My name is Tunde, and like thousands of young Nigerians, my biggest dream was to japa. I had applied for a UK visa three times, three painful rejections. Each time, the embassy returned my passport with that heart-crushing stamp: “Application Refused.”
One evening, after another rejection, my friend Emeka called me.
“Bro, you’re still struggling with visa? There’s one man in Ibadan, he works miracles. Just pay him, do the sacrifice, and your visa will come.”
I laughed. “Abeg, stop joking. Na scam.”
But Emeka insisted. “My cousin used him last year, two weeks after, visa came. Even the white people don’t understand how it works.”
A week later, I found myself in a dimly lit shrine somewhere in Ibadan. The air smelled of herbs and burnt offerings. The native doctor, a stout man with reddened eyes, sat on a wooden stool, chewing kola nuts.
“You want to travel?” he asked, already knowing my problem.
I nodded.
“₦2 million. I will prepare something powerful for you. The spirits will open doors.”
₦2 million?! That was almost all my savings. But the way he said it… like it was a sure deal.
“If it doesn’t work?” I asked.
He smirked. “It will work. But if you doubt, walk away.”
Something in his confidence convinced me. Maybe it was frustration. Maybe it was the stories of people who “made it” after visiting him.
He gave me a small black pot containing a strange-looking powder.
“Burn this at midnight. Speak your request to the flame. Then wash your face with the ashes the next morning.”
I followed his instructions like my life depended on it.
Two weeks later, I got an email:
“Your UK visa application has been approved.”)
I called Emeka, overjoyed. “This native doctor is powerful! My visa cleared!”
But then… things got weird.
A week before my flight, I started having the same dream. A faceless woman standing at the foot of my bed, whispering: “You will pay… you will pay…”
I woke up sweating every night.
Then, the calls started. Unknown numbers. When I picked up, silence, followed by faint crying.
One evening, I saw her, the woman from my dreams, standing across the street, staring at me. I blinked, and she was gone.
Frightened, I went back to the native doctor.
This time, his demeanour was different. Cold.
“You got what you wanted, abi? Now, the spirit wants something too.”
“What spirit?!” I shouted.
He sighed. “The money you paid was just part. The real sacrifice is you.”
“What are you saying?”
“The spirit that helped you now owns you. If you travel, it will follow you. And one day, it will collect its payment.”
I tore my visa that night.
Some dreams aren’t worth the price.
Now, anytime I see those “Visa lottery” or “Spiritual visa help” ads, I shiver.
Because I know the truth. Some doors, once opened, can never be closed.
