THE SHADOW OF THE DESERT: ESTHER'S JOURNEY OF FAITH

THE SHADOW OF THE DESERT: ESTHER'S JOURNEY OF FAITH 

My name is Esther. I am standing here today because of a grace greater than any hardship I have ever faced. Without God, I would not be alive to share this. This is the true story of my journey to Libya—a path that led me through the perilous sands of the desert, into the exhausting trap of human exploitation, and through the darkest valley of captivity, ultimately redefining my faith and giving me a completely new life.

## PART ONE: THE CALAMITY AND THE BURDEN OF FAMILY

Long before I ever thought of crossing borders, my life was anchored in Nigeria. We lived in Ekiti State—a household made up of my father, my stepmother, my stepsister, my brother, and me. My biological mother lived away from us, in Ondo State.

Things were incredibly tough for me while staying with my stepmother. My father was a hardworking man, constantly going out to farm or doing bike rides just to scratch together a living. Despite the hardships, he deeply wanted a secure future for me. He struggled to send me to school, carrying a dream in his heart that if I could only obtain higher education, I would become a strong role model for all my brothers and sisters. I wanted so desperately to make him proud, but poverty made it impossible.

In December 2018, tragedy struck. My father was afflicted with a severe stroke. This calamity shattered our fragile stability. I was supposed to write my WAEC in 2019, but with no one in the family left to help or fund my education, I was forced to drop out of school entirely.

With my father incapacitated, the atmosphere in our home shifted drastically. One day, my stepmother approached me with a cold reality. She flatly told me that she could no longer take care of my sick father, my stepsister, my brother, and me. She told me to pack up, leave Ekiti State, and go meet my biological mother in Ondo State.

When she told me to leave, heavy thoughts began to pop into my mind. I thought deeply about my biological mother's situation. She had no steady business or trade; her daily survival relied on going to the farm to fetch firewood before she could eat or do any hard labor. My four biological sisters were already living with her. If I joined them, I would make five children, making six mouths to feed in total.

I said to myself, "I will not go, because I don't want to add to my mother's heavy burden." I had promised myself to make my mother proud, and I knew that if I went there to become another mouth to feed, my dreams would be completely shattered. So, I promised myself not to go.

That was when I turned to my partner. We had been dating for a few months, so I explained to him exactly what my stepmother had said. Hearing my plight, he told me that if I did not want to go to my mother in Ondo State, I should come and stay with him instead. I was only 19 years old at the time, facing choices far too heavy for my age, so I agreed.

Though we were not legally married, we shared a deep bond and eventually brought a beautiful son into the world out of wedlock. Like any family, we had our flaws. We fought, we made up, and we struggled to find our footing.

When my partner later traveled ahead to Libya to look for opportunities, it seemed like a door might finally open for us. After a few months, he called me. He didn’t have his own money to bring me over, but he connected me with another person to bring me in. We used to call those people "boggers"—sponsors. Driven by pure love and the desperate desire to lift the crushing weight off both my sick father and my struggling mother, I packed my bags and set out.

## PART TWO: THE PERILOUS ROAD

The journey across the continent was nothing like I had imagined. I left Nigeria on December 17, 2022. The road was brutal, rough, and unforgiving. As we crossed the vast, scorching desert, tragedy struck right before my eyes. The vehicle jolted violently, and some people fell straight from the car into the endless sands. They were left behind. My heart broke for those souls stranded in the wilderness, and I prayed desperately that God would send helpers to find them.

By God’s immense grace, our group did not spend too many days on the road. We survived the harsh terrain quickly compared to others who spent two or three months in transit. On January 9, 2023, I arrived safely at my bogger's house in Libya.

## PART THREE: THE PRICE OF FREEDOM AND ISOLATION

Upon arrival, my bogger first took me to get medical treatment to recover from the grueling journey. On January 17, I began working as a housemaid. However, unexpected complications arose, and I lost that first job just four days later. Resilient and driven by the vision of supporting my family, I quickly started another job on January 21.

I worked tirelessly under the weight of an immense financial debt to my sponsor. I stayed in labor as a housemaid until I had paid off nine months to her. After that, I was moved to another house as a housemaid to finish paying her off. In total, I labored for one year and three months to clear my debt.

