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Hilda's Forum, Seri Kembangan (2025)

28/07/2025

New Story Alert

MOTHER ABANDONED HER BLIND SON WITH RARE CONDITION, IN THE MARKET

Not sure if Episode one will drop today o. Lets see how it goes

WATCH OUT

27/07/2025

Say something nice. I am still celebrating💃🏾💃🏾💃🏾

Congratulations Super falcons 💪

26/07/2025

CHOIR MISTRESS ON A MISSION TO DESTROY

EPISODE 7
.After God restored me and I began ministry, it felt like a second chance at life. Covenant Rock Assembly started small—just a few plastic chairs and a rented hall—but the fire was real. Healings broke out. Addicts dropped their drugs at the altar. People wept during worship like children. I was finally walking in purpose. And then… love found me.

I met my wife, Ngozi and we got married. It felt like my life had finally come full circle. Until the second year passed… and we were unable to conceive. At first, we called it “God’s timing.” We fasted and prayed. Five years passed. Still no child. I knew where my problem was coming from, but I was not ready to face it. I had heard it… from God Himself three years after we got married. God spoke to me. “Paul… if you want children, confess. Confess publicly in church, what you did to Amaka.”

I dropped to my knees and cried like a baby. “Lord, how can I confess something like that and still remain pastor? How?” “How will the church survive it?” “How will my wife look at me?” But the voice came again. Calm. Clear. “Confess, and I will restore you.” I didn’t say no. But I didn’t say yes either. I just… kept quiet.

When I got home that night, I wanted to tell my wife, but the words wouldn’t leave my throat. So, we continued to prey together and she had remained hopeful ever since. That secret became a chain. Every time I laid hands on barren women and watched them testify, I rejoiced for them—but wept in private.

Every time a child ran to the altar to hug me, I smiled publicly—but died slowly inside. Because I knew… Until I obeyed, my miracle would remain locked. I haven’t been able to make that public confession until now. I am so sorry, Pastor Paul concluded.

Immediately he ended his confession, his wife passed out and was rushed out of the church. Other church members stood glued to the spot, shocked to their bones, while Amaka broke down in tears. “You destroyed my life because of earthly gains. How could you Paul. All I did was trust you. I must take you with me today and nobody can stop me” she threatened.

Pastor Paul didn’t lift his head. His voice trembled as he repeated the same words: “I’m sorry… Amaka, I’m so sorry…” “Sorry?” she whispered. “Is that all? You ruined me! You silenced my womb and walked away like it was nothing. You became a pastor while I was out there bleeding and cursed. And now you say sorry?” Her voice rose. “You want forgiveness? You think I’m just going to bow and cry and shout Hallelujah?”

Sis Grace was short of words at this point. She didn’t know what to say. She closed her eyes and whispered “Lord, how do we move from here? I am confused.” God told her to preach to Amaka and get her delivered as he the Lord is able to restore her completely. She stepped forward immediately. She didn’t yell. She didn’t rebuke.

She simply said, “Amaka.” Amaka turned, eyes still blazing. Grace moved closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like someone approaching a wounded lioness. “I know pain,” she said gently. “I’ve carried it. I’ve slept beside it. But Amaka… bitterness is not justice. It’s a prison.” “Yes, he wronged you. Deeply. Unforgivably. But what has hatred done for you, Amaka? What has darkness built in your life—except more pain?” Amaka’s lips trembled. She didn’t speak. Grace pressed on.

“I’m not asking you to trust him again. I’m not asking you to act like it never happened. I’m asking you to let God in. Let Him fill what was emptied. Let Him rebuild what the enemy crushed. Let Him be the justice. Let Him be your restoration.” Amaka’s shoulders dropped. Her knees began to wobble.

Grace reached for her hand. “Amaka, you came here to destroy Paul. But God brought you here to restore yourself. You thought you were the weapon—but you were the one God wanted to rescue. Please… forgive him. Not because he deserves it. But because you deserve peace.”

Amaka opened her mouth to reply, but only sobs came out. “I can’t…” she gasped. “I don’t know how to…” And she dropped to her knees. Screaming. Wailing like years of agony were pouring out of her throat all at once. “I forgive you!” she choked after a while, turning to Paul. “God help me, I forgive you!” She fell to the floor. And immediately, the atmosphere shifted.

