Chapter 9 Encounter with Jesus

Bur!ed Alive.

(for miracle)

Episode 9️⃣

"Holy Jesus!" I exclaimed all of a sudden, my voice bursting forth like a thunderclap on a stormy night, as I beheld the sight before me. My eyes widened in shock, like two doors flung open to reveal a astonishing surprise, as I took in the scene. It was as if time itself had stood still, like a frozen moment in a clock's ticking rhythm, and all that existed was this instant of pure astonishment.

"Mommy!" he called out, his voice like a tiny bell ringing out clear and true, with eyes popped wide open like two shiny marbles, full of wonder and excitement. His small face, like a delicate porcelain doll, was aglow with a mixture of surprise and delight, as if he had stumbled upon a hidden treasure or discovered a secret garden. The sound of his voice, like a gentle breeze on a summer day, was like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, illuminating the moment with warmth and joy.

I didn't even know when I dived and grabbed him, my arms wrapping around him like a vice, holding him close to my chest as if I would never let him go. I hugged him so tightly, my embrace like a shield protecting him from the world, my heart overflowing with love and relief. It was as if my body had reacted on its own, propelled by a primal instinct to safeguard my child, my precious son, my everything.

My daughter, still trying to comprehend the whole thing, stood there with her mouth wide open, her eyes frozen in a mixture of confusion and amazement, like a statue carved from stone. She seemed to be stuck in a moment of suspended animation, her mind struggling to process the sudden turn of events, like a computer rebooting after a crash. Until, all of a sudden, Sammy called her name, his voice like a spark igniting a flame, jerking her back to reality. Her eyes snapped back into focus, like a camera lens adjusting its settings, and she rushed forward, like a little bird taking flight, to join in the reunion, to share in the joy and the love.

"Sammy!" She called back, her voice like a sweet melody, echoing through the air, as she rushed to us with eyes wide open, like two shining stars sparkling in the night sky. Her little legs moved quickly, like a tiny bird in flight, as she hastened to join in the reunion, her face aglow with a radiant smile, like a sunrise breaking over the horizon.

And then, she gave Sammy a warm hug, her small arms wrapping around him like a tender vine, holding him close to her heart, as if she would never let him go. The hug was like a gentle breeze on a summer day, soothing and comforting, a symbol of the deep bond between siblings, a connection that only grew stronger with each passing day. As they embraced, their faces lit up with joy, like two lanterns shining bright in the darkness, their hearts overflowing with love and happiness, creating a moment of pure bliss, a memory to treasure forever.

"What happened to you? Where have you been?" She asked, her voice like a gentle stream flowing smoothly over rounded rocks, as she gazed at him with eyes full of concern and compassion, her gaze piercing deep into his soul, seeking answers to the questions that had been haunting her for so long.

She looked at him in the eyes, her own eyes wide with wonder and worry, like two pools of crystal clear water reflecting the depths of her emotions, as she searched for clues, for hints, for any sign of what he had endured, what he had faced, what he had overcome. Her eyes were like two windows to her heart, open wide to receive the truth, to absorb the pain, to share the burden.

And Sammy exhaled, his breath like a sigh of relief, a release of tension, a surrender to the comfort and safety of her presence, like a ship finally docking in a tranquil harbor after a long and turbulent journey. His eyes, like two stormy seas, began to calm, the waves of worry and fear slowly subsiding, as he prepared to share his story, to unburden himself of the secrets he had kept hidden for so long, to let go of the weight that had been pressing upon his shoulders.

"I was whisked away, like a leaf blown by a fierce wind, by some people in masks and uniforms, their faces hidden behind a veil of anonymity, their intentions shrouded in mystery. They took me to the back of the palace, a place of secrets and shadows, where the king's whispers held sway. It was there I knew, with a sense of dread and foreboding, that they were sent by the king himself, his minions carrying out his sinister bidding.

I was tied to a mango tree, its sturdy trunk a cruel substitute for a prison wall, its branches like nature's own handcuffs. And then, the beating began, a relentless rain of blows that left me black and blue, my body a mass of bruises, my spirit crushed. The king's orders were clear: torture me, break me, and then send me to Dad, a message of fear and intimidation, a warning to leave the village or face the consequences.