It was only later that I uncovered a heartbreaking truth: a "mistake" had been made. I was only supposed to pay for one year and one month. My bogger knew this all along, but she chose to keep quiet, exploiting my labor for two extra months.

That long period of payment was defined by profound isolation. We were strictly forbidden from using phones or making calls. Throughout that entire fourteen-month period, I had absolutely no contact with my family until I completed one year. The only time I had spoken to them was the very day I arrived in Libya. I carried an unbearable weight of worry for my sick father and the family I left behind. They didn't hear from me, and I didn't hear from them.

To survive the silence, I constantly whispered a promise to myself: "When I finish paying, I will work, buy a phone, and call them immediately."

Worse still, the dream of being reunited with my husband was still in my mind. Throughout that entire time of labor, I was never allowed to see him. The only time our paths crossed was a single, fleeting moment outside in a busy marketplace when something came up. We were close in distance, yet completely separated by our circumstances.

## PART FOUR: THE ROOTS OF FEAR AND COMPROMISED LIFE

In March 2024, I finally completed paying my boga. With the debt lifted, everything began to shift, and the plans I had carefully nurtured started to change. But before the great trial that redefined me took place, I had to confront the reality of who I had become: a compromised Christian.

My shift from a compromising believer to an uncompromising one started with a web of lies. Before taking my job, the agent who brought me to the house told me that the employers specifically requested a Muslim worker. He pressured me to lie about my religion. Desperate for employment to pay my debt, I complied. I told my boss and my madam that I was a Muslim, though I was a Christian at heart.

I later found out from my madam that it had all been unnecessary; any religion could work for them, but the lie was already woven. Living that lie forced me into a life of constant pretense. When Ramadan arrived, I pretended to fast while secretly eating in my room every single morning when no one was watching. My friend Amina, who was also my co-worker, found out my secret and wanted to expose me to our employers. Terrified of losing my job, I told her, "I don't want to lose this job," because unlike the very first job, this workplace was good to me. Because I claimed to be a Muslim, my madam kindly bought me a rosary for prayer, and I accepted it, trapping myself deeper in the deception.

Other small compromises grew into bad habits. In my boss's room, I secretly began using his iPad to watch movies and comedy shows while I was supposed to be working. It became an everyday routine done entirely without his knowledge. He caught me once and explicitly told me never to touch it again. Yet, the habit had its hold on me, and I continued to use it in secret anyway. I was managing to navigate my survival, but my character and my faith were slipping away in the shadows of deceit and disobedience.

### Back to Nigeria Memories

The truth was, fear and intense guilt had always been quiet drivers in my life. Long before I ever left Nigeria, I lived in deep anxiety about the future of my soul. I used to be terrified of what would happen to me after the rapture. Sometimes when I slept, it felt as if someone was whispering directly into my ear, speaking heavy words about eternity: *"Hellfire is eternity, no escape."* Whenever I thought about spending forever in hellfire, I became completely paralyzed by fear, completely unsure of what to do.

Driven by absolute panic after listening to a televised sermon by Pastor Abraham about how God took him to hellfire, I decided to take drastic action. I rushed to my closet, packed up all my worldly clothes—including my trousers—threw them outside, and desperately promised God that I would never wear them again. I began crying uncontrollably for my sins, holding my Bible tightly against my chest, begging Jesus for mercy. I swore to myself that I would caution my flesh and stop sinning entirely. But my promises were built on human fear rather than spiritual strength, and my vows would rarely last even twenty-four hours before I fell back into my old ways.

During those intense seasons of spiritual wrestling in my room, unusual things happened. Sometimes, I would glimpse a moving light tracking across the walls. It traveled incredibly fast, disappearing the exact moment I turned my face to look directly at it. At that time, I was too swallowed up by fear and confusion to understand what the moving light meant. It was only much later, when I got to know Jesus more, that I understood.

## PART FIVE: SMALL COMPROMISES AND THE SHAKING SCREEN

As time went on, the small moral compromises in my madam's house grew heavier. I began taking things without her permission. For instance, when washing the family's clothes, I would frequently find loose cash left in their pockets. Sometimes my conscience would flare up, and I would return it. But other times, temptation won, and I would keep the money for myself.