The three prayer warriors who had stepped out earlier joined Grace at the altar. Without speaking, they surrounded Amaka, who was now writhing on the ground, her body shaking violently. They began to pray in tongues—loud, fire-filled tongues that rattled the pulpit and echoed into the balconies.

“Every spirit of marine assignment, loose your grip!” “You demon of vengeance, come out by fire!” “Holy Ghost! Scatter every altar of darkness planted in her soul!” Amaka began to scream. Then she coughed so hard and vomited thick, black foam—right there at the altar. Her hands twisted. Her eyes rolled back. She let out one final cry—and collapsed. Silence.

Then… She opened her eyes. Peaceful. Clear. Light returned to her face like morning sun chasing away a long, bitter night. She whispered, “It’s… gone.” And she began to weep again—this time, not from bitterness. But from freedom. She was delivered.

Pastor Paul stepped forward on the next Sunday after the great deliverance, his voice quiet, his heart steady. “I cannot continue to lead this house,” he said before the entire church, eyes wet but peaceful.
“Not because God cannot use broken men, but because I must sit and be rebuilt. I am still a servant of God. But now… I must learn to follow again.” He handed the microphone to his assistant, Pastor Samson, and quietly walked off the stage.

At home, things were not the same either. Ngozi—his wife—was silent for days. She didn’t scream. She just began to pack her things. When Paul asked, she simply said: “I prayed with you, loved you, stood beside you—and you watched me cry, knowing the answer all along.” Paul fell on his knees. “I wanted to protect you. I didn’t want to lose you.” She shook her head. “But you lost me anyway.” She divorced him and traveled out of the country.

Amaka’s story wasn’t over either. After her deliverance, she withdrew from the spotlight, choosing to heal in silence. Grace kept in touch with her regularly, becoming more like a sister than a friend. A year later, Amaka was introduced to a man named Ifeanyi—a widowed Christian businessman who had been praying for a second chance at love.

They courted quietly. Married in a small, holy ceremony. And in the very first month of their marriage… She conceived. Nine months later, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy—her first cry of joy after years of agony. She named him Isaiah—“God is Salvation.”

One evening, Amaka wrote a message on her page that later went viral: “I thought my life ended when I was betrayed. But God had just begun writing my story. Let them walk away. Let them break you. Let them curse you. If you don’t give up on God—He won’t give up on you.”

THE END

Written by Hilda's Forum

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26/07/2025

MY HUSBAND LEFT ME AT THE AIRPORT, WITH A FAKE TICKET. THREE YEARS LATER I SAW HIM IN A WHEEL CHAIR

The crowded street buzzed with noise, cars honking, people chatting, and vendors shouting about their fruit stalls. I stood frozen, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. There he was, Jason, the man who shattered my world three years ago. He sat in a rusty wheelchair, his clothes tattered, his face thin and tired.

A cardboard sign hung around his neck: Please help. Need food. His eyes, once bright and full of charm, were dull, staring at the ground. My hands trembled as I reached into my bag and pulled out the letter I’d carried for years, waiting for this moment. I stepped forward, my shoes clicking on the pavement, and held it out to him.

“Jason,” I said, my voice steady but cold. His head snapped up, and his eyes widened like he’d seen a ghost. The letter shook in my hand as he took it, his fingers dirty and trembling. The crowd around us slowed, their curious eyes watching.

He tore open the envelope, and as he read, his face crumpled. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he let out a sob so loud it echoed through the street. People stopped, staring, whispering. Jason clutched the letter, his body shaking, and looked up at me with eyes full of pain. “Jenny, I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice breaking.

But I didn’t say a word. I turned and walked away, leaving him crying in front of everyone. What was in that letter? Why did it break him? And why was I here, facing the man who left me at the airport with a fake ticket, chasing a dream that never came true?

Three years earlier, my life was a fairy tale, or so I thought. My name is Jenny, and I was 25, head over heels in love with Jason. He was the kind of guy who could make anyone smile. His laugh was warm, like sunshine, and his promises felt like gold.

We met at a coffee shop where I worked, and he came in every day, ordering the same black coffee and flirting with me until I blushed. “Jenny,” he’d say, leaning over the counter, “one day, I’m taking you to Paris. We’ll eat croissants under the Eiffel Tower.” I’d laugh, thinking he was joking, but his eyes were serious.

