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When God Turned a Venue Crisis into a Harvest

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For months, it felt like we were a fellowship without a home. At the University of Benin, venue after venue closed its doors against us. Just when we thought we had settled, another notice would come. Another misunderstanding. Another “you can’t use this place.” It was frustrating, exhausting—and honestly, humbling. One particular season stands out clearly in my memory. We were using a basement hall—East Wing, if I remember correctly. The place wasn’t fancy, but it worked. Then one evening, another fellowship showed up. Their name was House on the Mansion. They came in confidently and began setting up their instruments as if the hall belonged to them. We approached them calmly. We suggested sharing the hall. After all, we were brethren. Same faith. Same Christ. They refused. They claimed that CU, the former users of the hall, had given them the right to use it. We, on the other hand, had followed due process and obtained permission from the necessary authorities—including CU. We had do...
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The Midnight Encounter That Changed My Life

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The University of Benin has a way of swallowing you whole, but for me, the real transformation didn’t happen in a lecture hall. It happened under the stars, on the cracked concrete of a basketball court tucked behind the legendary Hall 4. ​If you’ve ever been in Hall 4, you know the "curtain walls." One room is sliced into four cramped corners by thin fabric, with at least two souls packed into every space. There was no privacy, no silence, and certainly no room for the spiritual hunger burning in my chest. I needed to pray, but I didn't want to wake my roommates. So, every night, while the rest of the campus drifted into sleep, I would slip out into the darkness. ​For over 90 days, that basketball court became my cathedral. I stood there in the cold night air, the silence of the campus wrapping around me like a blanket, my heart open to the heavens. At the time, I was happily settled in NIFES. I was part of the HOP unit—Hospital, Orphanage, and Prisons—and I loved it. ...
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The Night I Was Surrounded by Danger

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After that first brush with death on campus, I should have known danger had not finished speaking my name. I had prayed openly for a course mate, a quiet, decent man, Mr. Michael who was running for president of our department—English and Literature (ELSA). I believed in him. I spoke for him. I recommended him without hesitation, never imagining that words spoken in good faith could be interpreted as provocation. On campus then, loyalties were not merely political. They were territorial. A few days later, night had already settled heavily over the Courage hostel block where we live, when my roommate, Chima, walked into the room and said casually, “Someone is looking for you.” I stepped out. The hostel was one of those long Nigerian corridor bungalows—ten rooms in a straight line, five facing five, with a narrow passage stretching like a throat between them. My room was the first. From there, I could see the main entrance clearly. A man stood there. Or rather—a silhouette. He didn’t spe...
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The Back Seat Between Life and Death

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The University of Benin was not safe then. Everyone knew it, even if no one said it too loudly. Cultists ruled the shadows—moving between hostels, faculty car parks, and bush paths with guns tucked under shirts and death riding casually on their tongues. People learned to mind their business. Heads stayed down. Fear had become a survival skill. That afternoon, I didn’t know I was stepping into a trap. I boarded a cab at the familiar Faculty car park, heading toward the library. Just another short ride. Just another day. I slid into the back seat, relaxed, thinking of books and lectures. Then it happened. A young man entered from the left. Another slipped in from the right. Before I could even adjust my posture, one of them barked an order at the driver. “Drive.” The car lurched forward. At first, I thought nothing of it. On campus, young men liked to perform—swagger, noise, intimidation. I assumed it was just that. Until the car turned—not toward the library—but toward the far side of ...
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When Timidity Lost Its Voice

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I used to think boldness was for other people. People with polished accents. People from big cities. People who grew up knowing how to belong in large rooms. I was not one of them. I was a boy from the countryside, carrying village dust on his sandals and uncertainty in his chest. But before I arrived at the University of Benin, something had already happened to me. An encounter. A quiet but violent rearranging of my inside. Through Innocent U. Raphael and his ministers, I learned—really learned—that fearlessness was not a personality trait. It was a gift. The Holy Spirit was not only gentle. He was bold. Still, I didn’t know how real it was. Not until induction week. The main auditorium was packed. Fresh students everywhere—faces alert, nervous, trying hard to look like they belonged. The speakers were explaining HIV/AIDS, its dangers, its spread. The hall was silent, heavy with information and fear. Questions were invited. No one spoke. I felt my heart pounding. My hands were cold. E...
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The Fire in the Other Room

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She found me in Benin City. I was a student at the University of Benin then, still trying to balance lectures with a life that had begun to feel anything but ordinary. She was one of the sisters the power of God had touched during the Afokpella Revival. I had not expected to see her again, not like this. She looked like a shadow of herself. Thin—too thin. As if life had been draining out of her drop by drop. Her eyes were sunken, her skin stretched tight over bone. She told me things quietly, almost apologetically: objects passing through her body, relentless weakness, dreams filled with death. She said she didn’t know where else to go. I couldn’t keep her in the hostel. So I took her to my sister’s house in Etete. That night, after sharing the Scriptures with her and encouraging her to rest, I stayed behind at the dining table. The house went quiet. Everyone slept. I prayed. Hour after hour. Somewhere between midnight and dawn, the room faded. I slipped into a trance. I was standing i...
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The Smell That Came Before Death

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It happened when I was about twenty. That season, something opened inside me. We were fasting a lot then—long, hard fasts that stripped the flesh down to the bone and left the spirit alert, almost too alert. You didn’t just pray; you noticed things. Sounds felt sharper. Silence had weight. And sometimes, without warning, the air spoke. We went to pray for a woman—my friend’s mother. A decent house. Clean walls. Nothing wrong at first glance. But the moment I stepped inside, it hit me. A smell. Not rot. Not sickness. Something colder. Something final. It sat in the room like a quiet guest no one acknowledged. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. I already knew. We prayed anyway. We always prayed. Faith doesn’t give you permission to walk away. She died a few hours later. That was when I learned there is such a thing as the smell of death. The lesson came again, harder this time. A young convert—barely settled in faith—was sick. His stomach was swollen, round and tight, like a man ca...
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