Every time I pocketed that money, an overwhelming wave of fear and guilt would wash over me. My conscience continually disturbed me, but I had rationalized the behavior because of peer pressure. My friend had confessed to me that whenever she found money in their pockets while doing laundry, she would never return it. Listening to her, I started doing the exact same thing. Even though I was constantly scared when I took it, I kept repeating the cycle.

Then came a specific day during Ramadan, with only six days left before the month ended. I woke up at my usual hour, swept the area outside, and waited patiently for my madam to open the inside door so I could begin my daily chores.

Once inside, I went upstairs to clean my madam's son's bedroom. While cleaning away from everyone's eyes, the bad habit took hold of me again. I spotted the son's iPad. Ignoring the previous warnings, I picked it up.

The moment I unlocked the iPad, the screen illuminated, and the first message that flashed before my eyes was a post that read: *"2025 is the last year on earth, after that rapture will take place."*

Although the post was untrue, it changed my entire life. Immediately upon reading those words, my heart began to beat wildly. Trembling, I scrolled further and saw another post about the Antichrist, describing how people would deny Jesus, and what would become the horrific fate of those who receive the mark of the beast. My chest tightened. My heart beat faster and faster, and my eyes were full of tears.

In that quiet bedroom, a piercing whisper echoed inside my mind: *"Jesus has not yet come, and you have already denied Him."*

The weight of my own hypocrisy crashed down on me. I thought about how I had told my boss that I was a Muslim when, in reality, I was a Christian. A profound, consuming guilt gripped me. This was not a fear of getting caught by my boss; it was a terrifying, eternal dread of having denied my Savior and a horrific panic over what would become of me when the rapture finally arrived.

I stood in the middle of the room holding the iPad. My hands shook so violently that I felt like my very heart was shaking inside my chest. Over and over, I repeated to myself, *"Jesus has not come, and I have already denied Him."* I was completely overwhelmed and confused, but amidst the terror, a fierce determination rose within my soul: I had to go for restitution. I needed to set things right, no matter the cost.

## PART SIX: THE PATH OF RESTITUTION

Gravely shaken, I gently set the iPad back down. I fiercely resolved never to touch it again, deeply aware that my boss had no idea I was still using it behind his back.

I turned and walked straight back to my own room. Dropping heavily to my knees, I began to sob uncontrollably, crying out to Jesus from the very depths of my soul, begging Him to forgive me for having denied Him.

After making that small private confession on my knees, I knew tears alone were not enough—true transformation required action. I stood up and opened my small trolley suitcase. Inside lay the physical evidence of my greed: all the various items I had secretly purchased using the pocketed laundry money. I packed every single one of those belongings together, carried them firmly out of my room, and brought them outside.

With my heart fully set on making amends, I walked inside to face my madam. My eyes had completely changed; the frantic fear was gone, replaced by a burning, unshakeable zeal to tell her the absolute truth. I was ready to declare that I was not a Muslim, but a Christian.

As my feet touched the bottom of the stairs, a dark, familiar voice began whispering inside my mind, trying to pull me back into the shadows: *"If you tell them the truth, you are going to lose your job. You know this job is good, unlike the other job."*

But this time, I refused to let fear dictate my survival. I answered that internal whisper directly in my spirit, as if looking straight at the entity speaking to me. I thought boldly, *"It is far better for me to lose my job than to deny Jesus."* Standing tall before my boss, I confessed my deception. But immediately after I made restitution, temptation and challenges arose.

## PART SEVEN: THE SECOND ENCOUNTER

Following that intense moment of confession, I aggressively began to caution myself. I made a fierce internal vow not to fall back into sin ever again, and I went right back upstairs to continue my duties as a housemaid.

Only a few days after my first terrifying encounter with the iPad, something extraordinary happened while I was upstairs working. I paused my chores and happened to look out the window up into the open sky. Suddenly, my spiritual eyes were opened. I felt as though I was looking directly at an angel holding a trumpet, posed and ready to blow it right before the world's end.