We dated for two years, and every moment felt like magic. Jason was a dreamer, always talking about adventures—sailing across oceans, hiking mountains, and exploring cities. He made me believe we could do anything together. When he proposed, it was perfect. He took me to a park at sunset, got down on one knee, and held up a simple silver ring. “Jenny, you’re my home,” he said. “Marry me, and let’s chase every dream we’ve got.” I said yes, tears in my eyes, and we hugged as the sky turned pink.

We planned a small wedding, just family and a few friends. My mom helped me pick out a white dress that flowed like a cloud, and Jason’s dad gave us his old car as a gift. But the real excitement was our honeymoon. Jason had been saving up for it, or so he said. “Paris,” he promised, his eyes sparkling.

“We’ll stay in a fancy hotel, eat fancy food, and dance by the Seine River.” I could already picture it—me in a flowy dress, him in a suit, laughing under twinkling lights. He showed me the tickets one night, printed on crisp paper, with our names and the destination: Paris, France. I held them, my heart racing. This was real.

The night before our wedding, we sat on my couch, planning our trip. “Jenny,” Jason said, holding my hand, “this is just the start. After Paris, we’ll see the world. I promise.” His words felt like a warm blanket, wrapping me in safety. I trusted him completely. How could I not? He was my Jason, my future, my everything.

The wedding day was perfect. I walked down the aisle in my dress, my dad holding my arm, and Jason waiting at the end, smiling like I was the only person in the world. We said our vows, promising to love each other forever. My best friend, Mia, cried in the front row, and even Jason’s tough-guy brother wiped his eyes. That night, we danced under string lights, and Jason whispered, “Tomorrow, we’re off to Paris.” I fell asleep in his arms, dreaming of our adventure.

The next morning, we rushed to the airport, suitcases bouncing behind us. I was so excited I could barely breathe. Jason held my hand, pulling me through the crowded terminal. “Gate 12,” he said, checking the tickets. We reached the counter, and I handed my ticket to the lady behind the desk. She scanned it, then frowned. My stomach twisted.

“Ma’am,” she said, her voice sharp, “this ticket isn’t valid.” I laughed, thinking it was a mistake. “What do you mean? Check again.” She did, and her frown deepened. “This is a fake ticket,” she said. “It’s not in our system.”

My heart stopped. I turned to Jason, waiting for him to explain. But he wasn’t there. His suitcase was gone.

FULL STORY AVAILABLE VIA: https://youtu.be/Fa-v479IMJM?si=Mbzn7iR8JuW8UAS8

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25/07/2025

CHOIR MISTRESS ON A MISSION TO DESTROY

EPISODE 6

All final-year members were summoned—no exceptions. They said it was time to prepare for life after school. “You want jobs? Wealth? Speed? Favour? This is the key.” They called it the “get rich after graduation” ritual. It was compulsory. There was no discussion. No room for refusal. And the requirement was nothing but menstrual bl00d. Specifically from a girl who was pure, trusted, emotionally tied to you.

“We don’t want strangers,” the high priest said. “We want loyalty. The type that doesn’t suspect betrayal. Her body must have opened with trust… and bled in innocence.” They wanted her used pad and her name. My chest tightened. There was only one girl I knew who fit that description. Only one who trusted me with open arms. Amaka.

I was still trying to figure out how to go about it when Amaka missed school one day. When I called her to know why she wasn’t in school, she told me she was sick and had severe menstrual cramps. My heart dropped. She sounded tired, but still full of faith. “It’s just normal cramps,” she said, giggling. I told her I’d come over with painkillers and something warm to eat. She was grateful—too grateful.

“You’re such a good man, Paul. God really brought you into my life.” I smiled at the phone, but my chest felt like it was being crushed from the inside. I went to her hostel with paracetamol, malt, and a hot water bottle. She was curled up in bed when I arrived. Eyes watery, face pale.

But even in pain, she thanked me like I’d given her gold. She let me arrange her room, clean the floor, and even took a nap while I tidied the place. That’s when I saw it. The small black nylon by the corner of her small cooking area. It was her trash bag. At first, I walked past it. Then I turned back. I squatted. Slowly opened it. My hands were shaking. And there… wrapped in tissue, was what they asked for. Her used pad.

I picked it like it was fire—hands trembling, heart racing. My ears were ringing. I could barely breathe. I placed it inside a smaller nylon. Tucked it into the back of my jeans, under my shirt. Then I took out the trash. By the time she woke up, I had finished cleaning and was sitting beside her like a friend… like a brother in Christ.

