Buried Alive (for miracle)

*Bur!ed Alive.*

(for miracle)

Episode 1️⃣

November 16th, 2008, is a day that will forever be etched in my memory. It was the day my husband received a transfer letter from our church leadership, assigning him to a remote village to spread the gospel. We were both excited and nervous about this new chapter in our lives. We had always felt a strong calling to serve the Lord and share His love with others, and this seemed like an incredible opportunity to do just that.

As we prepared to leave our comfortable lives behind and embark on this new adventure, we couldn't have imagined what lay ahead. We were full of hope and anticipation, dreaming of the lives we would touch and the souls we would save. But, unknown to us, that remote village held a dark and sinister secret. It was a place where danger lurked, where hatred and violence simmered just beneath the surface. And it was there, in that very place, that my husband was destined to meet his untimely and tragic death.

The thought of it now fills me with a sense of sorrow and regret. If only we had known what was to come, perhaps we could have prepared ourselves, or maybe even changed the course of events. But, as it was, we were blissfully unaware of the danger that lay ahead, and we walked into it with open arms, trusting in God's plan and protection. Little did we know, our lives were about to take a dramatic and devastating turn.

He returned home late one very cold night, his footsteps echoing through the silent hallway, his exhaustion palpable as he trudged into the living room. His usual energetic stride was replaced with a slow, heavy gait, as if the weight of the world was bearing down on him. He sank onto the couch, his head bowed in defeat, his eyes cast downward, avoiding the gaze of his loved ones.

Usually, as soon as he opened the living room door, he would call out to us, his voice booming with enthusiasm, "Hello, my loves! I'm home!" But tonight, there was only silence. No cheerful greeting, no warm smile, no eager embrace. He just sat there, slumped and still, his weariness radiating from every pore. The flickering light of the lamp beside him cast eerie shadows on his face, accentuating the deep lines of fatigue etched on his forehead and around his eyes.

His silence was oppressive, a heavy blanket that suffocated the room, making it hard to breathe. We exchanged worried glances, our hearts racing with concern, sensing that something was terribly wrong. The usual warmth and vitality that radiated from him was gone, replaced by a chilling melancholy that sent shivers down our spines. We longed to reach out, to comfort him, to ask what was wrong, but his withdrawn demeanor kept us at bay, leaving us helpless and uncertain.

I heard the familiar sound of the car pulling into the compound, signaling his return home. But I was in the kitchen, engrossed in completing a few tasks before he came in, as we usually shared dinner together and I hadn't eaten yet. The kids were fast asleep, exhausted from their day's activities. I expected him to call out to me as soon as he entered the living room, as he always did, but the silence was deafening.

I waited for a few moments, anticipating his cheerful greeting, but it never came. My curiosity piqued, I slowly made my way to the living room, my heart beating slightly faster. As I entered the room, I saw him sitting on the couch, his head bowed, his eyes cast downward, and his entire being exuding a sense of defeat. I stood behind him, unnoticed, and wondered what could be weighing him down so heavily.

His usual energetic and warm demeanor was replaced with a somber stillness, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of concern and worry. I longed to reach out, to ask him what was wrong, but something held me back. Maybe it was the vulnerability etched on his face, or the sense of despair that surrounded him like a shroud. Whatever it was, I stood there, frozen, unsure of how to break the silence, or how to comfort the man who always seemed so strong and invincible.

"Father, if it is your will, then let your will be done," he whispered in a voice barely audible, his words laced with a deep sense of resignation and surrender. The tone was so low, it was as if he was sharing a secret with the universe, a secret that only the heavens could hear. His voice cracked with emotion, revealing the weight of his burden, the depth of his pain, and the breadth of his faith.

As he spoke, his head remained bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor, and his body slumped in defeat. The words hung in the air like a prayer, a plea to a higher power, a surrender to the unknown. It was as if he was relinquishing control, acknowledging that some forces were beyond his comprehension, and trusting that a divine plan was at work.

The room was heavy with silence, as if the very walls were absorbing the weight of his words. The atmosphere was thick with emotion, a mix of sorrow, fear, and faith, all swirling together in a vortex of uncertainty. And yet, in the midst of this turmoil, there was a sense of peace, a sense of acceptance, a sense that he had finally found a way to surrender to the unknown.

