By Umaru Ezekiel Esude
BACK in 2012, cult-related violence was at its peak in Idah, Kogi State.
There was a notorious cultist who lived in my area. We weren’t friends, but because he was older than me, I always greeted him whenever we crossed paths.
For some reasons, my education seemed to bother him.
One afternoon, my friend Shehu and I were headed to Kano Road to buy my favourite Nono from the Fulani sellers when we ran into him.
We greeted him as usual.
“ESUDE, come here,” he called.
I walked over.
Then he looked at me and said:
“Because you go school, you think nobody is like you abi? You know say when people for my group gather, na strong men we be. Respect us. Forget your school. Or you never hear wetin my group dey do for your school?”
I calmly replied, “Have I ever disrespected you before?”
He ignored the question.
At that moment, Shehu walked over and tried to calm the situation.
“Haba, bros… wetin happen?”
The man walked away.
From that day, I became extra careful.
Those were dangerous times. Cult-related killings were common, and as someone who had nothing to do with cultism, I knew it was better to avoid trouble than to prove a point.
Life moved on.
Years passed.
Then something happened this Monday that reminded me that life has a way of coming full circle.
A former Commissioner of Health from an eastern state—a medical doctor now based in the USA whom I met years ago on Nairaland—called me.
“Ezekiel, today is my birthday.”
I wished him a happy birthday.
Then he said, “Can you please go to the hospital close to your house? ( I used to tell him about the state of the hospital) I want to pay the hospital bills of five patients and share toiletries to everyone in the ward.”
He added one instruction.
“Please don’t record anything. No pictures. No videos.”
I promised.
I gathered a few friends and headed to the hospital.
When we entered the maternity ward…
I froze.
Sitting there was the same man who had intimidated me years ago.
His wife had just given birth to a beautiful baby girl through a Caesarean section the previous evening.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Without saying anything about the past, I met the nurses and explained why we had come.
My boss spoke with them on the phone.
We shared toiletries with everyone in the ward.
Then it was time to choose the five patients whose hospital bills would be paid.
Immediately one of my friend whispered into my ear… No try pay for am o… Live am make em group come pay for am .. or make he wash toilet.
I smiled and said no….
I made sure his wife was one of them.
My boss transferred the money.
Her outstanding bill—about ₦70,000—was cleared.
Everything was settled.
As we walked out of the ward, he hurried after me.
His voice was no longer loud.
There was no intimidation.
Only humility.
“Esude… no vex. Na the devil cause that thing that year.”
He paused.
“God bless you. I swear, I’m broke. Na God bring una come today.”
Then he smiled and asked, “You know say I no get your number? Give me. You no go dey carry me go farm?”
We both laughed.
The nurses, who had been watching everything unfold, were surprised.
“You be farmer?”
“Small boy like you?”
“Wow!”
As I walked away, one lesson stayed with me.
If I had chosen revenge, I would have missed the opportunity to show kindness.
Life changes.
The person who looked down on you yesterday may need your help tomorrow.
Never allow bitterness to stop you from doing good.
And to every young person reading this:
Say NO to cultism.
Intimidation may give you temporary fear, but good character earns lasting respect.
You never know who God will use to change your story—or whose story He will use you to change.
