Chapter 4: The Night They Whispered

I’m back again in the bushy area by Baba Idowu’s living quarters. It always starts here. It’s always a pitch-black night, except for the dimly lit lantern hanging outside his window.

Realizing in a panic where I am, I turn and bolt, desperate to get back to the safety of the dormitory. Certain I can hear his footsteps right on my tail, I pump my arms, racing through the tall grass, which feels like it’s coming alive, grabbing at me, holding me back, but I push through. I always do.

Then the real terror begins.

No matter which way I run, it always ends the same. I burst through the grass, thinking I’m almost safe, only to find myself standing in that wide, open field behind the kitchen.

And they’re there.

The creatures.

I’ve started calling them Whisperers, because of the way they hiss and mutter as they move, like they’re all telling secrets at once. There are dozens of them, all around me. Giant, snake-like beasts, as large as a big goat, with black, slimy-looking scales and thick, muscly bodies that move like coils dragging across the ground. Each one has long, human-like arms that help pull them forward, clawing into the dirt.

Their faces are the worst part. They wear these creepy wooden masks, like the ones I once saw in a museum in Lagos. Cracked, weathered, carved with weird markings and twisted expressions that make the wood look alive. Behind their masks is just darkness. You can't see their eyes… but you feel them watching you.

They whisper constantly, not in any language I understand, but it crawls into your ears like they're trying to slip something under your skin. Half the time it sounds like they're mocking me. Other times, it sounds like they’re blaming me for something I don’t even know I did.

Then he shows up.

The leader.

He’s like them, but… worse. Bigger. Smarter. Meaner. I call him Redback because of the jagged red spine thing running down his back like there’s lava just under his skin. When he moves, you can see the spine ripple with heat. Redback has four glowing eyes, and when they lock onto me, it’s like getting punched in the soul. No joke. I’ve never felt hate like that. Not from a person, not even from senior Menor.

He makes this deep, grinding sound, like metal getting chewed up in a machine, and when he lets it out, the Whisperers suddenly snap to attention. They split up into three groups, spreading out like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Surrounding me. Closing in. All I can think is: Not again.

My feet feel heavy as stone, but I force myself to run as fast as I can. To my left, one of the groups has already outflanked me, cutting off the path toward the main classroom block. If I go that way, I’ll be trapped between walls and windows. My only shot is the path cutting past the right stairwell behind the kitchen, the one that curves toward the dorm’s bottom level, but if no one opens the downstairs door that leads up to our dorm rooms in time, I’m finished.

I scream for help, hoping, begging, that someone will hear me from the dorm or the upper balcony, but it’s useless. No one ever does.

The Whisperers mimic my cries, layering their hisses into a mocking echo. It’s like they enjoy the sound of my fear. They leave me with one option: the bushes behind Baba Idowu’s quarters.

But I know what happens if I go there. I’ve died there before.

Not ready to accept that fate again, I spot the storage room tucked behind the dorm’s bottom stairs, where we keep the labor tools. The thick metal door, usually locked up with a fat rusted padlock, hangs open, like it’s been waiting just for me.

I don’t hesitate.

I dash through the door and make for the wooden window at the back. If I hit it hard enough, I can break through. The Whisperers are right behind me. I don’t even look back. I lower my shoulder and leap.

The glass explodes. The frame cracks as I crash through. I land hard on my hands and knees inside one of the classrooms just off the dorm block. I don’t stop to think. No time. I scramble up and sprint toward the front door, burst through it, and hit the outer path leading straight toward the soccer field. 

The night air slaps me in the face. I don’t stop.

I cut across the edge of the soccer field, racing toward the school’s main gate. I pass the trader stalls, empty now, their tables covered with tarps and shadows. The goalposts flash by in my peripheral vision. My lungs burn and my legs barely feel real. My goal is to get to the school gate and find help off-campus, but when I reach the gate, it is chained shut. Thick metal links looped tight and locked with a huge padlock, but with some slack on the end. 

Panic rises in my throat.

They’re coming.

I can hear them behind me, the scraping, the hissing, the awful whispers getting louder. I grab the edge of one of the loose chains and rip it from the bars, wrapping it around my hand like a weapon.

“MOVE BACK! I’LL KILL YOU IF YOU COME NEAR ME!” I scream, swinging the chain wildly in every direction.

For a moment, they pause… but then Redback lets out a roar, a grinding, gut-shaking sound that sends a fresh wave of fear down my spine.

Two of the Whisperers step forward. One of them has two heads, two twisted, mask-covered faces that move in opposite directions, like it’s daring me to strike. 

“Oh God. Oh God, please save me!” I pray, breathless, panicked, shaking.

Then the creature leaps.

Its claw rips across my chest, slamming me back against the gate. The metal bars rattle. The chain drops from my hand. I can’t feel my legs. My chest is burning. Blood spills through my shirt as everything goes dim.

Then…

I jolt awake, soaked in sweat.

“Abeg, QUIET DOWN!” A senior bellows from the back of the dorm. A few students stir, grumble, and fall back asleep.

