You know you’ve messed up when even Google Maps tries to intervene like it’s your guardian angel.
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and my broke self was desperately searching for free food. My Nigerian mother’s voice echoed in my head: “So you’re telling me you’re hungry, but you’re not hungry enough to attend that youth fellowship?” Translation: No fellowship, no Jollof. My stomach grumbled in betrayal.
So there I was, reluctantly dragging my sneakers towards an address someone promised had “plenty foods.” Google Maps seemed suspiciously confused, rerouting me three times like, “Bro, are you SURE?” I ignored the warning signs.
Spoiler alert: Big mistake.
Arrival at the ‘Youth Fellowship’
I arrived at a sketchy-looking bungalow with faded paint and vibes that screamed “get-out-while-you-still-can.” But did I listen? Nah. My brain was screaming, “Jollof or die trying.”
I stepped in. The door creaked ominously.
I stepped inside. The door creaked like it knew I was about to make history—just not the good kind.
The air smelled like old carpet and regret. Fifteen people sat in a semi-circle, dressed in identical white robes. I blinked.
Where were the food packs? Where were the normal youths? Why did it feel like I’d just walked into a season finale of a Nollywood thriller?
A lady—tall, thin, with eyes that could see into my bank account balance (N1,745.61)—smiled too serenely.
“Welcome, brother. You are right on time for The Revelation.”
The WHAT now?!
My Brain: “This Isn’t a Drill”
She gestured for me to sit. My legs disobeyed survival instincts. I plopped onto a plastic chair, scanning for an escape route—or a single pack of Jollof. Nothing.
Then, they dimmed the lights.
“Let us begin,” she whispered.
I felt a bead of sweat form. My stomach did another somersault. Suddenly, hunger felt safer than… whatever this was.
Everyone closed their eyes and chanted something that sounded like “We welcome the chosen one.”
WHO WAS THE CHOSEN WHAT?!
My Last Attempt at Sanity
My phone buzzed. WhatsApp. My mom: “Don’t disgrace me o.”
I was seconds away from being inducted into the Free-Food-Fellowship of Doom.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, where’s the bathroom?”
The lady’s eyes glinted. “There is no bathroom. Only The Truth.”
LORD, WHAT KIND OF WAHALA IS THIS?!
Divine Intervention (aka My Mom’s Big Mouth)
Just as my life flashed before my eyes (spoiler: it was 70% bad WiFi memories), the front door BURST open.
“Tobi!!!” My mom stormed in, her gele tied like she was going into spiritual warfare.
“Come out now-now! They said they saw you entering one funny place.” She turned to the robe-wearing crew. “If you people try anything ehn, Holy Ghost fire will consume you!”
I didn’t need more encouragement. I bolted out of the chair and out the door, my mom’s purse slapping the pavement behind me.
Post-Trauma Roast Session
In the car, she eyed me like I’d lost all my brain cells.
“You went to join a cult because of free food? You’re not even smart with your bad decisions.”
Fair point.
But hey, at least I wasn’t inducted. And I learned two valuable lessons:
- Never trust a “youth meeting” without verified snack evidence.
- If Google Maps hesitates, RUN.
My mom still tells the story at family gatherings. “This boy nearly joined a cult for chin-chin.” And everyone laughs while I’m there like…
“But did I die, though?”
He almost joined a cult for snacks—and his mom’s roast session was legendary. For more thrilling near-disaster stories, check out Confessions & Close Calls.
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