"Marvin Sapp responds after viral video shows him urging $40K donation
Marvin Sapp, gospel singer and pastor, is under scrutiny after a viral video showed him urging a congregation to donate $40,000, with critics accusing him of holding worshippers "hostage."
The footage, taken at the Pentecostal Assemblies of the World Convention in Baltimore, shows Sapp instructing ushers to 'close the doors' while attendees contributed financially. "There's 1,000 of you. I said close them doors. Ushers, close the doors," Sapp is heard saying. He then challenges attendees to "sow a $20 seed," while some were seen contributing $100 bills.
The incident sparked backlash on social media. Critics accused Sapp of using high-pressure tactics, with one user posting, 'That's not faith, that's a shakedown.' Another wrote, 'He's hustling his congregation for $40K in God's name.'
Sapp, who previously performed at Sean "Diddy" Combs' 50th birthday party, responded via Facebook, denying allegations of coercion. "My directive was not about control," he wrote. "It was about creating a safe, focused, and reverent environment for those choosing to give." He explained that collecting donations can be a "vulnerable and exposed" time for both the finance and security teams.
Despite the controversy, Sapp remains a respected gospel artist, with his hit song "Never Would Have Made It" being praised by celebrities and athletes like DJ Reed and Dwight Gooden. However, the debate over his fundraising tactics continues.
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Express Tribune
15 hours ago
- Express Tribune
Viral by chance, famous by heart
Gul Wali Khan was arranging a fresh tray of walnuts at his stall in Peshawar's Rail Shopping Plaza when a teenager walked up, grinning. 'Aap ka woh video dekha tha,' the boy said, wide-eyed. 'Jo truck ke neeche bhi nahi toota!' Wali smiled, half amused, half proud. He's heard this before, from young fans, elderly couples, and even entire families who visit just to meet him in person. Not long ago, a family visiting from Birmingham stood at the counter, pointing at their phone and laughing. One of them told him, 'You're more famous in the UK than here.' It wasn't always like this. For over two decades, Wali ran Nayab Dry Fruits the way many small shopkeepers do, quietly, consistently, with little fanfare. There were no signboards or advertising plans. But in 2022, a single video changed everything. Shot by his nephew and uploaded to TikTok, it showed Wali dramatically challenging viewers to try and crack open one of his walnuts, not with teeth, not with a stone, not even with a truck. The video racked up millions of views. More followed. Then hundreds more. People started arriving from cities he had never been to, some just to take a selfie. 'I didn't plan this,' he says. 'I just spoke from the heart, and the phone camera was rolling.' Since then, his voice and face have travelled far beyond Peshawar. Customers have flown in from the UK, France, Germany, and Switzerland just to shake his hand. Some recognize him by voice alone. Others bring gifts. All of it, Wali says, happened without a marketing team, paid ads, or any idea how social media even works. 'Before all this, my business was ten percent of what it is today. Now, it's grown by ninety percent.' And Wali is not alone. Across Pakistan, small and homegrown businesses, from a sweet shop in Mardan to a roadside kachalu vendor, to a family-run clothing brand in Sialkot, are discovering that one authentic video can unlock what once felt out of reach. Not every post goes viral. But sometimes, one is all it takes. When virality replaces strategy In Pakistan, a quiet revolution is unfolding on phone screens. Platforms like TikTok, Instagram Reels, and Facebook and YouTube Shorts have become unexpected allies for small businesses, offering them a stage previously reserved for those with substantial marketing budgets. Traditionally, small shopkeepers and home-based entrepreneurs relied on word-of-mouth or foot traffic to attract customers. Now, a single, authentic video, often filmed on a basic smartphone, can propel a local business into the national spotlight. These videos, unpolished and heartfelt, resonate with audiences seeking genuine stories over glossy advertisements. The numbers underscore this shift. In 2023, Pakistani companies spent $10.5 million on TikTok advertising, accounting for 10% of the country's digital marketing expenditure. This figure, while modest, highlights TikTok's rapid ascent as a preferred platform for businesses aiming to connect directly with consumers. This digital transformation is further fueled by the country's expanding mobile connectivity. According to the Pakistan Telecommunication Authority (PTA), as of March 2025, Pakistan boasts 143 million 3G and 4G users, with mobile penetration reaching 58.3%. This widespread access ensures that even the most remote businesses can reach a vast audience without traditional advertising channels. For many entrepreneurs, the appeal lies in the simplicity. There's no need for marketing