the needle.
“Then what is this?” Esther’s voice rose. “I’m not sleeping around. I’m not doing anything indecent. I’m building something for myself!”
“You’re building rebellion and this is satanic!” Pastor James barked.
“Mummy, say something!”
“I—I don’t know, Esther,” Hannah stammered. “You know your father’s concerns are not without reason. But I also know my daughter is not wayward...”
Esther scoffed, ran inside, packed her clothes, shoes and a few essentials and headed for the door. She had previously vowed to herself that she would leave home when next she was confronted by father on her decision to pursue modelling.
“If you step out of this house with that defiance in your heart,” her father said, voice breaking, “you’re not to return until you’ve turned your back on that career.”
She paused. Swallowed hard. Looked at her mother who at this time was clutching the material she was mending and close to tears.
“Then I won’t return.”
And with that, she left. Her mother knew this day would come because Esther had repeatedly threatened it would happen.
✤
The first weeks in her shared flat in Surulere were rough. She had left behind some of the comfort her parents’ house provided. And the neighbours—one of them a chronic weed smoker—played loud music till very late in the night.
But she had peace. Freedom.
✤
Months turned to a couple of years. Esther became a known name in Nigeria’s fashion circuit. One Lagos Fashion Week led to a Ghana gig. From there, appearances in fashion blogs, brand deals, and whispers of an international invite.
But she never stopped feeling that invisible tug—the ache of being celebrated by strangers but misunderstood at home.
Meanwhile, back in their modest home in Ogba, Pastor James wore a quieter look. His voice behind the pulpit was as fiery as ever, but at home, he carried silence like a second skin.
Church members would ask, “Where is your daughter now?”
He’d smile politely and say, “She’s... doing something somewhere. Keep her in your prayers.”
✤
One Saturday evening, Hannah sat her husband down. Her face was drawn, tired of all the drama, anger, disappointment and prying eyes of their church members.
“She’s still your daughter, James.”
“She disobeyed.”
“She didn’t kill anyone. She chased her dream. You taught her how to be bold. Why are you angry that she became exactly that?”
Pastor James said nothing.
“She’s not coming back unless you completely accept her and the path she’s charting for herself,” Hannah said. “This has lingered way more than I thought it would and I am no longer going to fold my hands and watch my family crumble in the name of church image.”
The ultimatum sat like a heavy stone on the center table.
✤
Weeks later, a knock came on Esther’s door. When she opened it, it wasn’t just her mother standing there—it was both of them.
Pastor James looked older. Not in years, but in weight. He held no Bible this time.
“Esther,” Hannah started gently, “we’ve come to talk.”
Her father cleared his throat. “Your mother has asked me to let go of my pride. And maybe... I should have done that sooner.”
Esther folded her arms, hesitant.
“I still don’t understand everything about your world,” he said, voice trembling. “But I know I want to be in it. I know I miss my daughter.”
“I’m not leaving modeling, Daddy,” she said plainly.
“I won’t ask you to,” he said. “But I’d like to pray for you. For your safety. For your peace. For whatever path you choose.”
Esther blinked away tears.
He stepped forward, placed his hand gently on her head, and began to pray—not the commanding firebrand kind, but the soft, breaking, healing kind of prayer only a father could offer.
When he said “Amen,” she hugged him tightly, face buried in his chest. Hannah joined, arms wrapping them both.
And for the first time in years, Esther felt at home again.