That night, I took the nylon to the bush behind the old refectory hall. That was our meeting spot. We all proceeded from there to a river within the town where the ritual was performed. After I graduated, things began to turn around for my good. My name got shortlisted for a National Master’s Degree scholarship I didn’t apply for. Job offers came from companies I’d never interned with. The ritual had worked. But it had cost me a girl who trusted me. A girl I left broken… without even her knowledge.

I deliberately changed my lines after graduation, just so I could cut communication ties with her, because the guilt of what I did was eating me up. After I changed my line, I moved on with my life. I had everything at my disposal. But you see, the devil doesn’t give gifts—he loans them. And one day, he comes to collect. I was preparing for a presentation at work one day, when I saw a shadow move across the window. I turned. No one was there.

I sat down again—and the screen flickered. For a split second, it wasn’t my slide deck. It was the face of a woman. Her eyes were bleeding. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out. I screamed. My colleagues thought I had malaria. They gave me water and sent me home. That night, it got worse.

I was asleep when I felt something cold wrap around my neck. I gasped. Reached out—but no one was there. The lights flickered. My bed shook violently. My ceiling cracked with a loud snap. Then I heard it. “Time to pay, Paul.” I leapt from my bed and ran outside barefoot, screaming into the street like a mad man. Neighbors gathered. I was sweating. Shivering.

They said I was hallucinating. But I knew what it was. The cult had come for me. You don’t leave them. There is no “thank you, I’m done.” Once you stop following orders, you become a threat. And since I wasn’t cooperating anymore, I became a target.

Two days later, my car brake failed on Third Mainland Bridge. I was almost crushed by a trailer. That same week, my apartment caught fire—no gas leak, no faulty wiring. Just fire. From nowhere. I started coughing blur. Doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. I was dying. And worse… I was spiritually naked. I had lost the covering of God long ago. When I couldn’t bear it anymore, I went home. When my parents saw me, they were shocked at how pale I looked.

They began to pray for me. That night, they laid me on the floor of our living room. Lit candles. Opened their Bibles. They prayed like fire. The moment my father anointed my head with oil, I convulsed. I screamed. I vomited black liquid—thick, foul, and hot. My bones felt like they were on fire. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. It felt like something was pulling me from the inside—like twenty hands dragging my soul apart. But they didn’t stop praying.

My mother’s voice broke through it all: “You spirit of darkness; you cannot have him! He is marked by the blood of Jesus! Return to the pit you came from!” I passed out. When I woke up, it was morning. And I was still alive. But everything was gone. My job—terminated. My bank account—frozen. My car—repossessed. I lost everything. But in that emptiness… God found me.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t punish me. He whispered: “Now… can you hear Me?” I cried for days. I fasted for weeks. And for the first time in years, I opened my Bible. I didn’t plan to be a pastor. I just started praying with people. Teaching Bible in bus parks. Preaching in small fellowships.

Then one day, a stranger walked up to me and said: “God says you will plant a church… And many will be delivered through your voice.” And I wept. Because I knew what God was doing. That’s how Covenant Rock Assembly was born. Not from a dream. Not from ambition. But from grace. Undeserved grace.

TO BE CONTINUED

Written by Hilda's Forum

Do not copy, repost or reproduce. Kindly just share

25/07/2025

Blessed FRIDAY to you all❤️❤️❤️

24/07/2025

CHOIR MISTRESS ON A MISSION TO DESTROY

EPISODE 5

“I am sorry for everything”, pastor Paul began slowly. It wasn’t entirely my fault. I didn’t grow up with secrets in my mouth and shame in my bones. I was raised in a Christian home. My father was a Deacon—firm, loving, and respected by the entire church.

My mother? A soft-spoken woman who didn’t raise her voice but could pray for six hours without pause. We prayed together every morning before sunrise. We fasted every first Sunday of the month. We didn’t just go to church—we lived inside it. I grew up on Scriptures and Sunday School.

They said I was gifted. A future pastor. The boy who could preach at twelve and lead praise. My parents trusted me. Everyone did. Until I left home. I got admission into university before I turned eighteen. Everyone was proud. I was young, intelligent, full of promise.

My father laid hands on me and declared: “You will go and return with honor.” And I believed I would. But I wasn’t ready. When I got to school, he world I entered wasn’t the one I was raised for. Campus was a different universe.