jargon or complex strategies. A heartfelt message, a glimpse into daily operations, or a unique product demonstration can captivate viewers and turn them into loyal customers. This democratization of marketing means that success is no longer confined to those with deep pockets. In the age of virality, authenticity reigns supreme, offering small businesses a powerful tool to tell their stories and grow their reach organically. While the digital shift may feel abstract at times, its real impact is unfolding in unexpected corners, at roadside stalls, in home kitchens, and behind modest shop counters. These are not businesses with ad budgets or media plans. What they share is a moment, one idea, one video, that helped them break through. Dry fruits in Peshawar As mentioned before, Wali got famous just by one video. Before TikTok fame, Wali's biggest challenge was keeping his shop stocked during the busy season. Now, it's managing the flow of tourists and fans who arrive daily, some from overseas, others from neighboring cities, and many carrying nothing more than a phone and a story about how they discovered him online. His shop, Nayab Dry Fruits, tucked inside Peshawar's Karkhano Market, has become something of a landmark. It's not unusual for 15 or 20 people to show up at once, hoping to meet 'the man from the video.' He doesn't manage his social media, in fact, he doesn't even know how to upload a video, but his content has spread across the internet with a kind of homemade charisma that big brands often try to replicate. Now he has more than a million people following him on the social media. The shift hasn't always been easy. A video showing Wali refusing a costly gift to two disabled boys once drew criticism online. The backlash hit him hard. 'I went into depression for a while,' he admits. 'But then I spoke the truth. This is my shop, built with my own hard work.' To his surprise, tens of thousands came to his defense. The story, and his video response, only increased his visibility. What started with a nephew's smartphone has grown into something far bigger, a loose collective of family members, friends, and even customers who create content with him, sometimes inside a small video studio set up in the corner of his shop. He still credits it all to one thing - sincerity. 'People say, 'Who taught you this?' But no one did,' he says. 'I just speak honestly, and people connect with that.' His dream now is to expand to Europe, especially the UK, where he says his videos are even more popular than in Pakistan. For a shop once built on tradition and quiet routine, the internet has offered not just growth, but a global audience. Sweets from Mardan In the narrow lanes of Mardan, nestled between grocery shops and chai stalls, Jalil Sweets has stood for over 75 years. Known for its gajar ka halwa and syrup-soaked gulab jamuns, the shop was already a local favorite. But it wasn't until Rehmat Gul, better known online as 'Baba Ji ke Kartab', picked up a ladle and started juggling piping-hot sweets mid-air that Jalil Sweets found its second identity: a TikTok sensation. One video, simple, spontaneous, showed Rehmat tossing gulab jamuns from one tray to another with theatrical flair. It exploded online. Views turned into visitors. 'Before TikTok, people knew us in Mardan,' he says. 'After that video, people were calling from Lahore, Peshawar, even abroad asking us to ship halwa.' The shop hasn't changed its recipes or its setup. The counter is still lined with trays of fresh mithai. The ghee still fills the air. But the customers are different now, younger, more curious, and often holding their phones out to record. Some come just for a glimpse of Baba Ji in action. Others want a selfie before they leave. 'We had a brand before but you can say TikTok made our brand modern without losing the traditional feel,' says Rehmat. 'It helped us tell our story in a real, fun way.' Jalil Sweets never had a marketing plan. Word of mouth kept it going for decades. But now, it's digital buzz that brings in orders, and energy. Rehmat greets fans on camera, chats with visitors mid-filming, and makes sure every video feels like a window into the shop's warmth. 'People connect with honesty,' he says. 'They see how much love we put into every piece of mithai.' The experience has reshaped his outlook. 'Someone once told me, 'Baba Ji, you've made mithai entertaining!' That's when I knew this was more than just a shop. It had become a story people wanted to be part of.' Fabrics and fashion Atia Zuhair the owner of Kachay Dhagay didn't restart her family's clothing brand with a business plan or a store launch. She picked up her phone and started talking. In short, honest clips on social media, she began sharing the behind-the-scenes life of Kachay Dhagay, the fabric runs, the design choices, the self-doubt, and the small wins. What started as a way to document her journey quietly grew into something far more powerful. 'One day, while sourcing fabric, a shopkeeper looked at me and said, 'You're from Kachay Dhagay, right?'' she recalls. 