The Back Seat Between Life and Death

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 the faculty, heading in the direction of Agric and Law.

My spirit tightened.

Then I felt it.

Something hard. Cold. Pressed firmly into my ribs.

A voice leaned close to my ear, low and sharp.

“Any wrong move from you, we waste you here.”

The other one turned and stared straight into my face.

“Are you Pastor Austin?”

That name—my campus name—hung in the air like a death sentence.

I didn’t even answer.

I looked at the one pressing the object against me and, unbelievably, calmly said something like,

“Pull that thing away. There’s enough space for three people at the back.”

Even as the words left my mouth, part of me wondered who was speaking.

The second man exploded.

“You think this is a joke? With one squeeze of this trigger, your life don end!”

That was when I saw it clearly.

A gun.

Not imagined. Not symbolic. Real. Small. Deadly. And I realized—both of them had one.

The driver was sweating. His hands trembled on the steering wheel. Fear poured off him like heat.

And yet—inside me—there was no fear.

None.

I don’t know where the courage came from. I truly don’t. But something firm rose inside my chest, steady and unshakable. I looked at them and said, almost annoyed,

“Not everybody dey fear gun.”

Silence.

They didn’t expect that.

Their shouting grew louder, but it was different now—less confident, more agitated. Something about me had unsettled them. Not my strength. Not my size. Something else.

They suddenly ordered the driver to stop.

This was before Agric had buildings—just bushes and rough land. They jumped out, still shouting threats, still posturing, then disappeared into the bush like shadows swallowed by dusk.

The cab stood still.

The driver was shaking violently.

I looked at him and asked,

“What are you waiting for?”

He turned slowly, eyes wide, voice trembling in pidgin.

“Bros… who you be? You no dey fear?”

That was when it hit me.

What had I just done?

As the car moved again, my heart finally began to race—not with fear of them, but with the sudden realization of how close death had been. Inches. Seconds. A trigger away.

Around that same period, I had been teaching the sisters in Sister’s House of Esteem (SHE) about angels—how God loved His children enough to deploy heavenly protection. I shared testimonies of women rescued from rape, from violence, from harm—right here on campus, during those dangerous days.

It dawned on me that the Word had gone deeper than teaching.

It had taken root.

Boldness. Divine protection. Angelic covering. They were no longer theories. They had become instinct.

Even now, when I think of that back seat, that gun against my ribs, that calm voice that wasn’t mine—I don’t boast.

I tremble.

And I give God the glory for sparing my life.