Freedom felt like fire in my lungs. No morning devotion. No lights-out. No familiar eyes watching over me. I told myself I’d stay focused. But I began to grow cold. I stopped praying and studying God’s words like I used to. I began to make friends innocently.

It started with one boy in my department. His name was Larry. He was loud, rich and confident. He walked into lecture halls like he owned them. Everyone respected him. Even lecturers paused when he raised his hand.

He took interest in me. “Pastor boy,” he joked. “You are too quiet. Come roll with men now.” At first, I laughed it off. But it didn’t stop there. He’d offer me rides after class. Take me to eat. Introduce me to people who seemed to move things on campus. I was curious. Hungry for relevance. Tired of being the one who said “No, thank you.” So I started following them around. Just observing.

They dressed well. Talked with authority. Never waited in queues. They said they weren’t cultists—just big boys with influence. A network. A movement. “We help our own,” they said. “We rise together.” “Loyalty. Brotherhood. Respect.”

It sounded harmless to me. Powerful, even. They didn’t threaten me. They seduced me—with acceptance. And slowly, I let my guard down. I stopped attending fellowship. I stopped picking calls from my parents. I stopped reading my Bible completely. I didn’t even notice how far I had wandered.

Then one evening, Larry said, “You’re ready.” I didn’t ask what for. I just nodded. That night, they came for me. They blindfolded me, took me in a tinted car to a bush path outside campus. There were drums. Torches. Voices chanting in a language I didn’t know. They stripped me to my singlet and trousers and asked me one question: “Do you want to remain ordinary… or be remembered?” I was eighteen. Confused. Shivering. But I said: “I want to be remembered.”

And they welcomed me. They poured something bitter into my mouth. Cut my thumb and smeared it on a black stone. They chanted. Danced. Shouted over my head. Then one of them leaned close and said: “You are now born again… into greatness.” I asked, “What is this?” He laughed. “It’s not cultism. It’s a brotherhood. A place for men who matter.”

That night, I didn’t sleep. Something inside me had shifted. At first, I thought I could carry both worlds. I told myself I’d be smart—stay sharp in class, stay clean in the eyes of my family, and quietly enjoy the privileges the brotherhood offered. But darkness doesn’t let you walk part-time. It pulls you all the way in.

Within weeks, I was doing things I never imagined. We went to clubs every Friday night. What I once called sin, I now called “experience.” I started drinking. I missed Sunday services. I stopped answering my mother’s calls. I rolled my eyes when my father sent scriptures by SMS. I had become what I used to pray against. But the scariest part? I didn’t feel guilty anymore. In that life, guilt is weakness. And weakness makes you a target.

So, I hardened. I dated girls without care. Lied without blinking. Fought without reason. I laughed at virginity. Mocked prayer warriors. Called Scripture “old people talk.” The Paul my parents raised had died. The brotherhood gave me influence. We got things done. Lecturers respected us. Doors opened. We had passwords to exam questions, connections in the registrar’s office, and control of campus politics. I was moving up. Fast. But promotion in that world always comes at a cost. And I didn’t realize mine was being calculated.

It was in my final year that I met Amaka. The first time I saw her, she was dressed in a simple gown. Hair tied back. A book in her hand. And she was singing a hymn. I don’t know what hit me harder—her voice or her purity. She looked like what I used to be. A walking reminder of a boy who once feared God. I watched her for weeks. She never joined the noise. She went to class, then church, then back to her room.

I began to admire her. She made me feel things I hadn’t felt in years—shame, wonder, hunger… not of the body, but of the soul. I didn’t want to corrupt her. For once, I wanted to protect something. So, I came up with a plan.

I would pretend to be the kind of boy she’d talk to. I left my chain at home. Cut my hair. Carried a Bible again. Changed my tone. I even started attending fellowship meetings—not for God, but for her. But just when I thought maybe I could leave the darkness and start over… The brotherhood called a meeting. It was my final semester.

TO BE CONTINUED

Written by Hilda's Forum

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24/07/2025

My Husband Left Me the Same Day I Was Diagnosed with Cancer

I stood in my office, the phone shaking in my hand. The doctor’s voice echoed in my ears, cold and sharp like a knife. “Melissa, it’s stage 2 breast cancer.” My knees felt weak, like they couldn’t hold me up anymore. The room spun. Cancer. That word felt like a monster, big and scary, chasing me. I was only 36. How could this happen to me?

