Morning Cry and Madness: Unmasking Pentecostal Psychopathy in Africa -By Patrick Iwelunmor

Indeed, nobody has a monopoly on madness. For a long time, I thought mental illness was the exclusive preserve of those who had lost their minds due to substance abuse or extreme emotional trauma—until one Monday morning, on my way to work, I met a preacher on Anthony Oke in Lagos.

The thrust of his sermon was familiar and even pleasant to the ear: “Life is vanity upon vanity.” But his appearance and demeanour suggested a different story. Dressed in what looked like filthy rags, he advanced towards me with an expression that could have passed for righteous indignation—or unrestrained hostility, as if I was one of those who crucified his Jesus. 

“Where are you going this early morning?” he barked. “You are looking for money instead of following Jesus. Without Jesus, your money is vanity upon vanity!”

The words were as familiar as any Sunday school memory, yet something about the messenger was off. His eyes were wild, his manner agitated. It struck me then: perhaps this was not simply the zeal of an early morning evangelist but a case of what I now call Pentecostal Psychopathy.

As a student of literature who has spent years studying the portrayal of mental illness in African writing, the encounter lit a fire of intellectual curiosity in me. Could it be that not all Morning Cry preachers—the ones who roam neighbourhoods at dawn, blaring sermons into the waking quiet—are entirely sound?

My curiosity led me to an interview in The Sun newspaper with Professor Jude Ohaeri, a consultant psychiatrist of international standing. In his view:

“I think that this phenomenon of morning cry is an avenue for expressing severe mental disorder. People who are involved in early morning cry are not sleeping well; they wake up at 4:00 a.m. and start shouting and preaching endlessly. It is also part of joblessness. So, a good number of early morning preachers are sick because it is an avenue of expressing severe mental disorder, especially mania.”

Professor Ohaeri’s point was blunt: some morning preachers are not simply eccentric—they are unwell. While the preacher I met could have been suffering from trauma-induced psychosis or chronic insomnia, many African pastors, I believe, suffer from money-induced psychopathy without even realising it. And because they do not acknowledge the problem, help is rarely sought or received.

This is tragic for a continent already steeped in poverty. Africa clings to a brand of spirituality that promises transformation of lives and livelihoods, yet millions remain unable to afford life’s most basic necessities.

Pentecostalism is not the only expression of spiritual power in Africa, but it has, for decades, been positioned as the ultimate cure for the continent’s social and economic troubles. This narrative has birthed a new breed of “men of God” who wear expensive suits, cultivate celebrity status, and flaunt their wealth online. In their hands, God’s anointing becomes a commodity to be traded for monetary gain.

Worse still, this so-called anointing is sometimes weaponised in ways that are morally repugnant. Across the continent, there have been scandalous reports of pastors coercing women into sexual acts under the pretext of “casting out demons.”

To be fair, Pentecostalism did inject a certain vitality into African Christianity, especially by giving the descendants of enslaved and colonised peoples a sense of agency in faith. But it also robbed them of much of their cultural identity. There is no humanity in a theology that manipulates the faithful and exploits their vulnerabilities.

In today’s Africa, pastors are quick to place congregations on forty-day fasts yet rarely spare thirty minutes to challenge the state over its failures. Many have strayed from their original calling into the profitable business of political prophecy—forecasting election results in pursuit of patronage and relevance.

Gone are the days when men of God lived modestly, rarely seen in public except on missionary assignments. Now, pastors are more akin to entertainment celebrities, their worth measured by social media followership and the opulence of their lifestyles. This is one of the signs of what I call Pentecostal madness: a spiritual pathology marked by manipulation of the gullible.

Congregants part with their hard-earned money while these pulpit bandits drive luxury cars, compete over designer watches, and sometimes engage in petty rivalries over who owns the latest private jet.

Karl Marx famously called religion “the opium of the masses.” Opium intoxicates—and so does religion. Pentecostal Psychopathy is that intoxication taken to its pathological extreme, where religious fervour blurs into delusion, exploitation, and moral decay.

This is not to dismiss faith itself. Religion can inspire compassion, justice, and communal solidarity. But when it becomes a theatre for unchecked ambition and personal gain, it loses its essence. In such cases, religious leaders are not shepherds but predators—feeding not on the Word of God but on the wallets, bodies, and minds of their flock.

Those who wish to be free from Pentecostal Psychopathy must approach their faith with discernment. Not every voice that thunders scripture at dawn is a divine messenger. Not every “prophet” is sent by God. And not every miracle claimed in the pulpit is born of holiness.

In the end, some Christian denominations hold to the belief that they alone will enter heaven, consigning all others to hellfire. This rigid exclusivity is not just bad theology—it is another symptom of the madness.

The challenge for Africa is this: to reclaim a faith that uplifts rather than exploits, that restores dignity instead of stripping it away, and that serves as a beacon of truth rather than a marketplace of false prophecy. Until then, the line between genuine spirituality and Pentecostal Psychopathy will remain perilously thin.