Physically, my eyes saw only empty sky, but my spirit sensed the vision with absolute clarity. It was a language of pure perception, an unmistakable knowing that vibrated through my soul. Every single time I glanced through that specific window, the vision returned—real, heavy, and immediate.

With tears streaming down my face, I began to plead desperately with Jesus. "Please, don't blow that trumpet, I am not yet ready. Please, don't blow it!" I began to talk aloud into the empty space, talking urgently as if I could physically see a person standing right in front of me, looking directly at the one I was addressing.

Overwhelmed, I immediately dropped to my knees right there on the floor. I began to cry out for forgiveness, my body shaking with heavy, continuous sobs. After a long while, I forced myself to stand up and went into the toilet to begin cleaning it. But even as I scrubbed, the tears kept flowing. The weight of the vision followed me. Inside the bathroom, I fell to my knees once again on the hard tiles and continued to weep bitterly, crying, "Please don't blow the trumpet, I am not yet ready."

I cried so intensely, pouring out my soul to such an extent that I was on the verge of completely losing my voice. Yet, the urge to look back at the window pulled at me. I stood up, walked over, and peered through the glass once more. It was still the exact same thing. I could sense it both physically and spiritually; the reality of it was heavy and undeniable.

Just then, my madam’s voice broke the silence. She called out and handed me special Ramadan clothes. Still dazed and trembling, I went to collect the clothes, but my mind was entirely elsewhere. Unthinking, I threw the garments casually to one side.

My unusual behavior and distressed state caught her attention immediately. Sensing that something was deeply wrong, my madam walked into the room. She stopped in her tracks as she saw me staring up at the empty ceiling, completely disconnected from my surroundings, murmuring anxiously to myself.

Concerned and confused, she looked at me and asked what was happening: "What happened? Why are you staring at the sky?"

I turned to her, my face wet with tears, and shouted back at her in a rush of emotion, confirming through my crying eyes that I was indeed staring up at the sky. I wished so desperately to explain exactly what I was passing through, but she simply didn't believe me; she thought I was mad.

Unable to navigate the tension in the room, I hurriedly finished my work and ran straight to my room. I closed the door, knelt down, and began to confess my sins with a heavily guilty heart. I cried and prayed until I completely lost my voice. Surrendering entirely, I declared Him as my Lord and Savior, writing down a sacred vow to seal my choice.

## PART EIGHT: COVENANT SEAL ON PAPER

I took a sheet of paper, and I poured out the rawest promises of my heart, committing everything to a new path:

> *"My heavenly Father, I promise You that I will never leave You again. I promise You today to obey You and I will not disobey You again. I promise to do Your work diligently and wholeheartedly. I am ready to follow You and do whatever You ask me to do, and I promise not to leave in whatever I go through in this life, and I will not leave You no matter what comes my way..."*

> 

But as I looked at my words, I realized a true covenant is a two-way street. I needed His strength just as much as He deserved my devotion. So, beneath my vows, I wrote a desperate appeal back to the heavens:

> *"My heavenly Father, promise me that You will never leave me nor abandon me. Promise me that You will stay with me in all circumstances. Promise me that You will be with me forever, and promise me that I will surely meet You in Your kingdom very soon.*

> *Write my name in the book of life, and help me to fulfill my promise with You. Lord, I need the spirit of endurance, patience, faith, the spirit of prayer, and the spirit to know the devil's deception."*

> 

With those final words, I folded the paper. I had asked for the tools of survival—endurance, patience, faith, prayer, and discernment—unaware of just how quickly those very traits would be tested to their absolute limits.

## PART NINE: CHALLENGES, TEMPTATIONS, PERSECUTION, AND A NEW ZEAL

I whispered a final prayer of gratitude into the quiet room: "Thank You, for You have answered my prayer. Amen."

Looking back at my written vows, I realized exactly how far I had traveled. My journey had progressed through distinct, undeniable stages:

But choosing Jesus did not suddenly clear my path; instead, it opened the gates to intense challenges, persecution, and deep temptation.