It takes me a moment to realize where I am. My bunkbed. The dorm. Not the field. It was just another dream, a nightmare, but my chest and leg still ache, just like they did in the dream. Too rattled to check for real injuries, I lie in bed clutching Michael’s rosary, reciting the Lord’s Prayer over and over, trying to calm myself.

I’m not sure how long I stay awake, but eventually, the morning bell rings, and daylight seeps into the room. The ache in my leg fades, and the sight of the sun streaming through the window gives me some comfort. It’s a school day, Wednesday, and I’m actually looking forward to the distraction of classes, anything to get my mind off the nightmare.

After our usual morning routine, showers, breakfast, assembly line dismissal, Nnamdi and I make our way to the junior building for math class. Mr. Madueke, our math teacher, is as no-nonsense as they come, and he and I have had a few run-ins in the past. Today, though, I’m prepared.

When he calls me to the board to solve a problem, I nail it, one of the few I actually understood. I glance back at him with a bit of a smirk, but he’s unimpressed, just tells me to sit down.

“Idiot teacher,” I mutter as I head back to my desk.

The rest of my classes breeze by, and at break, I catch up with my commuter friends about what’s going on in the world outside the boarding school walls. By the end of the classes, the guys and I are hanging out by the roasted-corn sellers, chatting about who, if anyone, is tough enough to beat Mike Tyson, when Efe approaches. 

Efe, the “High Priest,” as some call him, is the born-again Christian in our class. He walks around acting like our spiritual conscience. Always asking how he can pray for you, always inviting people to one fellowship meeting or the other. He doesn’t even judge you out loud, he just shows up with his church-boy face and suddenly you feel like you should confess something. Today is no different.

“Hi, guys! How nah?” he says, walking over to us with a stack of small note cards in hand. “Christian Fellowship meetings are back on. You should come and check it out!”

Ladi and Nnamdi are rolling their eyes and groaning, but Efe stays persistent. “Seriously, you guys will like it. The message isn’t long, and they’ll pray for you if you have any needs. Oh, and they’ve got a band today, plus free puff-puff at the end.”

That does it.

Nnamdi sits up straighter like he just heard angels singing. “puff-puff? And what else”

Efe grins. “Minerals… maybe?”

Now everyone’s listening. Jokes fade. No one says anything outright, but somehow our plan shifts. We’re going. Of course, nobody wants to look too eager, so we all play it cool, making casual detours in the direction of the Fellowship room.

I should be just as puff-puff focused as the others, but my mind’s elsewhere. Ever since Efe handed us those cards, something’s been stirring. I keep wondering if I should talk to him. He’s got a closer relationship with God than anyone I know, even Michael, and there’s something spiritual-off with me. The dreams. The pain. The old man, who I now refer to as Baba Idowu. It’s like they’re all part of some spiritual war no one else can see. I can’t explain exactly what’s happening, but I need help. The kind Efe might actually know how to pray for.

He’s still going from group to group, doing his rounds, so I figure I’ll catch him after.

By the time we get to the meeting hall, the band is already playing. The place is packed. Clearly, we’re not the only ones the puff-puff gospel reached. Everyone’s dancing, clapping, or singing. A student-usher hands us a paper and points us to the back. The song is catchy, something about eternal life, and we join in.

The celebration goes on for about fifteen minutes before a senior walks up to the front and prays. There’s a quiet chorus of “Yessss Jesus!” and “Amen!” as he prays. I keep my eyes open, scanning the room for familiar faces. I spot some commuter students, a few boarding students, mostly from JS1, JS2, and SS2 students.

Once the prayer wraps up, the praying senior invites everyone to stand and greet their “fellow brothers in the Lord.” The room erupts into loud mingling. I join in, greeting a few people, but my focus keeps drifting. Efe’s still nowhere to be seen. Nnamdi tugs on my arm, frustration all over his face.

“Wait O! I don’t see any coolers with puff-puff! Do you? Efe better not have been lying!”

Before I can calm him down, a senior named Niyi takes the stage. He quiets the room and tells everyone to open their Bibles to the book of Acts.

My mind starts to wander again.

I wonder if Efe’s already left, and I didn’t get the chance to share my prayer request. My thoughts drift to home. I wish I were back in the U.S., hanging out with my friends and goofing off in class at Joe Bryant Middle School. I wonder if Stephen misses me. I think about Renee and how I miss her, but in a different way than I feel about Ifeanyi. I think about how different our lunch period meals are in the U.S from what we have here in Nigeria. I miss volleyball in gym class and biking home after school. The more I think about it, the more homesick I get. I especially miss my parents and my little sister back in Lagos. I really wish they’d come visit me.

Just as I start sinking into that homesick feeling, something senior Niyi says pulls me back. He’s talking about Paul from the Bible and how “…it was God’s hand that brought you here. He directed the events of your life and hand-selected you to be in this place today.”

Curiosity replaces my sadness. I nudge Nnamdi and ask if he’s hearing this, but he mutters something about puff-puff. Ignoring him, I refocus on senior Niyi’s words. Something sweet and strange stirs inside me, a quiet eagerness I can’t quite explain.

