Shadows And Revelations
A few days had passed since the Preacher's last encounter in that troubled part of town—a place riddled with fear, respect, and the invisible boundaries drawn by those who ruled from the shadows. Still, something within him urged him to return. It wasn't curiosity. It wasn't courage either. It was conviction.
So, under the thick sky of late afternoon, with wind whispering secrets between old buildings, he took a long walk again, his steps slow but certain, tracing back to the very axis where fate had once tried to claim dominion over his mission. He walked past familiar faces—some too tired to recognize him, others too frightened to greet him.
Then he saw her.
She walked with elegance and confidence, her presence cut through the background like a high-definition frame in an old film. She looked too polished, too modern, too socially exposed for this side of town, like someone who belonged on a magazine cover, not in a struggling community wrapped in silence and survival.
Out of curiosity—part spiritual nudge, part human wonder—he spoke.
"You're just coming back from somewhere?" he asked, his voice respectful but casual, trying to stay ahead of her pace so she wouldn't feel cornered.
She stopped, surprising him, and turned gently. "Good afternoon, sir. Sorry—do you know me from anywhere?" she asked, polite but cautious.
The Preacher smiled. "No, I know someone who knows you. But I don't know if you know Him."
Her brows furrowed slightly. "Okay... who's that, please? Someone from this village, or...?"
"Well," he said, "He's not just from here. He's everywhere. I'm talking about Jesus Christ."
The moment she heard those words, her posture shifted. The light of interest dimmed in her eyes. She reached into her stylish leather bag and pulled out three crisp notes—each worth a thousand.
"I'm sorry. I don't have much," she said, trying to hand it over. "But just manage this and take care of yourself. Jesus will bless you more. Just take, please. I'm kind of busy."
The Preacher, taken aback but not offended, gently reached for her wrist—not to take the money, but to guide it back toward her bag.
"I'm not hungry," he said softly. "I just want to tell you about Christ. If five minutes isn't too much of a resource to spend, may I?"
She blinked—unsure of what to feel—then slowly nodded. "Okay. Go on."
For the next few minutes, under the shade of an old tree and beside a rusting metal fence, the Preacher spoke. His words weren't pushy. They carried depth, calm, truth. After preaching, he prayed with her.
When they finished, she once again insisted on offering the money—this time more sincerely.
He smiled and stepped back. "That's a church," he pointed, "you can take it there. I'm not hungry today. But thank you, regardless."
She watched him walk away, confusion and respect tangling in her eyes. Then she slowly turned and went on her way, though something in her spirit stirred uneasily.
Two hours passed. The Preacher continued walking, praying, and sharing the gospel with anyone who'd listen. Then, after a few steps into a corner store, he bought a small snack—something to hold his body in a temporary order. After a few bites and a quick gulp of water, he sat under a shade to rest.
But rest wouldn't last.
He heard an uproar. Shouting. Panic. He turned swiftly and saw a crowd staring—frozen in place.
The Lady. The same Lady from earlier—was being robbed. People stood by but didn't move an inch. The community had learned to fear, not fight, whenever T-Boy's name was involved. And there he was, standing nearby, supervising the scene like a ghost of lawlessness.
The Lady stood shell-shocked. Her voice cracked under the weight of her own disbelief. Tears formed not just from fear, but from helplessness.
The Preacher arrived quietly.
"Hey, don't be hard on yourself," he said gently. "Can you tell me what was in the bag? And the bag's name?"
But she was spiraling. "They took my bag! My phone!! My wallet!!! My ATM card!!!! My... my..." Her words trailed into chaotic silence, as if her mind couldn't catch up with her pain.
Still, the Preacher patiently got the information he needed: the bag's name, the contents, her address.
As he turned to leave, her grandmother, an elderly woman with eyes seasoned by pain, stopped him.
"Oga Pastor, which kind trouble be this now? My daughter just come village... T-Boy no allow person sleep since dem born am... what happen now?"
