My Testimony

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...

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. ...

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...

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 ...

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...

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...

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...

I remember it as clearly as if it happened yesterday. I was about sixteen years old—young in age, but deeply hungry for God. I was the kind of believer who took the Scriptures seriously, almost dangerously so. When I read the words of Jesus, I wanted to believe them exactly as they were written, without dilution, without explanation, without excuses. I had just read where Jesus said: “Behold, I give unto you power to tread upon serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy, and nothing shall by any means hurt you.” Those words settled in my spirit like fire. I remember discussing that Scripture with other young believers. We asked ourselves what we would do if we were actually confronted by serpents or scorpions. In my youthful zeal, I was absolutely convinced that I would not be harmed. Another believer, Peter, agreed with the promise but added quickly and wisely, “You shall not tempt the Lord your God by deliberately stepping on a snake or a scorpion.” That answer didn’...

My father, Chief Philip Ajayi Imoru, was not an ordinary man. In our village, his name carried weight. He was a chief—respected, feared by some, envied by others. And in places like that, power never goes unchallenged. Where titles exist, enemies gather quietly, smiling with their mouths and sharpening knives behind their backs. It began subtly. A strange illness. It came like a thief in the night—violent, sudden, merciless. One moment my father would be strong, sitting upright, issuing instructions in the deep, steady voice that commanded respect. The next moment, he would be broken, weak, drenched in sweat, staring into nothing as if his spirit had stepped out of his body. Doctors examined him. They found nothing. The sickness would retreat for days—sometimes weeks—only to return stronger, crueler, more deliberate. It wasn’t medical. Anyone with eyes could see that. This was calculated. This was an affliction. One day—I don’t even remember why I had returned to the village—I greeted ...

I will never forget that journey—never. I was travelling from Auchi to Benin City, a route I had taken many times. The road was familiar, the bends predictable, the hills just another part of the scenery. I wasn’t the type that got frightened easily. I rarely panicked. But that day… something shifted in the atmosphere as we approached the hills before Irua. It started as a quiet nudge—an uneasy weight in my spirit. Then suddenly, it intensified into a deep, undeniable conviction: We were heading straight into danger. The feeling was so strong that it made my heart tighten. I didn’t want to frighten anyone in the commercial vehicle, so I bowed my head slightly and began to pray quietly. As I prayed, a sharp flash of a vision hit me like lightning. I saw it. Clear. Our vehicle, while trying to overtake a large truck loaded with heavy planks, was crushed from behind. The vision was so real, so vivid, that my whole body reacted. A cold wave ran through me. I knew the Spirit was showing me ...

I had been reading and hearing it everywhere: “As many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of God.” It sounded powerful—almost unbelievable. But I wanted more than theory. I wanted proof. I wanted experience. I wanted to know if I, Austin, could actually be led by the Holy Spirit in real time. So I decided to test it. I was in Lagos then—Lagos, the city that never smiles at strangers. The city that overwhelms you with its horns, its heat, its hustle, and its unpredictability. I was there to write my JAMB, somewhere in Agege—a place I had never been to in my entire life. I had no map, no friend to guide me, and I had heard enough stories about Lagosians giving fake directions to naïve newcomers. But still, I wanted to see if the Spirit could lead me. The day before my exam, I left on a little adventure of faith. I boarded a bus heading to Iyana Ipaja, and as the bus rumbled along, I quietly began a conversation with the Holy Spirit. Not out loud. Just in my heart. Calm, s...

I remember it like it happened last night It was one of those dreams that does not feel like a dream at all— a place too real, too sharp, too spiritually charged to be called ordinary sleep. I found myself in a dark looking caved in graveyard. But this was no ordinary graveyard. The air was heavy… still… almost frozen. The moonlight shone on rows and rows of graves, each one marked with something— a name… a symbol… a memory. And as I moved closer, my eyes widened. I recognized the names. Every grave belonged to someone from our community church— the Assemblies of God Church in Iyorah. Brethren I prayed with. People I grew up with. Faces I knew. Each grave carried a strange mix of silence and sorrow, as though they were not just dead physically in the dream—but spiritually bound. Instinctively, I began searching for my own grave. I didn’t see it. Row after row— name after name— nothing. Then I came upon a small, disturbing sight: A nameless grave. Fresh. Unfinished. And beside it, a sin...