But in the depths of that darkness, something miraculous happened. While my body lay broken and still, my spirit was stirred by a presence, a being of light and love. A man came to me, dressed in white, his face shining like the sun, his eyes full of compassion and kindness. He inserted two fingers into my nostrils, and I jerked back to life, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.

I couldn't even walk when I woke up, my body weak and trembling, my mind foggy and disoriented. I lay there, at that spot, for what felt like an eternity, until the early hours of the next day, when this pastor, a good Samaritan, found me and brought me to this place of safety and refuge. And now, as I look back on that ordeal, I know that I was given a second chance, a new lease on life, a chance to tell my story and share my testimony."

"Praise the Lord" I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with conviction and gratitude, as I bowed my head in humility, my eyes shut tight as if to savor the moment, my heart overflowing with joy and thanksgiving. My hand rose spontaneously, as if drawn by an invisible force, and I waved it side to side in worship, my palm open and facing upwards, as if to receive a blessing from above.

As I stood there, lost in the depths of my devotion, time seemed to stand still, the world around me fading into the background, and all that mattered was the connection between my soul and the divine. The words "Praise the Lord" became a mantra, a declaration of faith, a celebration of the miracle that had brought Sammy back to us.

And then, I slowly opened my eyes, like a flower unfolding its petals to greet the sun, my gaze lifting upwards, as if to meet the gaze of the Almighty, my eyes shining with tears of joy and appreciation, my heart still racing with the excitement of the moment. The world around me came back into focus, and I saw the faces of my loved ones, their eyes shining with happiness and relief, their smiles a testament to the power of faith and the love that bound us together.

"Thank you sir" I said, my voice filled with sincerity and gratitude, as I turned to the pastor who was standing beside my son, a beacon of hope and kindness, his face radiating a warm and comforting smile. His eyes, like two shining stars, twinkled with joy and compassion, reflecting the love and care that he had shown to my child, to my family, in our darkest hour.

I gazed at him with a sense of wonder, my heart overflowing with appreciation, as I struggled to find the right words to express my thanks. His selfless act of kindness, his unwavering support, and his unshakeable faith had brought us back from the brink of despair, had given us a second chance at life, at love, at happiness.

As I looked at him, I saw a true servant of God, a vessel of hope, a shining example of the power of love and compassion. And so, I said it again, with all the conviction in my heart, "Thank you sir", my voice echoing through the silence, a small but sincere expression of the boundless gratitude that filled my soul.

"Thank God ma" He said, his voice filled with relief and gratitude, his eyes shining with a sense of wonder, as if still trying to process the miraculous reunion that had just taken place.

"Come, let's sit" He said, his gesture warm and inviting, pointing towards the couches that seemed to beckon us to come and rest our weary souls. And as soon as we sat, the weight of our emotions sinking into the soft cushions, Sammy popped the big question, the one that had been lingering in the air, the one that I had been dreading, "Where is Dad?".

My heart skipped a beat on hearing that, like a sudden pause in the rhythm of life, as if time itself had stopped to await my response. Tears started rolling down my face again, like a river overflowing its banks, as the pain and grief that I had been trying to hold back came rushing forward, threatening to engulf me once more. The question hung in the air, like a challenge, a reminder of the unfinished business of our hearts, the unresolved pain that still lingered, waiting to be confronted, waiting to be healed.

"What's going on?" He quizzed, his voice laced with confusion and concern, his eyes scanning my face, then shifting to his sister, who sat beside me, her body shaking with sobs, her face contorted in anguish. The scene before him was like a puzzle he couldn't quite decipher, and his frustration was palpable.

"Will somebody talk to me please?!" He exclaimed, his voice rising in desperation, as if he felt like he was drowning in a sea of uncertainty. The urgency in his tone was like a jolt, snapping me back to reality, and I immediately readjusted myself, my mind racing to find the right words to explain the complex emotions that had been unfolding.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm within me, and began to speak, my words hesitant at first, but gaining strength as I went on. I told him about the fears, the worries, the pain, and the tears that had been shed. I told him about the journey we had been on, the struggles we had faced, and the hopes we had held onto. And as I spoke, I saw the understanding dawn on his face, like a sunrise breaking over the horizon, illuminating the darkness, and bringing light to the path ahead.

"You see, erm... your father is... " I said, my voice faltering, as if the words were stuck in my throat, refusing to come out. I stuttered, my mouth dry, my mind racing, as I struggled to find the right words to tell my son the truth. Hot sweat dripped down from my head, like beads of anguish, as I wrestled with the weight of my emotions.

