Darkness Departing 1997 — The Night Fear Died

It was December 18th, 1997.

Our crusade — Darkness Departing ’97 — had just begun shaking the foundations of our little village, Iyorah, in Etsako West, Edo State. The Anglican Church grounds were overflowing with people, hearts hungry and eyes wide with awe. It was as though heaven itself had come down to visit.

From the very first night, the power of God was thick — tangible.

Over seventy percent of the crowd couldn’t stand on their feet. People fell, cried, and laughed under the power of the Holy Ghost. Sinners repented openly. Even witch doctors and those known to serve strange gods came forward for salvation.

And just when we thought we had seen it all, heaven showed us something greater.

That night, the generator—our only source of light—suddenly failed. The operator had been sweating for hours, yanking the cord again and again, nothing. We prayed. And as though reading from the book of Acts, we commanded the generator to start. The operator—reluctant, exhausted—tried one more time. It roared to life instantly.

The crowd erupted.

It was a night of holy electricity. Miracles, tears, joy, and deliverance everywhere.

But unknown to us, another meeting was happening elsewhere in the dark.

The Iyabana—the most dreaded occult group in our village—had taken offense.

They were infamous. Everyone feared them. They claimed power over spirits and even the dead, spoke in strange languages, and performed rituals with raw meat soaked in blood. Whenever the Iyabana appeared, the village froze. Doors slammed shut. Mothers snatched their children indoors. No one dared walk the streets.

But that night, fear had no place in us.

After the crusade, while heading home, it was just four of us — my older brother Nick, Evangelist Mike Adogamhe, another brother, and myself. The night was cool, the road quiet, until suddenly, from the shadows ahead, they appeared.

The Iyabana.

They stood like black silhouettes against the dim starlight, chanting in strange tongues. Their leader — known as their “human interpreter,” the only visible one when they operated — stepped forward.

Ordinarily, anyone who met the Iyabana at night would turn and flee for dear life.

But not us. Not that night.

Without a word, we locked eyes and charged forward. Tongues of fire burst from our mouths as we prayed in the Holy Ghost. The closer we got, the louder we prayed. Our voices rose like a storm — angry, forceful, unrelenting.

The Iyabana stopped their chant and stared. Their interpreter screamed, “Who are you people?!”

We didn’t answer.

We just kept advancing — four men, blazing in the Spirit, against the most feared powers of darkness in our land.

Then something happened — something we still cannot explain.

The interpreter suddenly turned toward the side of the road. We could see movement, faint shadows in the dark. But within seconds, their voices vanished. Gone. The eerie chanting evaporated into thin air.

When we got to the very spot they had stood, there was nothing. Just silence.

Then, faintly, from the distance of the cemetery behind the primary school, we heard their voices again — far away, like they had been transported in an instant.

Four to five minutes of walking distance — covered in a blink.

Till this day, that mystery remains.

The next morning, my uncle — who, unknown to me, was the same human interpreter we had faced — came to see my father. He was visibly shaken.

He said, “You people have disrupted the spiritual balance of this village. You’re playing with powers you don’t understand.”

My father smiled.

And we replied simply:

> “When the higher power appears, lesser powers bow.”

The fear that once ruled Iyorah died that night.

And Darkness Departing ’97 wasn’t just a crusade — it was a declaration that when light comes, darkness must depart.

That night, the Holy Ghost didn’t just chase away witches —

He chased away fear itself.