My Aunt Used My Photos for Religious Clout — I Disowned The Fake Image of Me and Lost Relatives


My phone lit up in the darkness, and my own face appeared on a live video titled “Sister Lena’s Testimony: Delivered From Vanity.” The voice preaching was my aunt Grace’s, but the name on the screen was mine. In the comments, strangers typed prayers for me. One message landed like a slap: “We will announce you on Sunday.”

I sat up so abruptly that the bedsheet slipped from my shoulder. The room in Adabraka, Accra, suddenly felt too small, as if the walls were leaning in to listen. On the screen, my graduation photo floated beside a Bible verse I had never posted. Then another image appeared — a picture from my cousin’s wedding in Tema — accompanied by a caption claiming I had “repented publicly” that very night.

My hands shook as I scrolled. There were dozens of posts. Long confessions written in a voice that was not mine, admitting sins I had never committed, pledging obedience I had never promised, and thanking Grace for “saving my soul.”

Before I could gather myself, a WhatsApp call buzzed. I answered, still half-asleep.

“Good evening, Sister Lena,” a man said warmly, as if we had prayed together for years. “I just watched your live. Very powerful. We need you to share this testimony at our women’s fellowship in Kaneshie on Saturday.”

“Sir,” I replied, my throat tightening, “I did not do that live.”

There was a pause. Then his tone changed. “So you are denying your testimony?”

I looked again at the screen, where my face smiled calmly beneath Grace’s words. Outside my window, a trotro horn blared as life carried on. Inside, my stomach sank as another message arrived: “Do not backslide. The whole community is watching.”

Growing Up Where Faith Was Reputation

My name is Lena Mensah. I grew up in Mamprobi, Accra, in a home where faith spoke loudly — sometimes louder than truth. In our community, church was not only a place of worship; it was a symbol of reputation, connection, and protection. People noticed who attended consistently, who greeted elders properly, and whose family looked “serious.”

My Auntie Grace understood that world better than anyone. She was outspoken, confident, and deeply invested in how our family appeared. She led women’s prayer meetings, organised donations when someone died, and spoke with the certainty of someone convinced that God was always on her side. Praise felt like confirmation of her calling; questions felt like spiritual attacks.

As a child, I followed her willingly. I joined the youth choir, attended programmes, and learned the rhythm of being seen. When Grace introduced me to visitors, she always added a line that carried weight: “This is my niece. She fears God.”

As I grew older, however, I began to separate belief from performance. I did not abandon prayer or mock the church. I simply stopped advertising my spirituality. I wanted my faith to be private — not a public badge worn to meet expectations. I wanted space to question, to grow, and to think without being labelled rebellious.

Grace did not call that privacy. She called it danger.

Whenever I missed a service because of work, she warned me. Whenever I refused to post religious messages online, she said I was becoming “too modern.” At family gatherings in Dansoman and Teshie, she would pull me aside and speak in a low, concerned voice: “Lena, people are watching. Do not let them think you are drifting.”

I tried to keep the peace. I answered politely and avoided arguments, assuming our tension would remain manageable — a small crack we could step over. What I did not realise was that Grace treated my silence as permission. She believed my life was part of the family’s public story, and therefore something she could shape.

When Praise Turned Into Impersonation

It began with praise that did not fit my life.

Two days after the late-night call, I stepped out of a trotro at Makola to buy fabric for my mother. A woman in a white headscarf grabbed my hand.

“Sister Lena, your testimony blessed me,” she said. “God will use you.”

“I think you have the wrong person,” I replied.

She smiled, confident. “No. Auntie Grace’s niece. I watched you.”

That evening, an old classmate, Efua, sent me screenshots. My photos appeared under a profile bearing my name. The bio read: “Saved by glory. Guided by Auntie Grace.” The posts described me as a former party girl who had repented, cut off friends, and vowed submission to spiritual authority.

I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. I had written none of it.

I called Grace immediately.

“Auntie, did you create a page using my photos?”

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “And what about it?”

“People think I am sharing testimonies,” I said. “Delete it.”