"Are you ok?" I quizzed, my voice laced with concern, as I suddenly appeared before him, my footsteps echoing through the silence. I had been watching him from afar, sensing something was amiss, and my curiosity got the better of me. I walked towards him with a sense of purpose, my eyes fixed on his slumped figure, and my heart racing with anticipation.

As I stood before him, my presence seemed to startle him, and he jerked his head up, his eyes locking onto mine with a mixture of surprise and vulnerability. I gazed into his eyes, searching for answers, and saw the depth of his pain and struggle. His usual strong and stoic demeanor had given way to a fragile and worn-out expression, and my heart went out to him.

"Are you ok?" I repeated, my voice softer this time, as I reached out to him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. I felt a surge of empathy and compassion, wanting to comfort him, to take away his pain, and to be a listening ear in his moment of need. The silence that followed was palpable, as if the universe was holding its breath, waiting for his response, waiting to see if he would open up, or shut down further.

He let out a deep sigh, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, a sigh that spoke of exhaustion, frustration, and desperation. It was as if he had been holding his breath for a long time, waiting for the right moment to exhale, to release the tension that had been building up inside him. As he raised his jacket, the movement was slow and deliberate, as if he was uncovering a secret, revealing a truth that he had been keeping hidden.

And then, from the inner pocket of his jacket, he brought out a brown envelope, its edges worn and creased, its surface bearing the scars of countless hands and journeys. The envelope seemed to hold a significance, a importance that was palpable, as if it contained a message that could change the course of lives. He held it in his hands, his fingers wrapping around it like a lifeline, as if it was the only thing that kept him afloat in a sea of uncertainty.

The brown envelope seemed to radiate an aura of mystery, its contents unknown, but its impact evident in the way he held it, the way he looked at it, the way he seemed to be willing to entrust it to me. It was as if he was passing on a burden, a responsibility, a secret that he could no longer carry alone. And as I looked at the envelope, I felt a sense of trepidation, a sense of wonder, a sense that my life was about to change in ways I could not yet comprehend.

"Take," he said, his voice low and gravelly, the single word carrying a weight of significance, as he handed me the envelope with a slow and deliberate motion. His eyes locked onto mine, his gaze piercing, as if to convey the importance of what he was entrusting to me. The envelope felt heavy in my hands, its contents mysterious, yet seemingly vital.

As I took the envelope, our fingers touched briefly, and I felt a jolt of electricity, a spark of connection that went beyond mere physical contact. It was as if we were sharing a secret, a bond that only we understood. His eyes held a deep sadness, a sense of resignation, as if he knew he was passing on a burden, a responsibility that I was not yet aware of.

The envelope felt like a ticking time bomb, its contents waiting to be unleashed, to reveal a truth that would change the course of my life forever. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I took it from him, the weight of the unknown pressing down upon me. And yet, I knew I had to open it, to confront whatever secrets it held, to face the truth that lay within.

I stretched forth my hand, my arm extending slowly, as if drawn by an unseen force, and took the envelope from his outstretched hand. Our fingers touched briefly, a fleeting moment of contact, yet it felt like a spark of electricity had passed between us. I felt a shiver run down my spine as I grasped the envelope, my eyes fixed on it with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.

As I held it, I stared at it, my gaze fixed on the plain brown paper, the creased edges, and the faint scent of worn paper that wafted up. It was as if I was trying to will the secrets within to reveal themselves, to magically open the flap and spill out the contents without me having to lift a finger. The silence between us was palpable, heavy with anticipation, as if we both knew that the contents of this envelope held the power to change everything.

My mind raced with questions, thoughts swirling like a maelstrom, as I turned the envelope over in my hands, studying it from every angle. What secrets lay hidden within? What mysteries would it reveal? And why had he entrusted it to me, of all people? The envelope seemed to hold its breath, waiting for me to make the next move, to open it and unleash the truth within. And yet, I hesitated, my heart pounding in my chest, as if I was afraid of what I might find.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, my eyes still glued to the envelope as if mesmerized by its plain brown exterior. My gaze was fixed on the creased edges, the faint scuff marks, and the tiny tears that spoke of a long and arduous journey. I was trying to decipher its secrets, to read between the lines, to uncover the truth that lay hidden within.

My mind was racing with possibilities, my thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic jumble. Was it a letter from a long-lost loved one? A mysterious message from an unknown sender? A cryptic clue to a hidden treasure? The possibilities were endless, and my imagination was running wild.

