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He was powerful, very powerful; he died full, but arrived empty.
It was an unusually quiet afternoon at the Pearly Gates.
Not because there weren’t souls arriving. As always, there was a steady stream of the lost, the redeemed, and the in-between. But today’s silence held the weight of significance: a VIP from Nigeria was expected.
Heaven had received word that another “Important Earthly Somebody” had crossed over. One of the giants. One of those whose name was known in Senate halls, offshore accounts, intercontinental ministries, and Interpol reports.
Heaven’s gates shimmered, and Saint Peter, weary but unshakable, sighed as he glanced at the golden Book of Life. He did not need angelic foresight to know who was coming.
The divine calendar had just flipped past the entry: “Death of a Nigerian demigod.”
And behind him came many others, the “untouchables” of this earth, now very, very touchable.
But leading today’s procession, waddling under the weight of ambition and concealed conceit and greed, was none other than: High Chief Honourable Senator Alhaji Dr. Babatunde “BabaCash” Omoniyi (GCFR, OFR, MNI, KJW, JP, GCON, MMM), the man who had everything except enough.
He came with his usual flourish in a convoy of invisible SUVs, shadows of a life of sirens and privilege. Dressed in his signature agbada, a gold wristwatch glinting even in the light of Heaven, BabaCash looked around with a slight scowl.
“Is this it?” he muttered. “No red carpet? No spiritual welcome committee?”
He adjusted his sunglasses and strutted toward the gate, his designer slippers clapping like reluctant applause.
“Peter, my guy!” he called out with the confidence of one who had opened more doors with bribes than with prayers. “Oga at the Top! Chairman of Gatekeeping PLC!”
Saint Peter looked up from the Book. He saw him. He saw through him.
“Name?” the saint asked, without a smile.
BabaCash scoffed. “You mean to say my name no dey ring bell for here? I served under five administrations! Sponsored sixty-four useless bills! Survived three impeachment attempts, two EFCC arrests, and one fake resurrection! BabaCash na brand!”
Saint Peter raised a brow. “Full name, please.”
With a sigh, the man straightened up and thundered:
“High Chief Honourable Senator Alhaji Dr. Babatunde Omoniyi, aka BabaCash, aka Papa Budget Padding, aka Spiritual Bulldozer of Zone 9!”
Saint Peter flipped through the Book.
“Oh yes… you’re here. Quite a record.”
As Peter read from the Book, the clouds darkened, not from weather, but from truth.
“Embezzled funds meant for displaced persons in Borno. Built mansions in Dubai, using money allocated for maternal health. Took bribes in rice, cars, and cryptos. Slept with teenage domestic staff. Organised rigged primaries with 300 rented delegates. Sponsored hate preachers to distract public outrage. Paid bloggers to tarnish whistleblowers. Lied under oath. Lied under God. Lied as a lifestyle.
“You owned 16 houses in four countries, but left your local community school without a toilet. You imported holy oil by the barrel, but couldn’t sponsor one scholarship without branding it. You cried in church and cursed in court. You knelt before pastors and paid marabouts in secret. You spoke of heaven on pulpits but lived like hell in private.”
BabaCash swallowed. “But… I paid tithes.”
“You paid with stolen money,” Peter replied. “God does not launder.”
“I Was Planning to Repent”
BabaCash began his performance. He had perfected it over the decades. The shaking voice. The hand on the chest. The spiritual vocabulary.
“My brother, see ehn, I was planning to repent, real one o, not these emergency repentance wey I dey do before election. I even told my PA to book me for a 40-day mountain prayer retreat next month! I was ready! But death came too fast!”
Saint Peter stared. “You were 71. How much more time did you need?”
“But others died too!” BabaCash protested. “And many of us! Ministers, tycoons, bishops with private jets, oil barons with thirty accounts! If we die together, maybe it’s a national thing? A heavenly amnesty?”
Peter’s voice grew firmer. “You all died full, full of pride, lies, money, stomach, lust, and self. But you arrived empty, no virtue, no grace, no truth.”
BabaCash’s tone changed. He had tried charm. Now, he tried a transaction.
With the familiar rustle of corrupt confidence, BabaCash opened a briefcase.
“My guy. Let’s not stress. I brought something for the gate. Just appreciation, as we do in VIP circles. I have dollars, pounds, crypto wallet seed phrases, anything to just grease the process. Let’s upgrade this gate sef, angelic CCTV, cloud storage. I fit even sponsor one celestial retreat for angels.”
