I Was Dismissed for Refusing to Be a Temple Prostitute”: The Story of a Former Catholic Sister Who Defied Silence and Paid the Price
The quiet halls of a convent are supposed to be sanctuaries of peace — places where souls seek silence, prayer, and divine purpose. But for Annastasia Kinse, a 29-year-old woman from Plateau State, Nigeria, the convent became the stage for one of the most harrowing betrayals of faith she could imagine.
Once celebrated as the first Catholic reverend sister from her village, Annastasia’s decade-long journey in religious life ended abruptly this year when she was dismissed from the Congregation of Mother of Perpetual Help of the Archangels Sisters, under the Auchi Diocese of Edo State. Her dismissal, officially justified on grounds of “apostasy and misconduct,” has since sparked outrage, disbelief, and reflection within Nigeria’s Catholic community.
But beneath the official narrative lies a darker story — one that Annastasia claims is rooted in institutional harassment, cover-up, and retaliation for speaking out.
Born and raised in Plateau State, Annastasia entered the convent in July 2015, driven by what she describes as a pure, childlike calling to serve God.
“I joined because I wanted to give my life wholly to God,” she said. “I wanted to live in truth, obedience, and chastity — not for reward, but for love.”
After two years of formation and training, she took her perpetual vows in 2023, marking what was supposed to be a lifelong commitment to religious life. Alongside her spiritual duties, she served as a Graduate Assistant at Veritas University, Abuja — a Catholic institution owned by the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of Nigeria — while pursuing her master’s degree.
But her faith in the institution she cherished began to crumble when she reported what she described as a case of sexual harassment by her Head of Department.
Annastasia recalled the incident in painful detail. “It started with uncomfortable comments, then attempts to get me alone. I tried to maintain boundaries, but it became unbearable. One evening, he crossed the line, and I decided to act.”
She documented the harassment — voice recordings, messages, and video clips — and submitted a formal complaint to the university. In her letter, she requested that her identity be protected to avoid scandal. Instead, she says, she was told to remove the anonymity clause and defend her allegations publicly.
“They made me feel like the accused,” she said. “The panel that was set up wasn’t about truth; it was about intimidation. They asked, ‘Why did you go to his office if you knew he would harass you?’ They wanted to shame me into silence.”
When she appeared before the panel, her phone and bag were confiscated. The questioning was hostile, she said — several voices talking at once, mocking and twisting her words.
That same day, she forfeited an important exam just to attend the hearing. “They said I was disrespecting authority. But I was only seeking justice.
Soon after the hearing, Annastasia’s life descended into chaos.
She alleges that priests, school officials, and an “unidentified nurse” came to her home uninvited, attempting to pressure her into recanting her claims. “I tried to escape on a motorcycle, but they shouted at the rider to stop. I felt trapped — like a criminal running from her own Church.”
The emotional pressure became unbearable. “I had written to the vice chancellor, saying I was under psychological distress and needed counselling,” she said. “No one cared.”
Instead, she was accused of mental instability and rebellion.
Her breaking point came in July 2025, when a Facebook post she made was misinterpreted as a public renunciation of her faith.
“I wrote that I had converted to Islam,” she admitted. “But it wasn’t a conversion — it was a cry for help. I was in pain, betrayed by the very institution I had devoted my life to. My aunt, who was Muslim, had just died. In that moment, I felt spiritually homeless.”
The post triggered a storm. Her superiors seized on it as justification for dismissal, claiming she had defected from the Catholic faith.
“They never asked me what I meant,” she said quietly. “They just wanted a reason to get rid of me.”
“When I finally received the letter on September 24, it was already all over WhatsApp and Facebook. People were gossiping about me before I knew what was happening.”
She recounted the moment she returned to the convent, only to find her belongings thrown outside.
“It was the most humiliating moment of my life,” she said. “My religious habit — my symbol of devotion — was taken away. No explanation, no compassion. Just rejection.”
She took a photo of her belongings strewn outside and sent it to a sympathetic priest. “That’s when I knew it was over.”
Despite her ordeal, Annastasia insists her faith remains unbroken.
“They can take away my title, but not my faith,” she said. “I still believe in God with all my heart. But I no longer believe in silence. Silence protects abusers, not victims.”
She believes her dismissal was orchestrated to protect reputations within both her congregation and Veritas University. “The bishop told me the Church must protect its image. But what about truth? What about the souls we’re supposed to save?”
Annastasia’s strongest words came when describing the pressure she faced within the religious community.
“I was told to obey without question,” she said. “But obedience doesn’t mean surrendering your dignity. I refused to compromise myself, and that’s why I was labelled difficult.”
Her voice trembled as she added, “I would rather hawk chin chin and groundnuts on the street than sell my body or become a temple prostitute. That’s what I told my mother, and I’ve kept that promise.”
Her statement, both symbolic and literal, speaks to what she perceives as the moral decay within some corners of religious institutions, where young women face pressure from clergy and superiors who abuse power under the guise of spiritual authority.