As I stood there, frozen in suspense, my eyes never leaving the envelope, I felt a sense of trepidation creeping over me. What secrets lay hidden within? What revelations would it bring? And why had he given it to me, of all people? The questions swirled in my head like a vortex, drawing me in, refusing to let go.

I felt a shiver run down my spine as I finally tore my gaze away from the envelope and looked up at him, searching for answers in his eyes. But his expression was inscrutable, a mask of calm that gave away nothing. And so, I returned my attention to the envelope, my heart pounding in my chest, my fingers itching to open it and uncover the truth within.

"Open it," he said, his voice low and husky, the two words hanging in the air like a challenge, a dare, a invitation to uncover the secrets that lay within. The tone was neutral, yet somehow, it seemed to convey a sense of urgency, a sense of importance, as if the contents of the envelope were waiting to be set free, waiting to reveal a truth that could change everything.

As I looked at him, I saw a glimmer of something in his eyes, a flicker of emotion that was quickly suppressed, leaving behind a mask of calm, a mask that seemed to say, "I've done my part, now it's up to you." And with that, he turned away, leaving me alone with the envelope, leaving me to grapple with the weight of the unknown.

I felt a surge of trepidation as I looked down at the envelope, my heart racing with anticipation, my mind racing with questions. What secrets lay hidden within? What revelations would it bring? And why had he given it to me, of all people? The questions swirled in my head like a vortex, drawing me in, refusing to let go.

With a deep breath, I slowly lifted the flap, my fingers trembling slightly as I broke the seal, the sound of the paper tearing echoing through the silence like a drumbeat. And then, with a sense of trepidation, I reached inside and pulled out the contents, my heart pounding in my chest, my eyes scanning the pages, searching for answers, searching for the truth.

I opened the envelope, my fingers trembling with anticipation, and brought out the letter, my eyes scanning the pages with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. And what I saw with my eyes surprised me, shocked me, left me breathless. The words on the page seemed to dance before my eyes, taunting me, teasing me, revealing a truth that I had not been prepared for.

But even as my mind reeled with the implications, I knew that I had to give thanks, no matter what. We are meant to give thanks in whatever situation we find ourselves in, no matter how difficult, no matter how challenging. And so, I took a deep breath, and began to read the letter again, this time with a sense of gratitude, a sense of acceptance, a sense of trust that everything would work out for the best.

As I read, I felt a sense of peace wash over me, a sense of calm that I had not felt in a long time. I realized that this letter, this revelation, was not a curse, but a blessing in disguise. It was an opportunity for growth, for learning, for becoming a better version of myself. And so, I gave thanks, thanks for the surprise, thanks for the shock, thanks for the revelation that would change my life forever.

He had been transferred to Jogbo, a remote village in another state, a place so far-flung that it seemed like a world away. The thought of leaving our present location, a bustling hub of activity, and relocating to a village that was a whopping 5 hours drive away, was daunting to say the least. And to make matters worse, we had to leave that very weekend, giving us barely any time to prepare or adjust to the news.

But what really sent a chill down my spine was the fact that one of our pastors had been transferred to the same village just a few months prior, and he had resigned after a mere two weeks of his stay there. The eerie part was that he had never breathed a word about his reasons for leaving, nor had he shared any details about his experience in Jogbo. The silence was deafening, and it spoke volumes. It was as if he had seen or experienced something that was too terrible to put into words, something that had left an indelible mark on his psyche.

The thought of my loved one heading to the same place, to face whatever unknown challenges or terrors that lurked there, was unbearable. I couldn't help but wonder if we were walking into a similar nightmare, one that would leave us scarred and shaken. The uncertainty was suffocating, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation as we prepared to embark on this journey into the unknown.

"Is that why you're this way?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as I searched his eyes for answers. The question hung in the air like a challenge, a plea for understanding, a desperate attempt to make sense of the enigma that stood before me. I was seeking a connection, a link between the mysterious transfer to Jogbo and the change that had come over him.

His expression remained inscrutable, a mask of calm that betrayed no emotion, no hint of the turmoil that might be brewing beneath the surface. And yet, I pressed on, driven by a need to understand, to penetrate the armor that shielded his true feelings. "Is that why you're this way?" I repeated, my words echoing off the silence, as I tried to unravel the mystery that had taken up residence in his heart.