Senior Niyi continues. “God has brought some of you from nearby towns, others from far away. Some of you are hundreds of miles from home, like brother Jide and brother Matthew, who are from Kwara and Ogun State. Even brother Micah, all the way from Jos. Do you think this is by accident?”

“No way!” a few students shout.

Senior Niyi flips through his Bible again. “Let me share with you the Bible’s answer to why you’re here.”

Still grumbling, Nnamdi mumbles loud enough for those near us to hear, “For puff-puff! Why else?”

Michael leans in, scolding him. “What’s your problem? Judgment fire will soon fall on you and that stupid puff-puff.”

“Abeg, leave me, joh!” Nnamdi snaps back.

I tune them out, locking in on senior Niyi.

“Okay, look at verse 27… Acts 17:27. This is your answer: ‘God did this so that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from any one of us.’”

A bomb explodes in my heart. I can feel it, personal and real.

Senior Niyi explains, “What this verse means is that God has ordained your steps for a divine appointment with Him. Here. Today. He didn’t plan for you to meet Him back when you were at home or anywhere else. No, He chose this as the place for His one-on-one meeting with you.”

From the deepest part of my soul, I hear a quiet but authoritative voice whisper, “Myles, I brought you here because I love you, and My plans for you are perfect.”

I don’t know how I know, but I’m certain it’s God speaking to me. The sweetness of His words overwhelms me, and tears start welling up in my eyes. I’ve prayed before, but I’ve never felt anything like this, so personal. All I want is to stay in His presence.

Senior Niyi’s voice continues, “…Jesus Christ is the only one who can ensure you meet your divine appointment with your Father in heaven. That’s why He died on the cross for your sins, rose again, and now intercedes for you.”

I’m so full of emotion, all I can whisper is, “Thank you, Jesus.”

Senior Niyi invites us to pray if we want to trust in Jesus. I’m so choked up I can barely speak, but I pray along with him, asking Jesus to forgive my sins and to be my Lord and Savior. When I finally say “Amen,” it feels like the weight of the world has lifted off my shoulders. I turn to Wale and ask if he prayed too. He nods, but before we can chat, senior Niyi invites all the new converts to the front. As Wale and I walk up, I notice the rest of the guys haven’t followed. 

Nnamdi is still fuming over the puff-puff, arms crossed. Michael looks unsure, seemingly caught between his Catholic beliefs and what he’s just heard. Ladi hesitates but eventually walks up a few seconds after us. Senior Niyi and the Fellowship leaders shake our hands, welcoming us to the, “Family of God”, as the band starts up again.

Then, the thermal coolers arrive. As soon as the lids open, the smell of freshly fried puff-puff fills the room. Us new converts get served first; two puff-puffs each. Then senior Niyi invites everyone else to line up.

Ladi taps my shoulder, nodding toward Nnamdi. “I think he might want to give his life to Jesus now.” We laugh as we watch Nnamdi throw his hands up in frustration.

Afterward, we linger, sharing our experiences. Neither Ladi nor Wale heard God’s voice like I did, but they agree something’s changed.  Efe never came back to the meeting, which is weird. I wanted to tell him what happened, how real it felt, how God actually spoke to me, but maybe this was never about Efe. Maybe he was just the nudge I needed… God’s way of getting my attention.

We head back to the dorm to change. The others are laughing about Nnamdi’s puff-puff drama, but I’m quiet, still holding onto something that feels sacred. When I get to my room, I kneel beside my bed and begin to pray, thanking God for my friends, for saving me, for Ifeanyi’s smile I pray about the nightmares, pleading for protection from Baba Idowu and the Whisperers, hoping the fear will finally lift.

But it doesn’t.

The tremble remains. The shadow lingers at the edge of my chest. I want relief, but instead, I get silence… and then, a stillness… in the stillness, I hear His voice again.

“When you walk through the fire, Myles, My presence will go with you.” 

I freeze. Not if. When.

The words settle over me like both a warning and a promise. Comforting, yes, but also serious. Like God isn’t promising I will escape whatever is happening, only that He would be with me in it. At least that’s what I tell myself, and for now, that’s enough.

A slow warmth floods my chest, like standing in sunlight after rain. Whatever is coming, whatever Baba Idowu and the Whisperers are plotting, I suddenly instinctively know I won’t be facing it alone.

I end my prayer with a whisper. “Stay with me, Jesus. Please.”

Later that evening, Michael stops by my bunk to chat. He leans against the frame, arms folded, face unreadable.

“You good?” I ask.

He nods slowly. “I don’t know, I am still thinking about it all. I’m not ready yet… I just have so many questions.”

Unsure of how to respond, I simply say, “Sorry” and tell him I will pray for him, which feels weird since he’s been the one praying for me.

After he leaves, I do pray for him, for protection, for clarity, and for whatever fire he might have to walk through because I don’t know how I know, but my friends and I are no longer just surviving secondary school.

Something bigger is happening and it’s only just begun.

---