The bus from Ibadan dropped her at Mile 2 with
her father’s leatherbound theology texts and a
single naira in her pocket. She had graduated
top of her class in English Literature — but no
job, no dowry, no uncle with a ministry to
sponsor her. The city breathed oilboom ghosts:
abandoned buses rusting like carcasses, men
whispering in Pidgin about “spiritual investors,
” girls trading sex for exam answers under the
glow of kerosene lamps.
Her brother, Chukwu, used to recite Psalms
before exams. Now he slept in the compound’s
latrine, whispering names of banks and ministers
he’d never met. He woke screaming when the
electricity cut — not from fear, but because the
thing inside him needed light to feed. It took
his dreams, his hunger, his hope — and gave him
fake job offers, fake bank transfers, fake
endorsements from pastors who never knew his
name.
The pastor at Redeemed Gospel Tabernacle refused
to touch him. “The spirit is bound to the hustle,
” he said, eyes flicking to the stack of
offering envelopes on his desk. “You don’t
exorcise a man who’s already sold his soul to
the system.” The rule was clear: no exorcism on
a soul that still walks the streets selling fake
certificates, fake visas, fake futures. The
church profited from the hustle. It didn’t break
it.
On the third night, she dragged Chukwu to the
old library behind the University of Lagos. Dust
choked the shelves. She lit a kerosene lamp with
her last match. Opened her father’s copy of
Theology of the Oppressed. Read aloud — not
scripture, not prayer — but the lecture notes
he’d scribbled in the margins: “Faith without
work is dead. But work without justice is
worship of the false god of survival.”
The lamp flared blue. Chukwu’s body arched. The
thing inside him screamed — not in words, but in
the sound of a thousand WhatsApp notifications,
a hundred failed job portals, the echo of a
mother crying over a phone that never rang.
She kept reading. Page after page. Her voice
cracked. The walls wept ink. The lamp died.
At dawn, Chukwu sat up. He asked for water. He
remembered his sister’s name. He didn’t ask
about the job.
The next day, she posted his story on a
community board: “My brother was possessed by
the system. I exorcised him with truth.”
No one shared it. No pastor called. But three
girls from the hostel came with their own
textbooks. And the next week, the university
reopened its silent reading room — no prayers,
no offerings, just books and the quiet hum of
minds refusing to be bought.
The spirit didn’t vanish. It just found new
hands.
But Chukwu didn’t hustle anymore. He studied.
And for the first time since the oil ran thin,
someone in Lagos stopped asking how much you
made — and started asking what you knew.