The question was a probe, a gentle prod into the depths of his soul, a bid to uncover the secrets that he kept hidden. I was seeking a glimmer of truth, a spark of insight that would help me comprehend the transformation that had taken place. Had the transfer to Jogbo been the catalyst for this change? Was it the reason behind the veil of sadness that shrouded his eyes? The answers, I hoped, would reveal themselves in the silence that followed.

"How do you mean?" He quizzed, his voice laced with a hint of curiosity, as he raised his head to look at me, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made me feel like he was searching for the truth. His gaze was piercing, as if trying to bore into my very soul, to uncover the thoughts and emotions that lay hidden beneath my words.

As our eyes met, I felt a jolt of connection, a spark of understanding that seemed to bridge the gap between us. It was as if he was asking me to reveal the secrets of my heart, to share the thoughts that had been swirling in my mind like a maelstrom. And so, I took a deep breath, and began to explain, my words tumbling out in a rush of emotion, as I tried to convey the depth of my concern, the extent of my confusion.

"I mean, you've been so distant, so withdrawn," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "You've been carrying this weight around, this burden that you won't share with anyone. And I'm wondering, is it because of the transfer to Jogbo? Is that why you're shutting us out, shutting me out?" The questions poured out of me like a river, as I sought to understand the mystery that had taken up residence in his heart.

"You don't know why God has asked us to go there," I said, my voice filled with a sense of wonder, a sense of awe at the mysterious ways of the divine. The words hung in the air like a gentle breeze, a reminder that there was a higher purpose at work, a purpose that transcended our human understanding.

And he nodded, his head inclining slightly, his eyes never leaving mine, as if acknowledging the truth in my words. It was a nod of acceptance, a nod of surrender, a nod that said, "Yes, I may not understand, but I trust in the plan." The gesture was simple, yet profound, a testament to the faith that we shared, a faith that called us to trust in the unknown, to trust in the unseen.

In that moment, I felt a sense of peace settle over us, a sense of peace that came from knowing that we were not in control, that there was a higher power guiding us, directing us, leading us to places we would never have chosen on our own. And so, we stood there, suspended in the uncertainty of the future, yet anchored in the certainty of our faith, ready to embark on the journey that lay ahead, ready to follow the path that God had ordained for us.

"But, that place, how are we going to survive there?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, his eyes filled with a deep worry. "I'm not sure there's any good school there for the kids," he continued, his brow furrowed, his mind racing with the implications of uprooting our family. "Won't you people just stay back?" he suggested, his tone gentle, yet urgent, as if he couldn't bear the thought of us facing the challenges of Jogbo alone.

"I'll be coming to visit every two weeks or month ends," he said, his eyes locking onto mine, searching for reassurance, searching for a glimmer of hope. His words were a desperate attempt to find a solution, a compromise that would allow us to stay behind, to avoid the hardships that lay ahead. But I knew it wasn't possible, I knew that we had to go, that we had to face whatever challenges Jogbo threw our way.

As I looked into his eyes, I saw the fear of the unknown, the fear of failure, the fear of losing the life we had built. But I also saw the love, the love for our family, the love for our children, the love that drove him to want to protect us from harm. And I knew that I had to be strong, I had to be brave, I had to be the rock that he needed me to be. So I took a deep breath, and I nodded, and I said, "We'll be okay, we'll face this together, as a family."

"No" I said, shaking my head resolutely, my mind made up. "I can't stay here all alone with the kids, away from you, away from your love and support. We'll have to go there together, as a family, and face whatever challenges come our way." I said, my voice firm, yet gentle, as I sat beside him on the couch, feeling the warmth of his body, the comfort of his presence.

And then, I reached for one of his arms, feeling the familiar contours of his muscles, the softness of his skin. I held it tight, as if holding onto hope itself, and looked into his eyes, searching for the resolve that I knew was there. "God will see us through," I said, my voice filled with conviction, my heart filled with faith. "He will guide us, protect us, and provide for us. All will be well."

The words hung in the air like a promise, a promise of better days to come, of trials overcome, of a future filled with hope and joy. And he nodded again, his eyes never leaving mine, his face a picture of determination. "The only problem now is where we are going to stay when we get there," I added, my mind already racing with the practicalities of our new life. But I knew that we would figure it out, together, as a family, with God on our side.

