Jakubu was my church mate some years back, the kind of man who could turn a funeral announcement into a comedy special without dishonoring the dead. He had a gift. Not just for telling stories—but for telling them in a way that made you laugh first… and think later.
One Sunday, when the choir had just finished stretching a single chorus into fifteen minutes, Jakubu was given the mic. He cleared his throat dramatically.
“Today,” he said, “let me tell you about a fashion designer from the Bible.” We all looked up. “A seamstress. A tailor. A small-scale entrepreneur. Sister Tabitha—also known in high society as Dorcas.” The church chuckled.
Jakubu went on to narrate the story from Acts of the Apostles chapter 9, but not the way we had heard it read in solemn King James English. No. He painted it like a village drama.
He described Tabitha sitting behind an old wooden table, measuring cloth with teeth in her mouth, arguing with suppliers about fabric prices, shaking her head at inflation in Joppa.
“Threads were not falling from heaven,” Jakubu said. “Linen prices were not on discount. The economy was not smiling. Caesar was still taxing. Yet Sister Tabitha said, ‘I will not just sew for profit—I will sew for purpose.’”
By now people were laughing. He imitated widows lining up outside her door; “Tabitha, my coat has more holes than theology of Job!” And Tabitha replying, “Bring it here, Mama. We shall patch it. Heaven is watching.”
Then Jakubu leaned forward. “And one day,” he lowered his voice, “Sister Tabitha died.” The church went silent.
He described the widows crying—not because she owed them money, not because she was trending on social media, but because she had clothed their nakedness. He dramatically acted out the scene where they displayed the coats she had made, waving imaginary garments in the air.
“Look!” he said, pretending to sob. “She stitched this one during high inflation!” We laughed again.
Then he told how Peter the Apostle came, prayed, and told her to rise—and she did. Jakubu paused. He scanned the room slowly. Then he asked the question that has followed me ever since; “How many free coats have you given since the year began?” The laughter died.
He continued, softer now. “The economy in Tabitha’s time was not better than ours. Rome was not offering stimulus packages. Yet out of her work, out of her little tailoring hustle, she set something aside for other people.” He tapped the pulpit. “She did not wait to become rich. She decided to become useful.” Silence.
One Sunday, when the choir had just finished stretching a single chorus into fifteen minutes, Jakubu was given the mic. He cleared his throat dramatically.
“Today,” he said, “let me tell you about a fashion designer from the Bible.” We all looked up. “A seamstress. A tailor. A small-scale entrepreneur. Sister Tabitha—also known in high society as Dorcas.” The church chuckled.
Jakubu went on to narrate the story from Acts of the Apostles chapter 9, but not the way we had heard it read in solemn King James English. No. He painted it like a village drama.
He described Tabitha sitting behind an old wooden table, measuring cloth with teeth in her mouth, arguing with suppliers about fabric prices, shaking her head at inflation in Joppa.
“Threads were not falling from heaven,” Jakubu said. “Linen prices were not on discount. The economy was not smiling. Caesar was still taxing. Yet Sister Tabitha said, ‘I will not just sew for profit—I will sew for purpose.’”
By now people were laughing. He imitated widows lining up outside her door; “Tabitha, my coat has more holes than theology of Job!” And Tabitha replying, “Bring it here, Mama. We shall patch it. Heaven is watching.”
Then Jakubu leaned forward. “And one day,” he lowered his voice, “Sister Tabitha died.” The church went silent.
He described the widows crying—not because she owed them money, not because she was trending on social media, but because she had clothed their nakedness. He dramatically acted out the scene where they displayed the coats she had made, waving imaginary garments in the air.
“Look!” he said, pretending to sob. “She stitched this one during high inflation!” We laughed again.
Then he told how Peter the Apostle came, prayed, and told her to rise—and she did. Jakubu paused. He scanned the room slowly. Then he asked the question that has followed me ever since; “How many free coats have you given since the year began?” The laughter died.
He continued, softer now. “The economy in Tabitha’s time was not better than ours. Rome was not offering stimulus packages. Yet out of her work, out of her little tailoring hustle, she set something aside for other people.” He tapped the pulpit. “She did not wait to become rich. She decided to become useful.” Silence.
Then he repeated it. “How many free coats have you given?” Not coats necessarily. Not fabric and thread. How many school fees have you quietly topped up? How many hospital bills have you reduced? How many groceries have you dropped at a doorstep without announcement? How many calls have you made to the lonely? How many tears have you wiped? How many burdens have you helped carry?
Jakubu had a way of wrapping conviction in comedy. You would laugh yourself into repentance. And now, years later, I hear his voice in my head.
The roads are still rough. The economy is still tight. The excuses are still plentiful. But so are the opportunities. Tabitha did not build empires. She stitched garments. Small acts. Consistent mercy. Practical love. And heaven noticed.
So let me ask you what Jakubu asked us that day— How many free coats have you given to others since this year began?
Jakubu had a way of wrapping conviction in comedy. You would laugh yourself into repentance. And now, years later, I hear his voice in my head.
The roads are still rough. The economy is still tight. The excuses are still plentiful. But so are the opportunities. Tabitha did not build empires. She stitched garments. Small acts. Consistent mercy. Practical love. And heaven noticed.
So let me ask you what Jakubu asked us that day— How many free coats have you given to others since this year began?