Was I going to die? Would I lose my hair? Would I be okay? Questions swirled in my head, but I didn’t have answers. All I knew was I needed Bryan. My husband. My best friend. The man I’d loved for 12 years. He’d know what to do. He always did.

I grabbed my car keys and drove home, my heart pounding. The whole way, I pictured Bryan’s strong arms around me, his deep voice telling me, “We’ll get through this, Mel. Together.” We’d faced hard things before. This would be the same. It had to be.

When I got home, Bryan was on the couch, watching TV. His dark hair was messy, and he was still in his work clothes, a blue button-up shirt and jeans. The living room smelled like pizza from the box on the coffee table. I stood in the doorway, trying to find the words. My throat felt tight, like something was stuck in it.

“Bryan,” I said, my voice small. He looked up, his blue eyes meeting mine. “I need to tell you something.” “What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting up. The TV blared in the background, some loud car chase scene. I wanted to scream at it to shut up. I took a deep breath. “I went to the doctor today. They found something. It’s… it’s breast cancer. Stage 2.”

His face changed. His eyes got wide, then narrow. He didn’t say anything for a long time. The silence hurt more than the doctor’s words. I waited for him to stand up, to hug me, to say something—anything. But he just sat there, staring at the floor.

“Say something,” I whispered. My hands were shaking again. He stood up, but he didn’t come to me. Instead, he walked to the window, looking out at the dark street. “Cancer?” he said finally, like he didn’t believe it. “Are you sure?” “Yes,” I said. “They did tests. It’s real.” He turned around, and his face wasn’t soft like I expected. It was hard, like he was angry. “This is… a lot, Melissa.”

“I know,” I said, stepping closer. “But we can handle it, right? Together?” He didn’t answer. He just kept looking at me, his eyes cold. I felt a chill, like the room had gotten ten degrees colder. “Bryan?” I said again, my voice breaking. “I… I need some air,” he said. He grabbed his jacket from the chair and walked toward the door. “Wait!” I called, my heart racing. “Where are you going?” “I just need to think,” he said, not looking back. The door slammed behind him.

I stood there, alone in the living room, the TV still shouting. My chest hurt, not from the cancer, but from something deeper. I sank to the floor, hugging my knees. He’d come back, I told myself. He just needed a minute. He loved me. He’d come back.

Hours passed. The clock ticked past midnight. I called his phone, but it went to voicemail. I texted him: Please come home. I need you. No reply. I sat on the couch, staring at the door, waiting for it to open. My eyes burned from crying, and my head felt heavy, like it was full of rocks.

Finally, I heard the key in the lock. I jumped up, my heart lifting. “Bryan!” I said as he walked in. But then I saw his face. It wasn’t soft or sorry. It was blank, like he was a stranger. “Melissa,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t do this.” “Do what?” I asked, my stomach twisting. “This,” he said, waving his hand at me. “The cancer. The… everything. It’s too much. I can’t deal with this kind of burden.”

His words hit me like a punch. “Burden?” I whispered. “I’m your wife.” “I know,” he said, looking away. “But I didn’t sign up for this.” I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “You’re leaving?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Now? When I need you most?”

He didn’t answer. He walked to our bedroom and started pulling clothes from the closet. I followed him, my heart breaking with every step. “Bryan, please,” I begged. “Don’t do this. We can figure it out. We always do.” But he kept packing, shoving shirts and jeans into a duffel bag. “I’m sorry, Melissa,” he said, not looking at me. “I just… I can’t.”

I grabbed his arm, trying to make him stop. “Look at me!” I shouted. “I’m scared! I’m sick, and I’m scared, and you’re just going to walk away?” He pulled his arm free and zipped the bag. “I’ll call you later,” he said, like that meant anything. Then he walked out, the door closing softly this time, but it felt louder than a scream.

I stood in the bedroom, staring at the empty closet. His side was half-gone, just like him. I sank to the floor, sobbing, my whole body shaking. The man I loved, the man I trusted, had just left me. Alone. With cancer. I don’t know how long I cried. Maybe hours. Maybe all night.

The house felt too big, too quiet. I kept thinking about the day we moved in, how Bryan carried me over the doorstep, laughing. How we painted the living room together, getting more paint on each other than the walls. How we planned to grow old here, together. Was that all a lie?