"That isn't a problem," he said, his voice filled with reassurance, his eyes sparkling with a hint of excitement. "There's a parish house there, a place for us to call home, a place where we can rest our heads and feel safe." He paused, his brow furrowed in thought, as if trying to remember every detail. "But I don't know where it is, exactly. We'll have to ask someone when we get there, someone who knows the place like the back of their hand."

He rummaged through his pocket, his hand emerging with a small bunch of keys, the metal glinting in the light. "But I was given the keys to the house," he said, his face breaking into a smile, a smile that spoke of hope and new beginnings. "So, we'll have a place to stay, a place to call our own, even if we don't know exactly where it is yet." He looked at me, his eyes shining with determination, as if to say, "We'll figure it out, together. We'll find our way, and we'll make this new place home."

That weekend, we embarked on a new chapter in our lives, leaving behind the familiar comforts of our home and community. We packed our belongings into a van, carefully loading each item with a sense of nostalgia and uncertainty. Our small car, faithful companion to countless family adventures, led the way, carrying us forward into the unknown.

As we drove, the kids' cries still echoed in our minds, their tears and protests a poignant reminder of the sacrifices we were making. They had clung to us, refusing to let go, their small hearts heavy with the weight of change. But we knew we had to go, compelled by a higher calling to follow God's plan for our lives. We had to trust that He had a purpose for us in Jogbo, a purpose that would bring us growth, joy, and fulfillment.

The road stretched out before us, a long and winding path that would lead us to our new home. We drove in silence, lost in thought, our minds whirling with questions and doubts. But we pressed on, fueled by our faith and determination, knowing that we were not alone. God was with us, guiding us every step of the way, and together, we would face whatever lay ahead.

After driving for hours, the endless miles of asphalt finally gave way to the rugged terrain of Jogbo. We turned onto the road leading to the village, our tires crunching on the gravel beneath. As we entered the village, a sense of unease settled over us, like a shroud cast by the ominous landscape. And then, we saw it - a black statue looming before us, its imposing figure grasping a sword in its hand. But it was the eerie details that made my heart race - the blood dripping from its mouth and nose, like a morbid reminder of some dark history.

My husband slammed on the brakes, his eyes fixed on the statue with a mix of fascination and horror. I, on the other hand, couldn't bear to look. I averted my gaze, my eyes scanning the surrounding area for some semblance of normalcy, but finding none. Instead, I swiftly covered my head with my scarf, as if shielding myself from the malevolent energy emanating from the statue. The silence in the car was palpable, punctuated only by the soft dripping of the blood, a haunting sound that seemed to echo through the desolate landscape. It was as if time itself had stood still, leaving us suspended in a moment of dread and foreboding.

""Jesus!" My first daughter screamed in exclamation, her voice piercing the air like a sharp cry of alarm. She instinctively grabbed her younger brother's hand, pulling him close as they both held onto each other in a very tight hug, as if seeking comfort and protection in each other's embrace. Their eyes were wide with fear, their faces pale with anxiety, as they gazed at the ominous statue before us. The sudden outburst and their terrified expressions only added to the sense of unease that had settled over us, making my heart race with a mix of concern and dread.

In that moment, I wanted to shield them from the darkness that seemed to emanate from the statue, to protect them from the evil that lurked in this forsaken place. But I knew I couldn't, not completely. All I could do was offer them what little comfort and reassurance I had, and pray that we would emerge from this nightmare unscathed. So I reached out, placing a gentle hand on their shoulders, trying to offer some semblance of calm in the midst of this chaos. "It's okay, my children," I whispered, trying to sound braver than I felt. "We'll get through this together." But the words felt hollow, even as I spoke them, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were in over our heads.

My husband was still staring at the statue, his eyes fixed on it with an unnerving intensity, as if mesmerized by its dark presence. And then, he started to speak in tongues, his voice low and urgent, the words tumbling out in a fervent whisper. I recognized the language of the Spirit, a language that only the most devout and faithful could understand. I was about to tell him to continue driving, to get us away from this foreboding place, but something stayed my tongue. Instead, I started praying in silence too, my heart crying out to God for protection and guidance.