"Mom, can you please calm down and talk to me?" Sammy asked, his voice laced with concern, his eyes wide with worry, as he gazed at me with an expressionless face, like a mask hiding his true feelings. "Did something happen?" he probed, his tone gentle, yet insistent, as if trying to pry open the secrets that I was struggling to keep inside.

"Your father..." I said, my voice cracking, like a dam breaking, as the tears I had been holding back came flooding out. I burst into sobs, my body shaking, my heart aching, as the pain and grief that I had been trying to contain finally overflowed. The words hung in the air, like a incomplete sentence, a unfinished truth, as I struggled to find the strength to tell my son the rest.

"Daddy was buried alive" My daughter let out all of a sudden, her voice like a thunderclap on a stormy night, shattering the fragile calm that had settled over us. The words hung in the air, like a dark cloud, heavy with the weight of their meaning, leaving us all breathless and aghast.

"Jesus! God forbid!!" He exclaimed, his voice like a cry of anguish, as he sprang to his feet, his eyes wide with horror and disbelief. His reaction was like a spark igniting a flame, as the shock and pain of the revelation spread through us all, like a wildfire raging out of control. The room seemed to spin, like a vortex, as we struggled to comprehend the unspeakable truth, our minds reeling with the thought of what our beloved father must have endured in his final moments.

"Holy Moses!" The pastor too exclaimed, his voice echoing through the room like a solemn pronouncement, his mouth agape in disbelief, as if the words had struck him like a thunderbolt. His eyes widened in shock, his face pale with concern, as he struggled to process the enormity of what he had just heard.

"How? When? What happened?" The pastor quizzed, his questions tumbling out in rapid succession, like a burst of pent-up emotions, as he grasped for answers to the tragedy that had unfolded. His hands trembled, like leaves in an autumn breeze, as he reached out to us, his eyes brimming with compassion and empathy.

"Just... yesterday" I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling like a heavy burden on my lips, as if the weight of the memory was still too much to bear. The word "yesterday" hung in the air, like a stark reminder of the fragility of life, the swiftness of tragedy, and the pain that still lingered, a constant ache in our hearts.

"That wicked king had him killed? Noo, tell me it's not true" Sammy said, his voice cracking with anguish, as if the words were being torn from his very soul. His face contorted in agony, like a reflection of the pain that gripped his heart, as he struggled to comprehend the unspeakable truth.

As the reality of his father's fate sank in, Sammy's body seemed to crumble, like a fragile vessel shattered by the weight of grief. He broke down in tears, his sobs racking his body, as he threw himself onto the couch behind him, as if seeking refuge from the pain that had consumed him.

But I rushed to him, my own heart aching with compassion, and I grabbed him to my chest, holding him tight, like a lifeline to a drowning soul. I wrapped my arms around him, trying to absorb some of the pain, to share the burden of his grief, as we both succumbed to the torrent of emotions that had been unleashed. Together, we wept, our tears mingling, like two rivers flowing into one, as we mourned the loss of our beloved father, our rock, our guiding light.

"Wait, you mean he was buried alive?" He questioned again, his voice laced with disbelief, his eyes glued to me, as if searching for any hint of uncertainty, any glimmer of hope that this unimaginable horror might not be true. His gaze was like a piercing stare, cutting through the veil of tears that clouded my vision, as if trying to reach the very depths of my soul.

"Yes" I replied, my voice barely audible, a mere whisper, as if the weight of the truth was too much to bear. I sobbed, my body shaking, my head nodding in affirmation, as if to confirm the unspeakable fate that had befallen my beloved husband. The word "yes" hung in the air, like a dark cloud, heavy with the weight of its meaning, a constant reminder of the agony and terror that my husband had endured in his final moments.

As I nodded, my eyes locked onto his, and I could see the understanding dawn on his face, like a slow-rising sun, casting a light on the darkness that had consumed us. His expression contorted, like a reflection of the pain that gripped his heart, as he struggled to comprehend the unimaginable suffering that his father had endured. The silence that followed was like a heavy blanket, shrouding us in a shared grief, a collective sorrow that bound us together in our moment of despair.