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23/07/2025

CHOIR MISTRESS ON A MISSION TO DESTROY

EPISODE 4

I was seventeen when I met Paul for the first time, many years ago. I had just gained admission into the university of Nigeria. He was just Paul, Final-year student. I met him after a campus fellowship service and we became friends. He was so caring. He brought me food and medications when I was ill. Told me I reminded him of his younger sister. He made me feel seen. We became friends. Not lovers but very good friends.

I never suspected he could have an ulterior motive. He looked so real and sincere. Always around me when I was down. One day, I had severe menstrual cramp and couldn’t go to school. He stopped by at my house with food and pain killers. He cared for me and took out my trash.

Two days after that visit, I began to have strange dreams. I saw myself in the river, with strange looking creatures. I didn’t read meaning to it. I simply just prayed but I kept having the same dream over and again.

Paul graduated few months after, while I continued with my studies. Years passed. We lost touch after he graduated. I also graduated and served. Then, I met and got married to my husband, a man who adored me. His name was Kelechi. Our love was soft, simple, beautiful. We began trying for kids immediately, but we couldn’t conceive. We visited several hospitals after trying for two years. Hospitals said I was fine. My womb was clean. Tubes open. Hormones normal. I was asked to relax and that I would definitely have my children. But I never did.

My husband and I began to visit prayer houses. All of them gave me the same revelation. Someone took something from me without my knowledge and he used it for ritual purpose. The last man gave me a portion of the bible to read before I sleep. “You will see who did this to you”, he told me. I did exactly as he had instructed me. That night, I went to bed and I saw Paul

He was standing barefoot before a fire. Holding my used sanitary pad in one hand. Speaking words I didn’t understand. A tall man stood behind him. The man told him that I will never have kids. “Her blood will give you affluence. In return, her womb is the price.” Those were his exact words. I screamed and woke up. Then I burst into tears. Paul didn’t r@pe me. He didn’t seduce me. He simply took my womb and used it to build his future.

He took my pad the day he helped me take out my trash and I didn’t know. I trusted him. That same night, as I explained my dreams to my husband while crying, I told him I was done with the marriage and wanted a divorce. He was willing to go through the battle with me, but I refused. “Go and marry another woman. Make babies and be happy”, I insisted.

I divorced my husband and moved on. It was painful, but I had to do it, to free him. Then, I came across the church flyer and saw Paul as the pastor. I laughed until I choked. I made up my mind to pull down his ministry first and then take him down. With the fire of vengeance burning in me, I went in search of power. Someone directed me to a powerful herbalist who lived inside a thick forest. I went to see him and I explained the reason for my visit. The man looked at me and laughed.

“That is human being for you. The ones you trust the most are the one that betrays you”, he said with a grin. With the help of his servant, they bathed me in a river under the moonlight. They spoke incantations I didn’t understand. After they were done bathing me, I was asked to spend the night there at the river bank, that I would receive a visitor in the night.

I was fast asleep in the middle of the night when someone touched me and I woke up. She was the river goddess. She touched my mouth and my head and said, “Go. Silence his praise. Shut the heavens above his altar.” That night, she trained me. She taught me how to enter a church without being seen in the spirit.

How to sing worship that sounds like it’s going to God, but actually feeds demons. I learned how to cloud a pastor’s vision. How to make people fall—not under the Holy Spirit, but under enchantment. How to sow seeds of confusion in leadership. She empowered me for the journey.

By the time I came to Covenant Rock Assembly, I was no longer Amaka. I was a vessel. A throne on two feet. A woman walking with serpents coiled beneath her skin. I didn’t need to touch anyone. I just had to sing. And the doors would open. “So, my mission here is to bring down this church and make Paul pay for what he did to me years ago.

I was close to achieving that but she changed it”, she pointed at Grace. I don’t know how she saw through me. I clouded her mind. I sent her dreams. I tried to silence her. But she wouldn’t go. Every time I stood on that stage and opened my mouth, her spirit pushed back. I must leave this place with Paul and that’s final, she concluded.

The church fell silent after she stopped talking. All heads turned towards pastor Paul who was already in tears. His wife stood glued to the spot, shocked to her bone. She didn’t believe her husband of about 7 years was capable of doing all that Amaka had narrated.

Grace turned to him and said, “Pastor, what do you have to say? Pastor Paul went down on his knees, crying profusely. “Everything she said is true”, he began gently…

TO BE CONTINUED

Written by Hilda's Forum

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