As we sat there, lost in our individual prayers, a sudden knock on the car window shattered the silence. I froze, my heart skipping a beat, as if the very darkness itself had reached out to tap on our door. The sound was loud and insistent, a sharp rap-rap-rap that seemed to demand our attention. I didn't dare look up, didn't dare move, as if any sudden movement would provoke some malevolent force into action. The kids were still clinging to each other, their eyes wide with fear, as my husband's praying grew more fervent, more urgent. The knock came again, louder this time, and I knew we had to respond, but I was paralyzed with fear, unable to move or speak.

"Oga, is anything wrong with the car?" he quizzed, his voice laced with a hint of concern, his eyes scanning the vehicle as if searching for a sign of trouble. My husband shook his head, his eyes still fixed on the statue, his face a mask of determination. "If there's nothing wrong, then let's leave here now," the stranger said, his tone firm but polite, as if urging us to depart from this accursed place. "This is not a sight to behold, please," he added, his words dripping with a sense of unease, as if he, too, felt the weight of the darkness that lingered here.

With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the silence, leaving us to ponder his words. The kids still clung to each other, their eyes wide with fear, as my husband's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles white with tension. I knew we had to leave, knew we had to get away from this place, but my husband's reluctance to depart was palpable. He seemed transfixed by the statue, as if drawn to its dark power, and I feared for our safety, feared for our very souls.

My husband finally started the car after what felt like an eternity, the engine roaring to life with a comforting hum. We had sat in silence for about a minute, the only sound being the soft dripping of the statue's "blood" and the heavy breathing of our children. As we began to drive away from the ominous statue, we decided to ask the first person we saw for directions to the parish house. But as soon as we mentioned our destination, the stranger's expression changed, his eyes clouding over with a mix of confusion and wariness.

He paused, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for the right words, before finally asking, "You mean the old parish house?" His tone was laced with a hint of trepidation, as if he was unsure if he should be sharing this information. We nodded eagerly, our eyes locked on his, and he hesitated again before pointing down a narrow road that wound into the heart of the village. "It's down that way," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But be careful, Oga. That place... it's not for the faint of heart." With that, he turned and hurried away, leaving us to wonder what secrets the parish house held, and what dangers lay ahead.

"Are you Jesus' people?"

"Yes... Yes..." My husband and I said in chorus.

"Me, I don't know o," he said, his voice laced with a hint of uncertainty, his eyes clouding over with a mix of fear and confusion. He turned and walked away, his pace quickening as if he couldn't get away from us fast enough. My husband tried calling him back, his voice firm but polite, "Excuse me, sir! Please, come back! We need directions!" But the stranger ignored us, his ears seemingly closed to our pleas. He continued walking away, his muttering growing louder, the words indistinguishable but the tone unmistakable - a low, urgent whisper, as if he was trying to convince himself of something.

We watched him go, our eyes fixed on his retreating figure, our minds racing with questions. What did he mean by his enigmatic statement? Why was he so reluctant to help us? And what was he muttering to himself, as if trying to ward off some evil spirit? The kids looked up at us, their eyes wide with worry, and I could feel the tension in the air, like a palpable force that threatened to suffocate us. My husband's face was set in a determined expression, his jaw clenched in frustration, as if he was determined to uncover the secrets that this village seemed to be hiding. And I knew, in that moment, that we were in for a long, difficult night.

We asked three more people, each one claiming they didn't know anything about the parish house, but we refused to give up. We continued driving through the winding streets of the village, our determination to find the parish house only growing stronger with each passing minute. We stopped to ask more people, showing them the address and directions we had been given, but each one shook their head and muttered "I don't know" or "I've never heard of it." But we didn't let their lack of knowledge discourage us. We were on a mission to find the parish house, and we wouldn't rest until we did.

As we drove further into the village, the streets became increasingly narrow and winding, the houses becoming smaller and more rustic. We were starting to lose hope, wondering if we had been given a wild goose chase, when we finally met this little girl carrying a small keg of water on her head. She couldn't have been more than ten years old, with a bright smile and curious eyes that sparkled in the fading light of day. As soon as we greeted her and asked her where we could find the parish house, she asked, "Are you the new priest and his family?" Her voice was high-pitched and full of excitement, and we exchanged a look of surprise and hope. "Yes, we are," my husband replied, his voice filled with a sense of relief. "Do you know where the parish house is?" And with that, the little girl smiled and pointed down a small alleyway, saying "It's just down that way, you can't miss it."