"But why?" The pastor quizzed, his voice laced with a deep sense of curiosity and concern, as he leaned forward, now sitting at the edge of the couch, his eyes fixed intently on me. The question hung in the air, like a challenge, a plea for understanding, as if seeking a rational explanation for the senseless tragedy that had occurred.

"For preaching the gospel" I replied, my voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling like a heavy burden on my lips. "The King and his people had him killed" I continued, the sentence hanging in the air like a dark cloud, a stark reminder of the brutal fate that had befallen my husband. The words seemed to echo through the room, like a solemn pronouncement, a stark truth that couldn't be ignored.

But then, I paused, my voice cracking with emotion, as a glimmer of hope flickered to life within me. "But, I don't know why" I said, my voice filled with a sense of wonder, "I still have this strong belief that he's not dead" I continued, the words tumbling out, like a confession, a declaration of faith in the face of overwhelming despair. The pastor's eyes locked onto mine, his gaze filled with a deep understanding, as if he too, sensed the mysterious power of hope, that refused to be extinguished, even in the darkest of times.

"And, what do you intend to do about it? I mean, about what happened?" Asked the pastor, his voice laced with a deep sense of concern and compassion, as he leaned forward, his eyes fixed intently on me. The question hung in the air, like a challenge, a call to action, as if seeking a response to the injustice that had been perpetrated.

"That's why we need to return home" I replied, my voice firm, resolute, as if the decision had been made, and the course of action was clear. "I need to go and inform the General overseer too, and some church elders" I continued, the words tumbling out, like a plan, a strategy, to address the wrong that had been done. The mention of the General overseer and church elders seemed to add a sense of authority, of weight, to my words, as if the full force of the church would be brought to bear on this injustice.

"Whatever step they choose to take about it, I'm okay" I said, my voice filled with a sense of trust, of surrender, as if I was willing to leave the outcome in the hands of others, knowing that justice would be served. As I spoke, I wiped tears off my face, the gesture a reminder of the pain and grief that still lingered, but also a sign of determination, of a resolve to see this through, to ensure that my husband's sacrifice would not be in vain. The pastor's eyes never left mine, his gaze filled with a deep understanding, as if he too, knew that the path ahead would be difficult, but necessary, to bring closure, to bring justice, to bring healing.

"Wait, you mean till you reach Akure before something can be done? No, no, no! Haba, no now" He quizzed, his voice rising in urgency, his words tumbling out in a passionate plea, as if the very thought of delay was unacceptable. "The Kingdom of God suffereth violence, and only the violent taketh it by force, remember?" He added, his eyes blazing with determination, as if the scriptures themselves were being invoked to spur us into action.

I sighed, feeling the weight of his words, the sense of righteous indignation that drove him to act. And then, without another word, he stood up, his movements swift and decisive, like a man on a mission. "See, wait for me, let me quickly take a shower. We are heading to the police station right away" He said, his voice firm, resolute, as if the die had been cast, and there was no turning back.

As he strode away, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude, of relief, that someone was taking charge, that someone was willing to stand up for what was right. The police station, once a daunting prospect, now seemed like a beacon of hope, a place where justice might finally be served. And I knew, in that moment, that we would not rest until my husband's killers were brought to account, until the truth was revealed, and until the Kingdom of God was vindicated.

"Erm... Sir, don't you think I should inform the G. O. of our church first?" I asked, my voice laced with a hint of hesitation, a touch of uncertainty, as if seeking guidance, seeking approval, before taking the next step. The question hung in the air, like a tentative inquiry, a request for clarification, as if I was unsure if I was proceeding in the right direction.

"How?" He responded, his voice firm, decisive, with a hint of exasperation, as if the very idea of delay was unthinkable. "If I leave you to return home like this without doing anything, even God in Heaven will punish me" He said, his words a stern rebuke, a reminder of the gravity of the situation, the urgency of action. His tone was like a gentle rebuke, a reminder that inaction was not an option, that something had to be done, and done now.

As he spoke, he turned and walked away, leaving for his room, his movements swift, purposeful, like a man on a mission. The door closed behind him, leaving me to ponder his words, to reflect on the weight of his responsibility, the burden of his conscience. The silence that followed was like a solemn reminder, a call to action, a reminder that we couldn't just stand by and do nothing, that we had to take a stand, for justice, for truth, for the sake of my husband's memory.

