I was in my freshman year at the university — technically “Year 2,” because I came in through Direct Entry after completing my diploma. That evening, I was drained. I had just finished my Law of Contract test — the unforgettable rite of passage for every second-year student. I was still on the phone with my grandmother, telling her how intense it was, how my head was filled with Carlill v Carbolic Smoke Ball Company and every rule of Consideration known to mankind.
As I approached the hostel, I realised something was off.
Girls were gathered in small groups, whispering urgently.
Some looked frightened, some confused, some curious — exactly the kind of atmosphere you find among teenagers when a rumour spreads faster than common sense.
“Mama, something is happening in the hostel,” I said.
Her reply came without hesitation — calm, steady, familiar:
“It is none of your business. Walk.”
Before I could say more, a girl tugged my hand and whispered:
“There’s a girl who fainted… they’re saying strange things.”
Teenagers can turn anything unfamiliar into something dramatic.
Mama heard the tension in my silence and repeated, gently but firmly:
“Walk, my daughter.”
Her voice didn’t waver.
Mine did.
But when Mama tells you to walk, you walk — because her voice had been my GPS long before I knew what fear even was.
I held the phone to my ear and moved forward. And strangely — or maybe not strangely — people stepped aside.
Left, right — the path simply opened.
It reminded me of 2 Samuel 23:16, where David’s men “broke through the crowd” with single-minded focus. I wasn’t brave. I wasn’t heroic. I wasn’t even thinking. I was just obeying the voice that had guided me since childhood.
“Light and darkness do not mix,” Mama said softly.
“You are light. Keep walking.”
The noise around me was chaotic — fear often makes everything feel louder — but inside me, something settled. It only happens when someone who loves you speaks into your fear with unquestionable conviction. I was familiar with the finality of it, because I had heard it almost every day of my life. Mass updates, stories, prayers, laughter… she was the voice that shaped my evenings.
So I passed the cluster of girls — some anxious, some emotional, some praying loudly in their own way. I didn’t stop to analyse anything. Not because I was bold, but because Mama had already given me my instruction:
Walk.
When I reached my room, the wing felt unusually empty. Some girls chose to sleep in other rooms that night. Others gathered outside, still discussing what had happened.
Me?
I bathed.
I ate.
I got back on the phone.
“Mama, are you sure I’m safe?” I whispered — that quiet question you ask when you don’t want people to know you are afraid.
She let out a small laugh — the kind that always made me feel like I had exaggerated my own worries.
“Psalm 91. Say it.”
And she began:
“He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty…”
I repeated each verse — half-tired from studying, half-distracted by the earlier commotion — but she knew every verse from memory. She always did. Psalm 91. Psalm 121. Psalm 23. All from that tiny blue Bible she had carried for decades, its corners frayed like a book that lived inside her heart.
She didn’t just recite Scripture.
She spoke it into me — word by word — until my breathing slowed…
until my shoulders relaxed…
until sleep came quietly.
The night passed peacefully.
No shadows.
No fear.
Just the stillness of a university hostel after a long day.
In the morning, as I brushed my teeth, a girl whispered:
“You… slept in your room? You weren’t worried?”
I rinsed and replied, almost casually:
“My grandmother said it’s none of my business.”
Because truly — it wasn’t.
Mama never raised us on fear.
We didn’t grow up hearing about darkness, danger, or superstition.
She shielded our minds from anything that would make the world feel frightening.
She filled us with God.
Peace.
Angels.
Psalms.
A confidence that wasn’t loud, but steady.
That night, I relied entirely on her faith — 100%.
And it held me.
It calmed me.
It guided me.
Because Mama had said:
“Walk.”
And I did.
And I’m still walking.
Yours with love and memory,
If you didn’t read Day 1, find it here https://oluabikoye.com/blog/remembering-alice-ebhodaghe/