"Are you a Pastor?"

My husband and I turned and looked at each other, our eyes locking in a moment of shared understanding and hope. The little girl's question had sparked a glimmer of excitement in our hearts, and we couldn't help but wonder if we were finally on the right track. My husband's face was set in a determined expression, his jaw clenched in a resolute manner, as if he was willing the answer to be yes. And then, with a gentle nod, he replied "Yes", his voice firm and confident. The little girl's eyes lit up with a bright smile, and she nodded enthusiastically, as if she had been waiting for us to arrive. "I knew it!" she exclaimed, her small voice full of excitement. "Father Michael told me to look out for you. He said you would be coming to stay at the parish house." And with that, she turned and skipped off down the alleyway, beckoning us to follow her.

"Come, I'll show you the parish house," she said with a warm and welcoming smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She dropped her keg of water, letting it fall to the ground with a soft thud, and gestured for us to follow her. But before we could move, my husband quickly came down from the driver's seat, his long legs striding over to where the keg lay. He picked it up with ease, his muscles flexing beneath his sleeves, and placed it carefully in the back of the car. The little girl didn't seem to notice, too focused on leading us to our destination. She hopped into the car, her small frame bouncing up and down on the seat as she settled in. "Okay, let's go!" she chirped, her voice full of enthusiasm. And with that, we continued driving, the car winding its way through the narrow streets of the village, the little girl pointing out landmarks and chatting excitedly about the parish house. Her infectious energy was a balm to our frazzled nerves, and we found ourselves smiling and laughing along with her, feeling a sense of hope and belonging that we hadn't felt in hours.

"What's your name and how old are you?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me as I smiled at the little girl's bright and cheerful face. She turned to me with a grin, her eyes sparkling with excitement, and replied, "My name is Nneoma, and I'm 9 years old!" She said it with a proud emphasis, as if being 9 years old was a significant achievement. I chuckled and nodded, impressed by her confidence. "Well, Nneoma, it's nice to meet you," I said, trying to pronounce her name correctly. "You're very helpful, showing us the way to the parish house." Nneoma beamed with pride, clearly pleased with herself, and continued to chat away, telling us all about her family, her friends, and her life in the village. Her lively conversation filled the car, making the journey feel shorter and more enjoyable, and we found ourselves laughing and smiling along with her, feeling a sense of warmth and connection that we hadn't expected.

"Layla ma, I'm 8 years old," she said with a sweet smile, her big brown eyes shining with innocence. "Have you both come here to preach to my people about Christ?" she added, her voice full of curiosity and a hint of excitement. Her question took us aback, and we exchanged a glance, impressed by her boldness and understanding. "Yes, that's right," my husband replied, his voice gentle and warm. "We're here to share the love of God with your community and learn from them as well." Layla nodded enthusiastically, her braids bobbing up and down. "Father Michael told us you were coming. He said you would help us build a new church and teach us more about God's word." Her words revealed a deep understanding of the purpose of our visit, and we were touched by her eagerness to learn and grow in her faith. As we continued driving, Layla asked us more questions, her curiosity and enthusiasm infectious, and we found ourselves feeling grateful for this chance encounter with such a remarkable young girl.

"This girl is smart" I said smiling.

"I tell you" My husband replied with a grin.

"Yes, we have" He replied the little girl.

"That will be great," she said, her voice filled with longing and hope. "There's no church here, not even a single one," she continued, her eyes clouding over with a hint of sadness. "I have been looking for someone to worship God with, but my people here are idol worshippers who don't believe in God," she said, her voice laced with a deep sense of yearning. "They worship the spirits of the land and the ancestors, but I have always felt a void in my heart, a sense that there must be something more," she explained, her words pouring out like a river. "I've tried to share the word of God with them, but they laugh and say I'm foolish to believe in a God I've never seen," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "But I know that God is real, I can feel His presence in my heart, and I long to worship Him with others who believe as I do," she said, her eyes shining with tears. "So, to have a church built here, where we can gather and praise God together, would be a dream come true," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

My husband and I became so shocked, our minds reeling in disbelief, to hear such profound and heartfelt words from such a little girl, no more than 8 years old, living in that kind of remote village where the majority of the people didn't even believe in God. We were taken aback by her depth of understanding, her passion, and her conviction, which seemed to far surpass that of many adults we had met. Her words were like a breath of fresh air, a ray of hope in a place where darkness and ignorance seemed to reign supreme. We were amazed that despite being surrounded by idol worshippers, she had managed to hold on to her faith, and was even eager to share it with others. Her courage and determination were an inspiration to us, and we felt humbled and privileged to be a part of her journey. We looked at each other, our eyes wide with wonder, and nodded in unison, knowing that we had to do everything in our power to support this little girl and her community, to help them build a church and grow in their faith.