The moment I made that decision and sealed that promise to God, something fundamental began to shift. The things that used to be completely normal for me suddenly became abnormal. Because I was consumed by a fresh zeal and a raw willingness to live out my faith, I began talking aloud to myself in prayer throughout the day. Seeing this, the people around me began to judge me harshly. They whisper-chattered behind my back, thinking I had gone completely mad. I didn't know at the time that this sudden isolation was actually God's hidden intention for my journey, setting me apart for what was to come.

Despite the mockery, an unstoppable fire was lit inside my soul. I began to experience an overwhelming zeal to evangelize and spread the truth. I felt a desperate, burning hunger to hold the Bible tightly in my hands and a continuous zeal to pray. My perspective on the world flipped completely. From that day onward, anytime I saw a sinner, my heart would completely break for them. The grief for their souls was so deep that I began stepping out, approaching strangers directly to hand out small Christian leaflets that I had gathered, trying desperately to point them toward the light.

## PART TEN: THE FIRE OF TRUTH AND THE SEVERED TIES

The zeal burning inside me grew so fierce that I couldn't contain it. I had written down my thoughts about heaven and hell on sheets of paper, and the conviction was blazing so intensely that I actually walked straight up to my Muslim boss and his son to evangelize to them.

I knew only a very little bit of their language—just a handful of phrases in Arabic—but I managed to describe Jesus Christ to them with what small words I had. My boldness did not go unpunished. It immediately resulted in fierce persecution and immense temptation. Furious, they threatened to have me arrested, throwing me into a spiral of terrifying challenges and ultimately causing the total loss of my good, comfortable housemaid job.

Yet, the heaviest trial was not the loss of my job, but the shattering of my family blueprints. The first massive heartbreak came from my husband. You remember how I fiercely planned that the moment I finished paying my bogger, I would immediately go and meet my husband so we could live together under one roof as husband and wife? But the exact moment I surrendered everything to Jesus, my entire plan changed.

Because we were not legally married back in Nigeria, and because I knew that if I went to his house, there was no way around it—I would commit fornication—standing firmly on my new foundation, I resolved: "I will stay here, and I will not move in with him now until we do God’s will, which is marriage." But I was so sad to hear that he had married another person with a child, although they were not legally married.

It was an agonizing choice. I loved him deeply, and my heart was very eager to see him, but the heavy promise I had written on that paper, the profound love I now carried, and the unyielding zeal I had for Jesus completely overpowered everything else in my life. I chose spiritual survival over human comfort, turning my back on the man who had drawn me to Libya.

## PART ELEVEN: PUBLIC HUMILIATION AND THE BATTLE IN THE MIND

Standing alone in my faith meant stepping directly into a raging physical and spiritual crucible. The opposition tightened around me immediately. My bogger's sister began pressuring me relentlessly to go back to my husband's side.

The persecution spilled violently into the public eye. One afternoon, while I was standing in a busy, crowded marketplace distributing my small Christian leaflets to passersby, a confrontation erupted. A woman who was actually my own agent marched up to me in front of the entire crowd. Enraged by my evangelism, she stripped off her slipper and slammed it violently across my face. The force of the blow was so brutal that it left a trace on my eye.

As I passed through these relentless layers of persecution, temptation, and affliction, an even more terrifying war erupted within me: a battle of the mind. My thoughts were completely hijacked. The devil and God turned my mind into a raging, non-stop battlefield.

The internal warfare grew so intense and consuming that it completely paralyzed me. I reached a state where I could no longer do anything. I could not plan a single step for my future, and I was entirely unable to make a single decision on my own—except the decision of following Christ with zeal. My mind was a storm of confusion, completely hollowed out by the pressure of the physical and unseen world.

## PART TWELVE: THE DEEP SOLITUDE OF A PURIFIED JOURNEY

As the external persecution mounted and my thoughts raged, my life descended into an absolute, crushing solitude. I found myself navigating a reality where I had to pray completely alone, fast completely alone, and face every single mounting crisis entirely on my own. No one noticed what I was passing through; I tried to explain to people, but it seemed God didn't want them to understand, so I was totally alone on the journey.

There was no pastor to guide me, except for one specific pastor that God miraculously sent to speak to me during my initial encounter. Beyond that solitary voice, I had no friend to confide in, no Christian fellowship to lean on, no wise counselor to step in, and absolutely no companion to walk by my side. I was completely alone on my own, stranded in the middle of a foreign land.