'I was surprised and happy. That's when I realized how powerful social media is. People actually watch and remember.' Kachay Dhagay wasn't new, it was a paused legacy. Atia brought it back with her own vision, blending old family values with contemporary aesthetics. More than sales, what she found was a community. 'People often come up to me and say, 'I found you on TikTok.' It means a lot,' she says. 'Those aren't just followers, they're supporters.' For Atia, the social media platforms weren't just a tool for business. It was a way to work from home, on her own terms, in a society where that's not always easy for women. 'I tell girls who can't leave home for work, don't waste your talent. Share it. People will notice.' Atia's story is not loud or flashy. It's patient, persistent, and real, the kind of story that quietly finds its way to people's screens and stays with them long after they scroll past. Street food sensation Under the open sky in Bijligarh, Mardan, Umer Nawab carefully assembles a plate of kachalu, boiled potatoes mixed with spices, sauces, and his signature touch of flair. The stall is simple, the recipe traditional, but the impact has been anything but ordinary. Online, he is known as Pehlwan Kachalu, and his street food story has become a viral sensation. What changed everything was a single video. In it, Umer layered the ingredients one by one, ending with what he calls the final touch of love. His voice, full of energy, carried through the screen. 'TikTok brought people to me,' he says. 'From Lahore, Karachi, even other countries. They saw the video and wanted to try the food.' Before all this, his stall catered to passersby and neighborhood regulars. Now, it draws food vloggers, tourists, and fans who wait in line with their cameras ready. 'It's not just a stall anymore. It's become a brand,' Umer says. His account now has over half a million followers, and several videos have crossed the million-view mark. What draws people in isn't just the food. It's the way he presents it, fast hands, warm banter, a connection to the viewer. 'People trust what they see,' he says. 'They watch me make it with my own hands and feel part of the experience.' Through his videos, Umer also challenges how people see street vendors. He doesn't just serve a snack. He shares a culture, a rhythm, a way of life. 'Kachalu is a Mardan staple, but it also tells a story about where I come from,' says Umer. Now, he interacts with customers online, takes suggestions, and welcomes fans who show up just to say hello. His future plans include expanding his stall, creating his own sauce brand, and continuing to share his journey, one spicy plate at a time. Why it works? There's no branding playbook behind these videos. No scripts, no filters, no polished voiceovers. What draws viewers in, and keeps them watching, is the simplicity of the moment. A vendor speaking with warmth. A home business owner showing their struggle. A halwa maker tossing sweets with a smile. These aren't marketing campaigns. They're people. And in a crowded digital space, that still counts for something. At a time when brands spend millions crafting the perfect online presence, small businesses across Pakistan are showing that sometimes, the most effective content is the kind you don't plan. These videos may be shaky, the lighting inconsistent, but they carry something more powerful, sincerity. 'Big businesses still rely on spending to stay visible on social media,' says Ibtisam Ahmed, a social media marketing manager at a local agency. 'But stories that are original and create a real connection don't need a strategy or a budget. These people speak from the heart, and they have platforms where audiences are already waiting. You just have to be real, and you can reach people organically without spending a penny.' That's the difference. These business owners are not pretending to be anything other than who they are. They don't perform for the camera. They simply invite people into their world, whether it's a roadside stall, a home workspace, or a decades-old sweet shop. The result is a kind of content that feels more like a conversation than a pitch. The afternoon sun filters through the glass panels and Wali carefully seals a packet of almonds, the day's third order for a customer from Lahore. Nearby, two boys are recording a slow-motion video with his walnut display. He watches, smiles briefly, then returns to weighing figs on the scale. There's no script here. Just the quiet rhythm of a shopkeeper who now shares his space with the unexpected fame of the internet. Every now and then, someone asks if he'll make another viral video. But Gul Wali doesn't think in terms of virality. He thinks in terms of fresh stock, clean counters, and greeting whoever walks through the door, whether they saw him on TikTok or just happened to pass by. As another phone camera lifts and the familiar challenge begins again, 'Yeh akhrot na haath se tootega, na truck se', he looks on, not certain if this clip will go viral. But then again, he didn't expect the first one to, either.