"Who are you?" My husband asked her again.

"Like I said before, I'm Layla. I grew up in the city but was brought back a few months ago when my Aunty lost her husband. That was where I knew about God, Christ, and the religion" She said.

"Wow!" I exclaimed.

"Impressive," my husband said, his voice filled with genuine admiration, as a broad smile spread across his face. "You are truly a remarkable young girl, Layla," he continued, his eyes shining with warmth and approval. "Your faith and conviction are an inspiration to us all, and we are so grateful to have met you," he said, his words pouring out like a river. "To hear such wisdom and understanding from someone so young, living in a village where many don't share your beliefs, is truly a wonder," he added, his voice full of awe. "You are a shining light in this place, Layla, and we are honored to be a part of your journey," he said, his smile still beaming bright. "We will do everything in our power to support you and your community, to help you build a church and grow in your faith," he promised, his words filled with sincerity and commitment. Layla's face lit up with joy, her eyes sparkling like diamonds, as she smiled back at us, her heart full of hope and gratitude.

We drove to the parish house, It was quite ok but was looking very bushy and dirty.

"You see what I was telling you? You guys should have at least allowed me to come here first to clean this place up before coming over" My husband said.

"So you're the one who's good at taking care of a dirty environment right? Abeg sit somewhere, let the kids and I take care of it" I said.

I turned and told Layla that we needed brooms, and she immediately sprinted home, her little legs moving swiftly, and returned with three long brooms, her face beaming with pride and eagerness to help. We opened the house, and our eyes were met with a sight that made our hearts sink - cobwebs had taken over all the rooms, hanging like macabre tapestries, a testament to the long abandonment of the place. We prayed, seeking strength and guidance, and started cleaning up, but just as we were making progress, a middle-aged woman marched into the house, her wrapper tied tightly around her waist, her face set in a fierce scowl. She marched straight to Layla, her eyes blazing with anger, grabbed her right ear, and started beating and dragging her out of the house, all the while speaking in a language that we didn't understand, her voice rising and falling in a rhythmic cadence. We tried stopping her, our voices raised in protest, but she ignored us, her grip on Layla's ear unyielding, and dragged her away, leaving us feeling helpless and bewildered. We watched in dismay as they disappeared into the distance, the sound of Layla's cries and the woman's angry muttering fading into the silence of the village.

After we had finished sweeping, we needed water to clean up the place, so my husband and I decided to venture out to the next house adjacent to the parish house, hoping to find some assistance. As we approached the house, we met an old woman, her face lined with age and experience, and two young men, their eyes fixed on us with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. We greeted them warmly, trying to break the ice, and explained our situation, telling them that we needed water to mop the house and make it habitable. But to our surprise, one of the young men spoke to us in pidgin English, his voice firm and unyielding, telling us that there was no water to be had. "No water here," he said, his words like a brick wall, blocking our progress. We tried to reason with him, explaining that we had traveled far and needed help, but he simply shook his head and repeated his phrase, like a mantra, "No water here." The old woman and the other young man remained silent, their faces impassive, offering no help or support, leaving us feeling frustrated and defeated.

We left, feeling disappointed and frustrated, and went to the other house, hoping to find some assistance. We asked for water, expecting a simple and straightforward response, but what we got was something that left us shocked and horrified. Instead of water, we were given a bucket filled with a liquid that looked like fresh blood, its deep red color and thick consistency making it almost indistinguishable from the real thing. We were taken aback, our minds racing with questions and fears. What kind of people would give us blood instead of water? Was this some kind of twisted joke or a sinister warning? We looked at each other, our eyes wide with alarm, and quickly left the house, feeling like we had stumbled into a dark and malevolent world. The image of that blood-filled bucket stayed with us, haunting us like a nightmare, and we couldn't shake off the feeling that seems like we were in grave danger.

"Welcome to Jogbo" The man said...

To be continued.