She sighed. “Lena, you have refused to speak. I am helping you find your way.”

“You are lying with my face,” I said, my voice trembling.

“Do not talk to me like I am your mate,” she snapped. “This family will not produce a girl who looks lukewarm.”

When the Lie Entered My Workplace

The situation escalated quickly. By mid-morning at my office near Ridge, a colleague leaned over my desk and joked, “Madam Pastor, you didn’t tell us you’re doing live videos.”

Someone had forwarded the recording to a WhatsApp group. A client even commented, “We will support your ministry.” What began as church gossip had entered my professional life.

Later, a youth leader sent a voice note: “Sister Lena, the girls need you. Please don’t disappoint us.” They had recruited me into a life I never chose.

I called Grace again. “This has reached my workplace. Please stop.”

She laughed softly. “Now you see the power of testimony.”

“It is not my testimony,” I said. “You are putting me in trouble.”

“You are only afraid because you want freedom,” she replied. “If you were clean, you wouldn’t panic.”

The Cost of Performance

At a family funeral in Nungua, Grace arrived dressed in white. When she saw me, she hugged me publicly and announced, “Our Sister Lena has been on fire for God.” Applause followed.

“Auntie, stop,” I whispered.

“Not here,” she murmured, gripping my arm. “Do not disgrace me.”

Later, a cousin asked, “Why are you fighting Auntie Grace? She’s building your image.”

“My image is not a project,” I replied. “She is impersonating me.”

“But the posts are good,” she said. “Why can’t you just behave like that in real life?”

That question cut deeply. The performance had become the standard.

When an elderly woman later asked me to lead prayer, hesitation alone earned suspicion. If I performed, I confirmed the lie. If I refused, I appeared hypocritical.

Realising What This Was Really About

I initially believed the solution was simple: expose the fake accounts and move on. But a conversation with a pastor changed everything.

When I explained that the page was not mine, he frowned. “So you are denying it?”

“I am correcting it,” I said.

“Young people enjoy attention when it is sweet,” he replied. “When accountability comes, you explain.”

That was when the truth became clear. Grace was not trying to bring me closer to God. She was using my image to control how I moved within the community — and to centre herself in my story. Every post credited her guidance. Every caption portrayed her as the spiritual hero who rescued a “lost” niece.

My face became her evidence.

If I protested, I was labelled rebellious. If I complied, I disappeared into a role I never chose. This was not about faith. It was about ownership.

Choosing My Name Over Approval

One Tuesday night, after work, I sat on my bed and wrote a simple message:

“Any account using my photos and claiming to share my testimony is not mine. I did not create it and do not speak through it. Please stop sharing it.”

I posted it on my pages and in the family WhatsApp group.

The backlash was immediate. Relatives accused me of shaming Grace and disrespecting elders. Grace herself confronted me, furious.

“You want to destroy me,” she said.

“You destroyed me first,” I replied. “You used my face.”

“If you want independence, take it,” she snapped. “Do not call me family again.”

“I will not let anyone speak as me again,” I said calmly.

Within days, the fake pages disappeared. The calls slowed. Some relatives stopped greeting me. Others removed me from group chats. I lost the protection that came with the family image — but I regained ownership of my life.

What Silence Really Costs

I once believed maturity meant staying quiet, especially in family matters. Silence is often framed as respect. But I learned that silence can also become permission.

Grace wrapped control in religious language because faith makes domination sound holy. It turns “I want to manage you” into “I want to guide you.” Many people did not care whether the story was true — only that it inspired them or made the family look righteous.

My lesson is simple: your name is not a sacrifice meant to keep others comfortable. If someone benefits from a false version of you, they will fight to keep it alive. The only way to end it is to speak clearly, set boundaries, and accept that not everyone will stay.

I still believe in God. I simply no longer confuse God with performance, or church respect with personal integrity. I choose honesty over applause, even when honesty makes me look difficult.

Before I choose silence now, I ask myself one question:

If I stay quiet to preserve “peace,” whose version of my life am I allowing to grow?


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