Express Tribune
08-06-2025
- Express Tribune
Jared Leto denies allegations after getting accused of sexual misconduct by multiple women
Jared Leto has denied multiple allegations of sexual misconduct following a detailed report published by Air Mail on June 7. The report includes accounts from several women, with four alleging they were underage when they first interacted with the Oscar-winning actor and musician. Two women, DJ Allie Teilz and Laura La Rue, went on the record. Teilz stated in a resurfaced 2012 Facebook post, 'You're not really in L.A. until Jared Leto tries to force himself on you backstage… In a kilt.. And a snow hat.' She added on Instagram, 'I was assaulted and traumatised by this creep when I was 17. He knew my age and didn't care.' Leto's representative responded, 'Ms. Teilz's allegations are demonstrably false.' Laura La Rue alleged she met Leto at an animal rights benefit in 2008, told him she was 16, and later visited him at his studio. She claimed he once appeared completely naked. Leto's rep responded, 'Their communications contain nothing sexual or inappropriate,' and noted La Rue had allegedly applied to be his personal assistant—an assertion she denies. Additional claims include one woman who said Leto began calling her repeatedly after they met at a Los Angeles café when she was 16. She alleged the calls became sexual. Another actress claimed that, after turning 18, Leto exposed himself and initiated unwanted sexual contact. Leto's rep issued a blanket statement to Air Mail: 'All of the allegations are expressly denied.' The 30 Seconds to Mars frontman has not made a personal public comment as of this publication.
Express Tribune
08-06-2025
- Express Tribune
The fall of Bollywood's conscience
In the great theatre of the subcontinent, many roles are played. The diplomat with his pocket square, ever so cautious, so vary of his words; the journalist with his war drum baritone and breaking news ticker; the general adorned in ranks, with his maps, military insights and strategically placed metaphors. But perhaps the most watched performers, the ones that garner the most eyeballs, are the stars, the celebrities, the legends of celluloid — those silken, sculpted, social-media-verified wonders of Indian cinema, who, in times of tension, often hold more sway over the hearts of their fans than even actual heads of state. So, when the most recent diplomatic domino between Pakistan and India began to fall, sparked by a tragic incident in Kashmir and snowballing into a full-blown chest-thumping war mongering chaos, eyes obviously turned to the borders. For the latest updates and bulletins, eyes turned to the news. And for everything in between, they turned to mobile screens. While the news cycle monopolised missile updates and water cooler conversations stoked further trepidation, it was on social media, Facebook and Instagram pages, and Threads of the world that we witnessed, some with a shrug and others with resignation, a curtain fall. The fanfare of nationalist fervour is nothing new. We have seen it before — during surgical strikes, border standoffs, even high-stake cricket matches. But this time, it felt different. The air itself had a simmering quality to it. This time, it was the power corridors of Bollywood that stood in a staunch and ignoble salute. Fan favourite stars from the lauded Bollywood pantheon, like Akshay Kumar, whose recent filmography reads like a defence ministry-sponsored resume, wasted no time. His message was swift: unwavering support for the Indian response, patriotic hashtags, and a pixel-perfect picture of the tri-coloured flag. Quick on his heels was the ever-so-predictable Kangana Ranaut, Bollywood's resident Rottweiler of righteousness. Never known for subtlety, Ms Ranaut deemed it appropriate to post that Pakistan was a 'terrorist nation' and called for the 'cleansing' of traitors. 