Saint Peter didn’t flinch. “You have mistaken Heaven for a Senate hearing.”
“You think Jesus will be angry?” BabaCash tried again. “I built churches! One had a water fountain with LED lights and an ATM for tithes!”
Saint Peter turned a page in the Book.
“And Jesus said, ‘What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?’”
“I know that verse!” BabaCash exclaimed. “We used to quote it at fundraisers!”
Saint Peter paused. “Yes. But you never heard it.”
Behind BabaCash stood familiar faces. Dead powerful men. Big women in red gele with cold hearts. They had died in opulence, escorted by fleets and mourned with crocodile tears. National flags had flown at half-mast for some. Public holidays declared. Billboards lined up with their photos: “Exit of a Legend” … “We Lost a Pillar” … “Gone Too Soon”.
But Heaven knew better.
There stood a former petroleum minister whose perfume once cost more than minimum wage. Her gold bangles now looked dull in the light of judgment.
Next to her, a spiritual leader who collected jets and souls with equal greed. He was once called “God’s General.” Now, he trembled like a recruit.
A billionaire banker, a traditional ruler, a justice-for-sale judge, a socialite-turned senator, all stood like lost children, whispering lies to themselves:
“Maybe this is just the waiting area…”
“Surely, someone will call our name soon…”
“My burial was so grand, Heaven must have noticed.”
But no one noticed. Not here. Not anymore.
As BabaCash wept, he began to remember the things he left behind.
· A warehouse full of expired food, never distributed.
· A mansion sealed by EFCC.
· A family feuding over properties they never earned.
· A son caught in fraud.
· A daughter disgraced abroad.
· A wife, now the consort of his political rival.
· Associates already moving on, endorsing new politicians, forging new pacts.
He had built an empire. But he left it to vultures. His name was on buildings, but his soul was not in the Book.
He once said, “I came, I saw, I chopped life.”
Now he whispered: “I came, I stole, I’m damned.”
Saint Peter stood one final time.
“You lived with stomachs full but hearts empty. You died with warehouses of goods, but no record of goodness. Your wealth fed your image, but starved your spirit. You honoured God with your lips and dishonoured Him with your lifestyle.
“No one escapes the Gate,” he continued. “Not even presidents. Not your bishops or imams. Not your business partners and paramours. You all passed laws that could not protect you. Built churches that could not cleanse you. Wore crowns that meant nothing here.”
BabaCash collapsed to his knees.
“So… there’s no appeal? No mercy?”
Peter looked at him gently.
“Nigeria twisted judiciary and judges are not available here. Mercy was offered. For 71 years. It stood beside you every time you lied. It wept at every rigged contract. It whispered during your speeches. It screamed when you silenced the truth. But you never looked its way.”
A loud silence followed. Then a voice, firm and eternal, thundered from beyond.
“Depart. For I never knew you.”
A trapdoor opened.
Not of fire, but of eternal nothingness. Of regret without end. Of memory without redemption.
BabaCash fell.
As he disappeared, his final words echoed:
“I had plans…” Too late.
Moments later, a second figure approached the gate.
She was barefoot. A woman in her sixties. No titles. No convoy. Her hands bore scars from decades of work. Her name?
Madam Eno Nkoyo, a retired nurse from Akwa Ibom. She never trended. She never embezzled. She never “packaged.”
She simply lived well, served many, prayed quietly, gave from little, and forgave deeply.
Saint Peter looked up.
“Welcome, good and faithful servant.”
The gates opened. Not because she was perfect. But because she was sincere. She had come empty, but was now full.
Many powerful men and women will die like BabaCash, full of titles, honours, tributes, jets, and pride. They will leave behind towers, estates, and national monuments named after them.
But none of it follows them.
They will arrive before God with nothing but truth.
No motorcade. No influencer tweets. No senators to lobby.
Only the sum of what they were, not what they owned.
So, while they are buried with gold, Heaven watches for those buried with grace.
For in the end: Corrupt power is delusory; wealth without virtue is futile, and the most fortified political lives must someday kneel at the gates of eternity.
You can loot Nigeria, but you cannot loot eternity. You can lie to men, hide from the law, rig your past, and even build temples with stolen gold. But Heaven sees receipts no audit can erase.
“What shall it profit a man, if he gains the whole world, and loses his soul?” Mark 8:36
The answer lies in your bosom.
