Gashumba, the Pulpit and the Price of Believing

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In Uganda, we have perfected a peculiar economy. A man with no capital, no license and no qualification can acquire a microphone, a white suit and a Facebook page. By Sunday he is a “Pastor,” by Wednesday a “Prophet,” and by month’s end he is a landlord, preferably in your former house.

Do not laugh. In March 2025, police announced they were tracking 15 prominent city pastors suspected of conning followers out of land and houses under the pretext of spiritual intervention. These were “well-respected” men, respected precisely because they dressed as holy men. Investigators say they are still compiling evidence.

Into this crowded marketplace of miracles steps Frank Gashumba, the self-described motivational speaker, activist and entrepreneur. Whenever Ugandans debate who is genuine and who is a fraud, he is a useful reference point. This is not because of anything he has said about the pulpit. It is because he reminds us that in this country a person may declare himself anything and the crowd will happily applaud. We have a warm tradition of letting titles do the work that credentials should.

Consider the arithmetic of faith. More than 80 percent of Ugandans are Christian, and the BBC has reported over 40,000 evangelical churches. So why are so many Ugandans fleeced? Let me offer five humble reasons.

One: desperation is a fine business plan. The clinic is far, the drugs are few, the job market is thin and the landlord is unmoved. Into that gap walks a man who says, “Bring your problem and a seed offering.” The hospital cannot compete. It has never once promised to cure you by Friday.

Two: miracles are cheaper than medicine. A prophet charges whatever you can give, which is conveniently whatever you cannot afford. It is the only health scheme with no forms and no payouts.

Three: we mistake volume for authority. If a man shouts “Fire!” three times and collapses onto a microphone, we assume the Holy Spirit has been consulted. Columnist Allan Tacca has noted that pastors with big congregations keep calling pastors with bigger congregations’ fake. Nobody can tell who who is, because the only audit anyone has ever attempted is of the offering basket.

Four: faith has no register. Anyone can open a church tomorrow morning, and many do. There is no public list to check before handing over a title deed. Our neighbours in Rwanda decided in 2018 that church leaders should hold basic theological training. You need not copy them to see the point: we need some standard, some register, some way for a widow to verify a man before she trusts him with her land.

Five: we are polite to a fault. Ugandans will tolerate nearly anything if it arrives wrapped in a Bible verse. Question a pastor and you are accused of “touching the Lord’s anointed.” Question a bank and you are merely a customer. The anointed enjoy an exemption no ministry ever signed.

Now, to be fair, plenty of pastors in this country preach honestly, bury the dead, feed the hungry, and run schools and clinics in places few others reach. They suffer most when the circus comes to town, because every staged “healing” makes it easier for a cynic to dismiss those who mean it. The real faithful should be the loudest voices demanding transparency, a code of conduct, and consequences for the crooks among them.

This is where Gashumba earns his place in this column. He is a reminder that in Uganda, self-description is a career. You call yourself something, repeat it often, and the crowd rewards confidence over evidence. The pulpit is simply where this habit turns costly, because there the product on sale is hope, and hope has no refund policy.

Kanungu should have taught us as much. In 2000, hundreds of followers of a doomsday sect died in a church fire in western Uganda, with some estimates approaching 800. The warning signs were there, and so was the polite silence. We buried the dead and, too soon, moved on.

So, what would a sane response look like? Churches and the wider faith community could build a public register that anyone can check on a phone. Outfits that take serious money from poor families could offer voluntary financial disclosure. There should be clear consequences when “healing” means telling a diabetic to bin her insulin. And we should end the idea that the title “Pastor” is an immunity badge rather than a job description.

None of that means policing belief. It means treating a man who sells salvation the way we treat a man who sells maize flour: weigh it, label it, and complain loudly when it turns out to be sand.

Until then, expect more of the same. Somewhere in Kampala tonight, a man is rehearsing tears for tomorrow’s service. In the third row, a widow is counting her last notes into an envelope. One of them will leave richer, and we shall once again blame the widow for being gullible, because that is easier than admitting we have built a society where gullibility is the only affordable insurance.

Amen. Or, as the prophets say, send your “seed” to the number on your screen.

Mr. Were works to advance farming systems in Africa based in South Africa.

By Nathan Were

Email: were.nathan@gmail.com

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