I will never forget that night. It wasn’t just a dream— it was a revelation, so vivid that when I awoke, it felt like I had physically been there. The air in my room was still charged, as though I had returned from another realm. In the revelation, I stood right at the entrance of our family house—our compound, familiar in every detail. The moonlight fell across the yard, and everything was quiet. Then suddenly, seven men appeared. Not strangers. Not shadows. But seven men I knew in real life—men who had eaten in our house, laughed with my father, sat with him, and called him friend. Some were even relatives. And yet, their faces that night were cold—hard—full of hidden intention. They approached the entrance with determination, pushing forward as though they owned the place. I stepped in front of the doorway and raised my hand. “You cannot enter this house.” They stopped, shocked that I would confront them. Then their faces twisted into anger. “We will enter!” one shouted. But somethi...

I remember it like yesterday—1996, in the small but fiery Assemblies of God Church, Iyorah, my hometown. In those days, our youth church was blazing with spiritual hunger. We were young, raw, fearless, and desperate for God. And at the center of that fire was our prayer band—Boanerges—“Sons of Thunder,” inspired by Mark 3:17. The name alone charged us. We prayed like we wanted to tear heaven open. We fasted like soldiers preparing for war. Every Friday night was a vigil. Every Sunday night, a deliverance session. And then came the revival. We invited a mighty minister of God—Pastor Samson Ogbehda, a man whose very presence carried weight in the spirit. Before he arrived, Boanerges went into intense fasting and prayer. We wanted God to move—not lightly, but violently, unmistakably. The church was packed that evening—lamps burning, voices rising, drums echoing off the walls. Pastor Ogbehda preached with a force that shook the hall. People trembled. Some cried. You could feel heaven leani...

It must have been around 1996. I was still a student at Our Lady of Fatima College, young in age but burning with a strange hunger for God that could set the dry grass of any school aflame. At the time, I was the Scripture Union (SU) president, and word had gone ahead of us that we were coming to minister at ICE, Auchi for a revival program. When we arrived, the hall was already alive with students—laughing, chatting, clapping, and singing in the raw, innocent style that only teenagers carry. The sound of their praise bounced off the cement walls, mixing with the dusty evening air and the faint smell of chalk from earlier classes. My friend Emmanuel and I quietly found seats at the back. We didn’t announce ourselves. We didn’t want to. We simply bowed our heads, closed our eyes, and began to pray in the Spirit—softly at first, just under our breath. But Heaven heard. Within minutes, something shifted in the atmosphere. It was like the air grew dense, heavy with electricity. You could a...

I believe it was around 1996—those early years when we were still young in the faith, raw but burning with hunger for God. Every sermon stirred us. Every scripture felt alive. We prayed like men possessed by purpose. We fasted like soldiers preparing for war. The Assemblies of God church was hosting a sectional revival, and we traveled from Iyorah village to Auchi main town, carrying nothing but our Bibles and a dangerous level of expectation. Everyone had been talking about the guest minister—Evangelist Innocent U. Raphael, a man many described as “a walking fire.” We arrived at the venue long before the meeting started. Even the air felt different—charged, heavy, like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm. When the service began, what happened that night is something I can never forget. The moment worship rose and prayer intensified, something broke open in the spirit. It felt as if heaven bent low over the hall, pouring electricity into the room. If you closed your eyes—just for a se...

After returning from Lagos to Benin City, my only mission was clear—I wanted to gain admission into the University of Benin. I waited with expectation, watching the first admission list come out. My name wasn’t there. I held my breath for the second list. Again, no trace of my name. I was disappointed, but not discouraged. Friends encouraged me to try getting a pre-degree admission at Ambrose Alli University in Ekpoma. I began exploring the process, but something inside me kept pulling my heart back to UNIBEN. I didn’t fully understand it then—but God was quietly arranging a divine setup. One particular day in December 1999, while thinking about my future, a memory flashed into my mind—the ₦500 seed I had sown two years earlier, specifically for my education. I paused and began reminding God of that seed, speaking His promises back to Him. That same evening, with nothing special in mind, I went to rent a video cassette from a video club on Etete Road in GRA. I was simply strolling back...