The Preacher placed a hand on her shoulder and whispered, "Don't worry, Mama. The Lord is in control. Just remain calm, okay?" He hugged her gently, then left.
When he got home, he washed, changed, and rested his body and mind for just two hours.
At 8 p.m., under a dark sky laced with stars and dread, he stepped out again—this time, not to preach, but to confront. He walked straight to T-Boy's quarters, and his arrival did not go unnoticed. The gang members who once mocked him now eyed him with caution, guiding him silently to their boss.
T-Boy sat in a smoke-filled room—thick, oppressive, a cave of dominance.
"The coming of the Son of Man shall be like that of a thief in the night," T-Boy said. "So, Oga Pastor, tell me—are you the Son of Man or the thief in the night?"
The Preacher stood firm, letting the smoke roll past him.
"It depends on what will happen here tonight," he said coolly. "But for now... I am both."
T-Boy stood up slowly, amused but alert. "You preach in the night now? You here to make me repent?"
"Repentance is personal. Salvation is personal. The Word of God works every time," the Preacher replied. "And it's best to repent... when you're about to die."
T-Boy stepped closer. "Then why are you here? To be a thief or a Son?"
"I have a list," the Preacher said, pulling out a folded paper. "Return these peacefully... and I'll leave as the Son."
T-Boy read the list—then tore it into pieces and blew smoke in his face again.
"The Bible says, touch not my anointed and do my prophets no harm," T-Boy warned. "I'm respecting that verse. Don't make me violate it."
The Preacher walked to the door, as if to leave. He checked outside—no one. Then he closed it, locked it, and placed the key in his pocket.
"Well, the Bible also says, 'Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.' I guess you're violating that verse now," he said. "The door's closed. No one's walking out. And it's too late to turn back."
T-Boy's boys stiffened. They were seconds from attacking, but the Preacher calmly continued.
"I have another list. In case you forgot." He held it out. "You have thirty seconds to return the items peacefully—or you'll have many more seconds to regret it."
The silence broke with a signal from T-Boy. His boys lunged.
But something strange happened—something no one in that room could explain.
The Preacher didn't swing a fist. He didn't throw a single punch. He didn't draw a weapon. He only moved.
One attacker tried to strike him with a pipe—he ducked, and the blow caught another thug across the jaw.
Another rushed with a dagger—the Preacher sidestepped, and the blade slashed into a friend's shoulder.
One by one, they kept coming, and one by one, their own weapons betrayed them. The Preacher danced through the chaos with an unnatural calm, redirecting limbs, shifting just in time, stepping aside as they collided into each other like wild beasts in the dark.
The room turned into a frenzy—bodies crashing into chairs, heads slamming into concrete walls, fists swinging blindly. Shouts turned to screams. T-Boy's soldiers were destroying themselves—fueled by rage, blinded by confusion.
Not one bruise touched the Preacher.
He stood in the center of it all, composed, unmoved, as if time bent to accommodate his mission. It was as if angels directed his steps and the Spirit choreographed every move.
T-Boy, stunned, watched his empire crumble in seconds. His men groaned on the ground—beaten, bleeding, but not by any outside force. They had done it to themselves.
And the Preacher hadn't even broken a sweat.
T-Boy stood, trembling. This was no longer about a bag. This was warfare.
"You asked if I was a Son or a Thief," the Preacher said, stepping over the motionless bodies. "I told you—for now, I am both. But all I need is the bag, the contents... and a promise that you'll clean up this mess."
Shaking, T-Boy agreed. He surrendered the items and nodded to the clean-up.
Hours later, well past midnight, the Lady was startled by a soft knock. When she opened her door, her eyes widened in disbelief.
"Jesus! Who are you?! How did you—"
"Shhh," the Preacher interrupted gently. "Don't wake your grandma. She'll wake the whole community. You know how old women behave. Just remember... the answer to any question you'll ask about this retrieval is: The Lord is in control. Goodnight."
And with that, he walked away. He arrived home at exactly 12:37 a.m. He didn't bother washing, changing, or even thinking.
He slept.
To Be Continued…