The Fire in the Other Room

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 in an old village kitchen. Fire burned low beneath a blackened pot. An old woman sat beside it, her back bent, her eyes sharp. She looked at me with open hostility.

“What are you doing in my business?” she asked.

I didn’t need an explanation. I knew.

I told her to remove the pot from the fire.

She refused.

I stepped forward and broke the pot.

She weakened instantly—like something holding her together had snapped. The scene collapsed, and I was back at the dining table, heart pounding, hands trembling.

Morning came quietly.

When the young woman woke up, I described the old woman—not accusing, just describing. Her face drained of color. She whispered that it was her grandmother.

I said nothing about the encounter. I only told her she was healed. And that she would hear news.

She left for Afokpella later that day.

Before she arrived, her grandmother was dead.

That was how God chose to rescue her.

I did nothing special. I only stood where He placed me and prayed. To Him alone belongs the glory.