“There’s no heaven waiting at the end. Only judgment”
WHEN you hear the name Apollo Quiboloy, you may expect a tale of some ancient god fallen from grace – a celestial being who lost his place among the stars and took to Earth to wreak havoc.
But what you find is something far darker.
This isn’t a mythic god; it’s a man. And not just any man, but a self-proclaimed “appointed Son of God,” surrounded by what can only be described as demons in disguise – his angels of death.
These so-called angels, it turns out, are not spectral beings waiting to deliver divine justice.
They’re flesh and blood, armed to the teeth, standing ready to enforce the will of a man whose vision of heaven seems to include unspeakable horrors inflicted upon children.
This is the nightmare that leaves your skin crawling and your mind grasping for any sign that you might wake up.
But there is no waking up, no gentle shaking from this nightmare. This is the grim reality playing out in the daylight, and what’s worse, it’s been allowed to fester.
It would almost be laughable if it weren’t so tragic—the idea of a religious leader assembling his own hit squad, weaponizing fear like some twisted mafia boss cloaked in the robes of piety.
But this is no gangster flick.
These aren’t petty criminals knocking on doors to collect debts; these are Quiboloy’s angels of death, allegedly made up of active and retired security forces.
They’re the enforcers of a doctrine that ensures silence, ensures fear, ensures obedience, all under the guise of divine authority.
Now, you might think, “Surely, history has seen this before.” And you’d be right.
This isn’t the first time we’ve seen a man don the garb of a holy figure while unleashing hell on Earth. Think back to Jim Jones, another so-called prophet who turned a jungle commune into a mass grave, convincing hundreds of souls to drink the Kool-Aid in the name of salvation.
Or David Koresh, the self-anointed messiah who led his followers straight into the inferno of the Waco siege.
Quiboloy, with his army of earthly angels, might as well be reading from the same twisted playbook.
What we see here, though, is something more personal, more insidious.
Reports said children as young as 12 or 13 were subjected to the most vile form of abuse, told their innocence was untouched because they had been intimate not with a man, but with the spirit of God.
If they dared speak out? Well, Quiboloy had his angels of death waiting in the wings, ready to snuff out any rebellion before it could even flicker.
Let’s not mince words—this is a horror show, a grotesque tableau where faith is distorted into something monstrous.
That Quiboloy’s counsel can deny these accusations with a straight face only adds a layer of nauseating disbelief.
Will we hear the angels of death were merely figments of an overactive imagination, just bedtime stories told to keep the kids in line?
Of course, Tolentino, Quiboloy’s lawyer, calls the victims “planted and manufactured.”
It’s an old trick, right out of the playbook of any cult leader backed into a corner: Deny everything. Call your accusers liars. Proclaim your innocence to the heavens, while the bodies pile up on Earth.
What’s to be done?
In a world where men like Quiboloy can rise to power on the backs of fear and manipulation, the first instinct might be to call for divine intervention.
But if history has taught us anything, it’s that waiting for a miracle only gives monsters like him more time to entrench themselves.
Instead, I propose something more human, more immediate.
We should adopt Quiboloy’s own methods—after all, what’s more ironic than fighting fire with fire? Let’s assemble our own angels, but not of death—of justice.
Armed not with guns, but with subpoenas, search warrants, and the hard resolve of law enforcement officials who won’t be swayed by the pomp and pageantry of a man who claims divinity.
Let these angels of justice descend upon Quiboloy and his empire, not with divine wrath, but with the cold, hard reality of a courtroom, where the only spirit that matters is the spirit of the law.
Let’s not stop there. If Quiboloy truly believes in the angels of death, perhaps we should give him a taste of his own medicine.
Send in the International Criminal Court, wielding not swords but indictments, their wings heavy with evidence, their eyes unblinking and merciless.
Maybe then, Quiboloy will find himself on the receiving end of the fear he’s so generously distributed.
In the end, what men like Quiboloy fail to understand is no army of angels—whether real or imagined—can save them from the reckoning when justice is finally served.
Whether by the hands of earthly courts or the judgment of history, the day will come when his empire of fear crumbles into dust, and the only angels left standing will be those who fought for the innocent.
So, Pastor Quiboloy, if you’re reading, I have just one recommendation: You might want to start praying.
Not to your angels of death, but to whoever will listen, because your days of playing God are numbered.
This time, there’s no heaven waiting at the end. Only judgment.
