The Evil Encounter

THE EVIL ENCOUNTER

The night air presses heavily against Ikorodu Road, thick as damp wool. Evangelist Solomon walks briskly, his sandals scraping the broken asphalt. Each step he takes seems to echo back at him—only louder, heavier, dragging.
Footsteps.
But not his.

He slows. The footsteps slow.
He turns. Nothing.

The street lies empty—too empty for a night like this. Even stray dogs are nowhere to be found. The silence feels unnatural, as though the entire town is holding its breath.

He forces himself forward, gripping his Bible tighter. For thirty minutes, the mysterious footsteps shadow him, matching his every turn. A shiver crawls up his spine like cold fingers. Ikorodu may love its countless festivals, but this silence… this emptiness… something is different tonight.

“Not Oro again,” he mutters under his breath. After the chaos of the last Oro festival, the town elders had promised there wouldn’t be another soon. Even they wouldn’t tempt fate twice.

But the road tells a different story.
Shops sealed. Windows shut. Lanterns snuffed out.
Even the wind seems unwilling to join him.

A thought wedges itself into his mind, sharp and unwelcome:

What if something is happening tonight—something he doesn’t know about?

His chest tightens. Sweat beads along his temples. He turns again. Still nothing. The footsteps halt the moment he does.

He begins to sing, his voice trembling at first:
“The blood of Jesus set me free…”

The melody steadies him. He presses the Bible to his chest, feeling its firmness like a shield.
He whispers Psalm 91, each verse a lifeline cast into the darkness.

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High…”

The words wash over him, warm and steady. His heartbeat slows. His shoulders loosen.

Then—

GBOA!

The impact slams into him like a bull, knocking him backward. He hits the ground, dust exploding around him. His Bible skids across the road.

A calabash—large, carved, covered in strange symbols—rolls across the dirt, cracked open. Thick red liquid leaks from its broken edge.

Before him, a procession stands—twenty men, motionless as carved statues. All of them dressed in white cloths draped loosely over their shoulders, their bare chests painted with ash and charcoal. Their faces are hard, expressionless, eyes fixed on him with a chilling stillness.

The man he collided with sprawls on the ground, groaning. His white cloth is smeared with dust and palm oil. He stares up at Evangelist Solomon with pure horror—as though Solomon himself is death walking.

“I… I am sorry,” Solomon stammers as he scrambles to his feet. He reaches out to help the fallen man. The man recoils as if Solomon’s hand burns. Without a word, he turns and bolts into the darkness, running with the terror of a hunted animal.

His companions do not move.
Not one.
All twenty remain rooted, their eyes wide and unblinking.

A whisper—soft, urgent, not quite his own—nudges him:
Leave. Now.

He obeys instantly. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t run—running might break whatever spell keeps them frozen. He walks, faster and faster, until he feels the night shift and the heavy air lift behind him.

By the time he reaches home, he is shaking uncontrollably. He falls to his knees, tears springing unbidden.

“Thank You, Father… Thank You…”

He tells no one. Not even his pastor. That kind of story would breed panic—and besides, he survived. The blood of the Lamb has covered him; that’s all that matters.

He sleeps late into the morning, exhaustion swallowing him whole—

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

A violent pounding rips him awake. He sits up, heart thundering.

Who knocks like that so early?

He swings his legs off the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

When he looks up, a man stands inside his bedroom.

Solomon freezes mid-step.

“You…” he whispers. “How—how did you enter?”

The stranger’s expression is unreadable. His white cloth is gone; he now wears simple garments, but Solomon recognizes the face instantly. The ritual pot-bearer.

“Good morning, Evangelist Solomon,” the man says quietly. “You do not recognize me?”

Solomon’s throat dries.

The man steps closer.
“Tell me the truth: did you collide with me on purpose?”

“What? No. I didn’t see you. I was singing… I was lost in it.”

The man exhales, long and shaky. He turns his gaze away, as though gathering courage.

“Were you… afraid of us?”

“Afraid?” Solomon breathes. “Fear seized me. I thought my life had ended.”

The man nods slowly. “We were more afraid of you.”

Silence fills the room, thick and heavy.

“What… what do you mean?” Solomon asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

The man meets his eyes, and what Solomon sees there is not anger but awe.

“A lion,” the man says. “A massive one. With fire burning on its head like a crown.” He swallows. “He stood behind you when you crashed into me. His eyes—burning with hatred—were fixed on us. We froze. All of us saw it. All twenty.”

Solomon’s mouth hangs open. “A… lion?”

“You did not see him?” the man asks, stunned. “Then you do not truly know the God you serve.”

He places a trembling hand on his chest.
“I could not sleep all night. What happened has never happened before. No one sees us during that ritual and lives. No one touches our pot and survives.” His voice cracks. “But you broke it. And lived.”

He steps back, his decision already made.

“I will serve your God,” he says simply. “Our own… is powerless before Him.”

Without another word, he turns and walks out—leaving the door wide open behind him.

Solomon stands rooted, breathless, overwhelmed. A slow, trembling smile spreads across his face.

He lifts his hands.

“Thank You, Father… You are mighty… You are merciful…”

And for the first time, he truly understands:

A thousand Ogboni cannot harm a man God has chosen to protect.
A thousand enemies cannot pierce a shield forged in heaven.

Those who know their God shall do exploits.

🪶
J.J. Oluti
Creative Voice of Africa