As soon as he left, I looked at my son, and then my daughter, my gaze lingering on their faces, searching for answers, seeking guidance. "But, is that the right thing to do?" I quizzed, my voice barely above a whisper, my words laced with uncertainty, as if questioning the wisdom of our actions. The question hung in the air, like a cloud of doubt, a shadow of uncertainty, as if I was unsure if we were proceeding in the right direction.

My son sat up, his movements slow, deliberate, as if summoning the strength to respond. And then he stared into my eyes, his gaze piercing, intense, like a window to his soul. His eyes were already so red and swollen, a testament to the tears he had shed, the pain he had endured. His heart was beating so fast, like a drum in his chest, a reminder of the anxiety, the fear, that gripped him.

As our eyes locked, I saw a depth of emotion, a well of sorrow, that seemed to stretch far beyond his years. His eyes seemed to ask, "What else can we do, Mother? How else can we seek justice for Father?" The silence that followed was like a solemn pact, a promise to stand together, to face whatever lay ahead, united in our quest for truth, for justice, for healing.

"So, what's now the right thing to do?" Sammy asked, his voice cracking with emotion, his words tumbling out in a desperate plea, as if searching for a guiding light in the darkness that had engulfed us. "If you tell the G. O. now, what else do you think he will do?" He continued, his voice laced with skepticism, as if questioning the efficacy of seeking help from the church leadership. "Just leave this pastor, let him do whatever he feels is right" He said, his words a resigned acceptance, a surrender to the circumstances that seemed to be spiraling out of control.

As he spoke, his body shook with sobs, his eyes streaming with tears, as if the weight of his grief was crushing him. The pain in his voice was like a raw wound, a bleeding heart, that seemed to cry out for comfort, for solace, for a respite from the agony that had consumed us all.

And then, as if suddenly remembering a crucial detail, he asked, "Wait, where were you when it happened?" His voice was laced with a hint of curiosity, a desire to understand, to piece together the events that had led to this tragedy. The question hung in the air, like a seeking missile, searching for answers, for truth, for a glimmer of hope in the darkness that had descended upon us.

"O my God!" I exclaimed, my voice rising in a crescendo of shock, horror, and disbelief, as if the very foundations of my existence had been shaken to the core. And then, as if the pent-up emotions could no longer be contained, I let out a very loud scream, a primal wail that seemed to tear from the depths of my soul, a scream that echoed through the room, a scream that made my daughter hurry to my side in alarm.

She rushed to me, her eyes wide with concern, and began to pat my back, as if trying to comfort the pain away, as if trying to soothe the anguish that had taken hold of me. "He was buried right before our very eyes" I said, my voice now cracking with sobs, the words tumbling out in a torrent of grief, as if the memory of that fateful day was still seared into my mind, as if the pain of it all was still fresh, still raw, still bleeding.

The words hung in the air, like a dark cloud, a stark reminder of the tragedy that had befallen us, a tragedy that seemed to have no end, no respite, no escape. My daughter's eyes welled up with tears, as if she too, felt the weight of that moment, as if she too, was reliving the horror of it all. And in that instant, we were united in our grief, united in our pain, united in our quest for justice, for truth, for healing.

"Arise o'Lord, let your enemies be scattered, Arise o'Lord, let your enemies be scattered, Arise o'Lord, let your enemies be scattered, o'Lord, my God arise!!!" The pastor sang, his voice booming, his words echoing through the room, like a clarion call to action, a battle cry against the forces of darkness. He emerged from his room, his eyes ablaze with determination, his face set with resolve, as if the very power of God had been unleashed within him.

And we joined him in singing, our voices blending in harmony, our hearts beating as one, as we invoked the mighty name of the Lord. The words of the psalmist seemed to take on a new meaning, a new urgency, as we pleaded with God to arise, to scatter our enemies, to bring justice to the wicked. The air was electric with tension, with anticipation, as if we knew that we were on the threshold of something momentous, something that would change the course of our lives forever.

We said a short prayer after that, a prayer that was more a declaration of war, a call to arms, than a gentle supplication. And then we left for the police station, our feet marching in unison, our hearts pounding with purpose, as if we were an army of righteousness, determined to confront the forces of evil, to bring light to the darkness. The pastor's singing had ignited a fire within us, a fire that would burn brightly, a fire that would guide us through the trials ahead.

To be continued!