I was looking for people who had experienced strained relationships with their parents when I found *Ahmad, 31.
In this story, the 31-year-old shares how an encounter with a cleric turned his world upside down, made him question his own mother’s love, and almost led him to do something he would never have forgiven himself for.
As told to Adeyinka
If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be avoiding my mum’s food and plotting to move out of her house because of a cleric’s prophecy, I would’ve laughed in their face. But life has a way of humbling you in the most ridiculous ways.
Growing up, my mum, my sister, and I had a solid relationship. She raised us independently, ensured we got a decent education, and did her best to provide for us. Things only started going south when my sister and I finished NYSC and couldn’t find jobs. At first, it was just regular frustration; complaints about how we were always home, how we didn’t try hard enough, and how her mates’ children were making money moves while we were lounging around. Normal Nigerian mum behaviour, right?
But as months passed and we remained unemployed, her complaints turned into hostility. Every conversation was an argument. Every meal came with a side of passive-aggressive comments. She’d hiss when she saw us watching TV or make a snide remark if we dared to eat meat twice in one meal. Then, one day, she snapped and said something that stuck with me: “There are people in this house who don’t want progress.”
I should have brushed it off, maybe laughed it away. But when you’re broke and desperate, words like that don’t just slide off. They sit in your chest, make a home in your mind, and refuse to leave.
One afternoon, after yet another fruitless job hunt in Ikeja, I met an Islamic cleric on my way home. I don’t even remember how our conversation started, but the moment he said, “I see a bright light in you, but some close family members are working against your success,” he got my complete attention.
I had never met this man before, and he had no way of knowing my struggles. But here he was, confirming what I had been suspecting for months. In my head, it had to be a divine revelation.
We exchanged numbers, and that was how I became a regular visitor at his place in Oshodi. At first, it was just prayers. He’d recite verses, ask me to repeat after him, and tell me to hold on to faith. Then, one day, he asked me to do a special cleansing bath with eggs.
I followed his instructions to the letter. He gave me a white bowl and told me to break each egg inside it. The first one cracked open and spilled yolk, just as expected. The second one did too. But by the third, I noticed something strange — inside the egg were tiny darkened needles. When I cracked the last egg, the bowl was filled with them.
The cleric shook his head and said, “These are the obstacles placed in your life by your enemies.” I remember feeling a strong wave of nausea because the eggs also had a foul smell. My hands were shaking as I stared at the bowl. Who was doing this to me? Who was making my life miserable? He wouldn’t say. Instead, he repeated the same phrase over and over again: “The person is as close to you as your jugular vein.”
At first, I didn’t understand. Then, during one of our sessions, he dropped another bomb: “It’s between the two closest women in your life.” I wasn’t dating at the time, so I had two options: my mum or my sister. I refused to believe it was my sister. She was jobless too and facing the same frustrations from our mum. What reason would she have to block my success? That left only one person: the woman who birthed me.
I wish I could say I dismissed the thought immediately. That I stood up for my mum and walked out of that room. But I didn’t. I let the words sink in. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
The hostility, complaints, and sudden outbursts about “people in this house not wanting progress.” Wasn’t this exactly what the cleric had warned me about? I started keeping my distance. I avoided my mum’s food. I watched her closely at night, looking for any strange movements or signs of witchcraft. I even started making plans to move out of the house. My sister noticed the shift and demanded to know what was happening, so I told her everything.
She found everything hilarious and refused to believe our mum was working against us. For her, it was nothing short of a Nollywood script. “How does it make sense that our mother is a witch and behind our struggles?” she asked.
But I didn’t have an answer. That should have been my wake-up call, but I was still in too deep. I had one foot in reality and the other in the world the cleric had created for me. I was still looking at my mother like she was a stranger in my own home. Then, one day, the cleric told me I needed to do a special saara (alms giving) to reclaim my glory. I was ready to do whatever it took until he mentioned the price— ₦500k
Apparently, my destiny was chilling on a spiritual boat in the middle of the ocean, and only this sacrifice could bring it back. That was when everything snapped into focus.
For the first time, I let myself really see everything I had ignored over the past few weeks. The cleric’s place was in a dilapidated building in Oshodi, with mostly Igbo occupants who seemed more like hustlers than people seeking divine intervention. His room always had weird red fabrics hanging across every corner, but I had chalked it up to his spiritual work. And despite knowing I was jobless, he always had a reason for me to part with money at every visit for incense, special prayers, and extra protection; I had to leave something.
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How did I not see it earlier? How did I let some random man manipulate me into believing my own mother was against me? I felt a strong wave of shame wash over me in the days that followed, and by the following week, I cut him off. I deleted his number and blocked his calls. But the man refused to go quietly.
He started reaching out with different numbers, leaving long voice notes about how my enemies would strike if I didn’t complete my spiritual cleansing. I ignored him at first, but when the messages became more intense and filled with warnings about doom, sudden sickness, and irreversible misfortune, I started to panic.
What if he was right? What if he could actually cast a spell or summon something to mess me up? I tried to shake off the fear, but the thought stayed in my head. For weeks, I moved around with a sense of dread, expecting something terrible to happen at any moment. But nothing did. My life remained the same, and slowly, I realised something: If he had real power, he wouldn’t have been in that rundown building, hustling people like me for money. That was the final confirmation I needed.
In 2024, I finally got a job, and my mum was the happiest person in the world. Seeing her excitement made me realise just how much damage I could have done if I had truly acted on the cleric’s words. I don’t even want to imagine how things could have ended if I had confronted her.
Now, I stay far away from religious clerics and their visions. I don’t want to hear about any shining light, lost destiny, or spiritual boats. Some things are just not worth the risk.
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