Reported by: Ijeoma G | Edited by: Oravbiere Osayomore Promise.
The video was raw, unfiltered and desperate. Sandra Okpara, a single mother of two, sat before her phone camera and spoke directly to anyone who would listen. Her voice carried the weight of a woman who had made a mistake so costly that it threatened to swallow her whole. “My name is Sandra Okpara. I’m a single mother of two and I believe in God,” she began. She had done her morning service on Pastor Jerry Eze’s New Season Prophetic Prayers and Declarations stream. She had done communion. She had made her offering, a modest transfer of N1,000. Three hours later, she tried to send N1,640,200 to her Zenith Bank account to purchase a voucher. Instead, her hand clicked on the wrong beneficiary. The money went to the church. “It was erroneous,” she said, her voice cracking. “This money is not my money. I cannot do offering of 1,640,200.” The money belonged to other people. They were calling her, demanding its return. She did not know where to find it. “I am a single mum of two, I don’t have a husband. Please help me and put the money back.”
The video, posted on Friday, September 11, 2026, spread quickly across social media. Okpara had already tried the conventional routes before going public. She went to Zenith Bank, but the money was not there. She went to Moniepoint, where the complaint was lodged, but she was told she needed a court order. She tried the church’s online prayer platform, but could not reach anyone who could help. “I don’t know how to contact them,” she said. So she did the only thing she could think of. She made a video, and she begged. “Please help me trace the accounts,” she pleaded. “Please help me and put the money back.” The desperation in her voice was not performative. It was the sound of a woman who had watched her world tilt on its axis because of a single, irreversible click.
The church’s initial response was measured and, to its credit, immediate once the video surfaced. Streams of Joy International, the ministry founded by Pastor Jerry Eze, issued a statement on its official Instagram handle, @streamsofjoyinternational. The church said it had become aware of the claim through the circulating video and noted that it had not received any direct complaint from Okpara before the matter surfaced online. “Before its publication, we had not received any call, email, direct message or formal complaint from the individual regarding the alleged erroneous transfer,” the church said. It explained that it routinely handles reports of erroneous transactions through a verification process. “In any case, we have called her to investigate further using the number in the video. If all her claims are valid, we will do the needful.” The church also said its team remained available and committed to addressing genuine concerns transparently and responsibly.
By Saturday morning, the matter had been resolved. Okpara confirmed to PUNCH Online that she had received the full refund. “100 per cent,” she said when asked if the money had been returned. She disclosed that the refund came at about 6:22 a.m. on Saturday, September 12, after a member of the church’s staff contacted her. “I had to do the video to push out for people to share it, and it happened. And to the glory of God, around 6.22 this morning, one of their staff member called me, and I was refunded.” The church also confirmed the refund in a post on X, stating simply, “We have transferred her money back to her.” It added that its direct-message channels and official contact lines remained open for reports of erroneous transactions.
Okpara was careful to clarify her intentions. She said she had not made the video to damage the reputation of the church or its founder. “That’s the power of social media. It’s not because I want to do it to tarnish Pastor Jerry’s image,” she said. Her goal, she insisted, was simply to recover money that did not belong to her. The speed of the resolution, once the video gained traction, raises uncomfortable questions about how the situation might have unfolded if Okpara had not gone public. She had tried the bank. She had tried the payment platform. She had tried the church’s online channels. In each case, she was met with a wall of process, bureaucracy, or silence. It was only when her face and her voice were broadcast to millions that the wall came down. The church’s explanation that it had not received a formal complaint before the video is technically correct, but it does not fully address the reality that Okpara did not know how to file one. The church’s own statement acknowledged that it received reports through a verification process, but it did not explain how a distressed, technologically challenged single mother was supposed to navigate that process from her living room.
The episode is a reminder of the power and the peril of digital transactions in Nigeria. A single mistaken click can transfer more money than many Nigerians earn in a year. The banks and fintech platforms that facilitate these transfers often have little sympathy for the victims of their own errors. The requirement for a court order to reverse a mistaken transfer, as Okpara discovered at Moniepoint, is a legal safeguard designed to prevent fraud, but it is also a barrier that leaves ordinary people stranded. For Okpara, the solution came not through the system, but through the court of public opinion. Her story is a testament to the reach of social media and the willingness of Nigerians to rally behind a stranger in distress. It is also a cautionary tale about the gaps in consumer protection that leave people like her with no recourse but to beg. The money is back. The crisis is over. But the question remains: what happens to the next person who makes the same mistake, and whose video does not go viral?
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