'These [insert PC term for insects known for their signature infestations and filth] should be nuked' she said. And in doing so India will actually be doing the entire world a huge favour. Even the usually discreet monoliths — Hrithik Roshan, Ajay Devgan, and Shahid Kapoor chimed in with near-identical messages support for the armed forces, for the government, for decisive action. A methodical barrage of copy-paste nationalism. Who would have thought that the modern face of digital diplomacy could be achieved in 280 characters or less? Citizens of a proud nation simply supporting their sovereign nation? That wasn't jarring really. Why would anyone assume otherwise? Why wouldn't the slumbering nationalism be kindled by the horns of war? But what truly unsettled fans, particularly across this side of the border, was how quickly this nuance petered out. And in that silence, there seemed to be no room for peace, no space for reflection. The world's biggest democracy was suddenly rendered to be nothing more than an echo chamber. Perhaps the most painful silence was from those who once told stories that made these very borders blur. Alia Bhatt, beloved on both sides of the Wagah gate, posted a vaguely-worded graphic: 'Strength. Solidarity. Resilience.' It was the PR version of nodding solemnly and exiting stage left. And then there was the illustrious Karan Johar whose popularity spikes are the bread and butter of the expat South Asian demographic (in its gargantuan entirety) posted an Indian flag. No caption, no context. Just 'vibes'. A hard one to reconcile was the bard of Bollywood, Javed Akhtar, also known as the poet of peace and author of anthems. The same man whose verses once melted hostility into harmony, proclaimed 'I'd rather go to jahannum (hell) than go to Pakistan'. Not a great commendation for his own nation in which he currently was, observed one keen eyed netizen. For Pakistani fans, this was nothing short of watching your favourite uncle suddenly flip the dining table during Eid lunch. Praise be, all was not lost. Amidst this morbid uniformity, a few voices of dissent also joined in on the chorus; one such unexpectedly (but most welcomingly) from Sonakshi Sinha. While others laced up their patriotic boots, she dared to 'run amok' on Instagram. 'The Indian media has lost the plot. This isn't journalism, it's dangerous fiction.' No flags. No warmongering. Not a battle cry. Just a slice of honesty. A whisper in fact. Of course, Ms Sinha was swiftly trolled, memed, accused of being 'anti-national,' and told to go to Pakistan (a favourite insult, it seems, for anyone who suggested peace in that time). But she reminded us of something crucial: bravery isn't always about standing tall. Sometimes, it can just be about not sitting down when everyone else has. While India's celebrity class was actively engaged in staging their synchronised salute, the world also had the pleasure (read titillation) of tuning into a very different performance, one that took place on Piers Morgan Uncensored. There, sat across from each other, were Barkha Dutt and Hina Rabbani Khar. One Indian. One Pakistani. One a journalist. One a former foreign minister. Both articulate, accomplished women; razor-sharp, and blessedly allergic to nonsense. Khar, with her characteristic calm and poise, spoke of nuance, context, and the inherent dangers of nationalist hysteria. Barkha, no stranger to war reporting, put on a grand show, pushing back at every notch she possibly could. For a brief moment outside the 'theatricality', the screens became a classroom. One where nobody yelled 'Jai ABC' or 'Death to XYZ', and everyone simply listened. What a contrast to Instagram's red carpets of conformity it truly was. For Pakistanis, Indian cinema has been primarily for entertainment, but additionally, it has also been a companion. A cultural mirror that everyone in the south Asian region can glom onto seeking valid representation and actually 'be seen' by the rest of the world. Bollywood to Pakistanis has been a secret rebellion against political bitterness. From DDLJ and Devdas posters adorning every other inner-city salon in major urban locales to Arijit Singh, Shreya Ghoshal and Diljit Dosanjh being played at almost every wedding function and celebration, Bollywood has always held an intimate and fortified place in our hearts. It is reasonable then that this moment in history did not go over too well with the Pakistani audience. It felt much like, to perhaps the uninitiated, being ghosted by someone who you had once loved unconditionally. To see your once revered icons tweet in unison about severe military action against your homeland with such brazen callousness was unmistakably