When Death Came for the Chief—and the River Gave Him Back

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 my father. He looked at me… but he didn’t see me. His eyes were open, yet empty, like windows in an abandoned house. No recognition. No response.

Minutes later, my sister arrived from Benin City. She asked my mother questions—urgent, worried questions—about his health. In the middle of that conversation, someone casually said they saw my father walk behind the house.

We waited. He didn’t return.

Another voice said, “I think I saw him heading toward the farm.”

That was when fear entered the compound like a cold wind.

My father was not a farm man.

The alarm spread fast. Men moved. Voices rose. The village shifted into search mode. Neighbouring paths were combed. Bushes checked. Farmlands scanned.

Nothing.

My sister broke down. Tears flowed freely now. Panic had a sound, and it was loud.

I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I prayed. Not softly. Not politely.

I prayed in tongues, words pouring out like fire from my mouth, my spirit on full alert.

Then the message came.

“They’ve found him.”

He was by the river.

The same river that had swallowed many before.

They said he had been trying to drown himself—but every time he stepped into the water, something pulled him back. Over and over again. An invisible resistance. A force stronger than the one dragging him there.

His shoes were off.

His footprints told the story—walking to the river… walking back… again and again.

The river was more than one hour’s walk from our house.

When they brought him back, his body burned like fire. A wet towel placed on him hissed and released vapour, as if laid on hot iron. He was sixty-three years old—and barely alive.

We rushed him to the hospital.

That night, whispers moved through the village like rats in the dark. An elderly relative said something in passing—careless, half-joking—but it landed in my spirit like a hammer.

That was when I knew.

This was not sickness.

This was an attack.

And there was only one man in the village capable of such terror.

Nasina.

A notorious wizard.

A man who hid in plain sight—posing as a drunk, staggering through the village, muttering nonsense. But everyone knew the truth. Nasina was feared. People avoided his shadow. Children were pulled indoors when he passed.

Days later, something strange happened.

Nasina started talking.

Not whispering.

Not boasting.

Confessing.

In his drunken disguise, he began to say—out loud—that he had prepared a charm to make my father commit suicide. He said he was paid. Paid by those contending for the chiefdom.

People laughed nervously. They dismissed it as the ramblings of a drunk.

But I knew better.

That was not alcohol speaking. That was a forced confession.

I gathered the prayer unit.

Night prayers began.

Hard prayers. Dangerous prayers. Prayers that leave no room for mercy.

And a decree went forth:

> “As he planned my father’s death in the river, so shall his own life end the same way.”

I returned to Benin City.

Time passed.

Then one day, at Ring Road, in the middle of the city’s noise and chaos, an elderly man from the village spotted me. His face lit up with excitement.

“Akowe” he said quietly. "It's really you."

He likes to call my Akowe, which means Secretary in my dialect, a warm way of saying, a scholar. Before I could finish greeting him, he simply said.

“Nasina is dead!”

I didn’t believe him at first.

He leaned closer.

“The wizard disappeared for days. Yesterday evening, they found his body… floating in the river.”

The same river. The same death. The same sentence—executed by heaven.

That was how God defended His servant.

That was how death was redirected.

That was how the river gave back the chief—and took the wizard instead.

God still protects His own.

God still confirms His word.

And some battles… He fights personally.