Beyond emotional trauma, Annastasia battles chronic pain from a motorcycle accident that left her with a disc bulge and restricted mobility. “I live with constant pain,” she said. “My back swells; sometimes I can’t stand for long.”
Despite needing treatment, she refuses financial help from the Church. “I’d rather suffer honestly than accept aid from those who destroyed my peace.”
She currently lives with her cousin, with occasional help from her sister. “It’s hard,” she admits, “but I’m free.”
In an official statement dated August 29, 2025, signed by Sr. Maryanne Ogwokhademhe, Superior General of the Congregation, and Sr. Rosemary Odion, Secretary-General, the order insisted that Miss Kinse Shako Annastasia “ipso facto ceased to be a member” when she “defected from the Catholic faith and embraced Islam.”
The congregation denied her allegations of mistreatment, stating that “at no time did she ever report any case of sexual abuse” and that her dismissal was based on “acts of gross misconduct and persistent rejection of fraternal correction.”
To date, Veritas University has not issued an official response to an inquiry letter sent on October 8, 2025.
Annastasia’s story doesn’t stand alone. She alleges that another priest once told her he wanted to be “the first man to sleep with her.”
“I was called wicked for rejecting him,” she said. “When I spoke up, I was told I was imagining things. They protected him, not me.”
Her account aligns with a troubling global pattern within the Church — one where female religious workers face harassment but remain voiceless due to vows of obedience and fear of scandal.
The incident has drawn attention to how religious institutions handle internal conflicts and abuse allegations, especially against senior clergy.
“The system protects hierarchy, not holiness,” said a Catholic rights activist in Abuja, reacting to her story. “When a woman inside the convent speaks out, she’s branded disobedient. When she stays silent, she dies inside.”
Annastasia’s courage to go public has made her both a hero and a heretic in the eyes of the community. Supporters online hail her as a symbol of integrity. Critics accuse her of disobedience and pride.
Yet, she insists she is neither. “I’m just a woman who refused to let injustice define her faith.”
Even after her expulsion, Annastasia still considers herself a consecrated person.
“My vows are eternal,” she said. “A letter can’t undo them. My commitment was to God, not to human structures.”
She rejects claims that she burned her religious habit — “I only packed it away in anger. I told the sisters to come collect theirs because I couldn’t bear the hypocrisy anymore.”
She also challenged the claim of mental instability. “Where’s the medical report? If they say I’m insane, let them prove it. I went to a teaching hospital for psychiatric evaluation. I’m still waiting for the report.”
Her story exposes a troubling question: How many other women within the Church suffer in silence?
“This experience has opened my eyes,” Annastasia reflected. “There’s so much rot hidden behind the walls of holiness. The Church should be a refuge for the wounded, not a shield for the powerful.”
She believes institutional reform is urgent. “The Catholic Church in Nigeria must create systems that protect victims and hold offenders accountable. Otherwise, people will lose faith — not in God, but in the Church itself.”
Through the pain, Annastasia remains anchored in her conviction. “They can take away my position, my community, and my home, but they can’t take away my voice. My story will speak for others who are too afraid.”
Her message to young women discerning religious life is blunt but compassionate:
“Pray before you enter. Observe everything. Don’t be dazzled by the outward holiness. Some are in it for control, not Christ. When you choose truth, be ready for persecution. But never let fear silence you.”
Her family, though heartbroken, has remained her greatest pillar of support. “My parents cried when they heard I was dismissed, but they told me, ‘You did the right thing.’ That keeps me strong.”
Now living quietly in Jos, she continues to pray and rebuild. “I cry sometimes,” she admits. “But every tear has meaning. I believe God is not done with my story.”
Annastasia’s testimony is not just a scandal within religious circles — it is a mirror reflecting the complex intersection of faith, power, gender, and justice in contemporary Nigeria.
She was a woman who entered a convent to find God and ended up confronting the politics of patriarchy cloaked in vestments. Her dismissal has become a symbol of what happens when conscience collides with institutional control.
“I didn’t lose my vocation,” she insists. “They lost their integrity. God sees everything. My journey is not over.”
Her ordeal raises questions that extend far beyond the convent walls:
Why are Church institutions still reluctant to establish transparent mechanisms for handling harassment and abuse?
How can faith communities protect whistleblowers instead of branding them rebels?
What happens when obedience becomes complicity?
Annastasia’s story is a cautionary tale for a generation of believers struggling to reconcile spirituality with institutional failure.
As she puts it, “The Church must decide — does it serve God, or does it serve power?”
Even amid loss, Annastasia speaks with the unshakable calm of a woman who has wrestled with despair and found meaning.
“I have lost my title, my home, my income, and even my health,” she said. “But I haven’t lost my voice, and I haven’t lost my faith. If my story helps one person find courage, then my pain is worth it.”
“I was dismissed for refusing to become what I was never called to be — a temple prostitute. I chose truth over comfort. And I know God stands with me.”
As the sun sets on her chapter as Sister Annastasia of the Archangels, a new dawn rises for Annastasia Kinse — the woman, the believer, and the survivor — still consecrated, still defiant, and still unbroken.