heartbreaking. Especially when you factor in how the majority of it all actually appeared performative — as opposed to genuine patriotism. And what of the audiences who always consumed Indian cinema with rose-tinted nostalgia? Many now found themselves confused, disappointed, and quietly (but profoundly) wounded. It wasn't just that stars didn't advocate for peace, it was that they didn't seem to care really. No acknowledgement of the mutual love they received across the border. No reminder that their music was the soundtrack of Pakistani childhoods, their dialogues recited in college hallways. Instead, silence. And silence, when given a platform, can be very, very loud. Why did this happen? Why didn't more stars speak out for peace? Well, it's not just about courage. It is also about contracts. Since 2014, Indian cinema has become increasingly aligned with the political establishment du jour. Films like The Kashmir Files are tax-exempt. Directors with the 'right' politics get easier approvals, cheaper insurance, state PR. Meanwhile, those with inconvenient opinions get labelled 'urban naxals' or 'tukde tukde gang.' Ask Deepika Padukone, who showed up at a student protest in 2020. She said nothing, just stood there. But that silence cost her millions in brand deals and led to calls for a boycott of her film. The writing on the wall was quite clear: dare to speak against the tide, and you shall be made to disappear. Even the once mighty and untouchable Khans, Shah Rukh, Salman, Aamir, have faced the wrath of their fanatical home-grown audience, and have been left with no choice but to play it safe and stay 'mum'. Not long ago, SRK's son was jailed under suspicious circumstances with King Khan jolting from lawyers' chambers to police stations as an inconsequential and lowly civilian. Aamir was attacked for his wife's comments on rising intolerance and his movie 'Laal Singh Chadda' was massacred in the box office for his alleged (and somewhat imagined) anti-state rhetoric. Even Salman who has always kept his alliances clear has become a prisoner of the gallows, living in anguish under the ever-looming threat of the Bishnoi gang. We know, we understand and feel empathy for these stars. But not all was lost. Anurag Kashyap, never one to bow, tweeted cryptically about how 'conformity is not the same as unity.' Another personality, often chastised for her exceptionally 'woke' stances, Swara Bhasker shared an article on the need for empathy, adding: 'Peace isn't weakness. Hate isn't strength.' These voices were barely audible, drowned out by hashtags and hyperbole. But they mattered. Because resistance doesn't always come with fireworks. Sometimes, it just comes with a spine. This could have been a moment. A cinematic plot twist. Imagine if Shah Rukh had posted a throwback clip from Main Hoon Na. Or if Madhuri had tweeted 'Peace is patriotic.' If Priety Zinta had only quoted a line from her famous Veer Zaara song 'Aisa Des Hai Mera'. If Ranveer Singh had just... danced it out? But no. All we got brand-safe statements, media-managed mentions, and a whole lot of silence. What a story it could have been. What a script we missed. There was a time when Indian films imagined a better world. When screenwriters flirted with forbidden love across borders, when a song could soften suspicion, and when a poem could become protest. Today, those scripts are shelved, their authors quiet, their protagonists, for all intents and purposes, neutered by eagle-eyed publicists and spectres of political correctness. So here we are, popcorn in one hand, a tear stained handkerchief in the other, looking at the silver screen, waiting for someone, anyone, in this great theatre of the subcontinent, to play the role of the artist again. To remind us that before they were influencers, stars were simply storytellers. That their job was not just to reflect power, but to sometimes question it. And perhaps one day, they will. When it's safer. When the script changes. When bravery is back in vogue. Until then, we are left with silence. Polished. PR-approved. Politically correct. But silence nonetheless. Shahzad Abdullah is a PR and communications strategist, cultural curator and director of communications at Media Matters All facts are information are the sole responsibility of the