Yet, even in the crisis, I could feel the tangible presence of the Holy Spirit moving around me and comforting me when I was sad or hurt by people. His overwhelming love enveloped me, and sometimes He would speak back to me—communicating with absolute clarity or echoing directly through my mind. I carried a mountain of burning questions inside me, but there was nobody around to ask. At my changing workplaces, I always got intensely frustrated by my boss, and I had to face a relentless amount of pain.

What I normally faced in my workplace was a grinding frustration in my mind, fueled by the devil’s ongoing whispers, demonic oppression, and even the hostile actions of the people around me. Everything seemed to collaborate together to break me down, and it was so incredibly painful. My journey was completely filled with a heavy, suffocating loneliness—isolation in its purest form. I was totally isolated from the world.

## PART THIRTEEN: THE HORROR ROOM AND THE VOICE OF REBUKE

In the deep thick of that isolation, the unseen torment intensified until it took over my physical environment. Sometimes, when I sat alone in the quiet, my clothes hanging in the corner would form very scary animal heads. I would look down at my furniture and always see scary faces.

To cut everything short, my bedroom turned completely into a horror room—to the absolute extent that I could not sleep or rest with any peace or boldness.

Trapped in that terrifying sensory storm, I fell into a routine of always talking aloud to myself. Sometimes, I would face my clothes or look straight at my empty bed and have a deep, continuous discussion with them, interacting urgently as if I could physically see someone standing right there. And what I always discussed during those intense hours was solely about the word of God. Because I was completely cut off from society and didn't have or see a single human being to evangelize to, I would face the ordinary items in my room and talk to them as if they were living humans.

I was so incredibly eager to evangelize, and the raw zeal for God was burning so fiercely inside me, that absolutely no one on earth could convince me to turn back. The dark entities tried endlessly to convict my spirit and flood my mind with panic, trying to force me to break my covenant. But the Lord placed one single, unshakeable word in my mouth whenever the devil came to assault me with his deception. I would always declare: *"I rebuke you in Jesus’s name!"*

## PART FOURTEEN: THE GILDED SHACKLE OF THE THREE-MONTH JOB

After I surrendered my life entirely to Christ and made that sacred promise to Him on paper, I went through an immense amount of trial. Because I fiercely refused to compromise my new values, I lost many jobs in rapid succession. Most of those jobs would only last for a single day, two days, or at most five days before crumbling away entirely under the sheer weight of temptation, constant challenges, severe frustration, and systematic oppression.

But later, a small window of stability seemed to open. I found one housemaid job that I managed to stay in for three months and twelve days. For the first time in a very long time, I was receiving a real wage, which allowed me to fulfill my promise and finally send extra money back home to my family in Nigeria. Yet, the peace was only a thin veneer.

Because of the ongoing temptations and the heavy mental frustration targeting my faith at that workplace, I eventually lost that job too. Unable to bear the spiritual compromise required to stay, I decided to leave the work entirely. Left without a job once more, I packed my small bag and went back to my bogger's house to rest, hoping to clear my mind while searching for another job.

## PART FIFTEEN: THE PRECALCULATED BETRAYAL

But any illusion of finding a safe sanctuary under my sponsor's roof vanished instantly. My bogger and the father of my child had already planned something malicious together entirely without my knowledge. They had both carefully orchestrated a trap to carry me directly over to the father of my child's side—the very place I had explicitly promised God never to go, because I knew that stepping foot inside those walls would cause me to fall back into the sin of fornication.

To lure me into their snare, they fabricated a deceptive lie. They told me smoothly that I was simply going out for a new housemaid job opportunity. Trusting their word and not suspecting anything malicious, I agreed to go with them, climbing into the vehicle with a hopeful heart.

That was how I found myself suddenly standing in front of his house (my husband). The reality hit me like a physical blow. When the car stopped and the surroundings came into view, I realized I had been completely tricked. I stood staring at the entrance of the house belonging to the father of my child—the exact location I had vowed to avoid at all costs to preserve my spiritual purity.

I was profoundly disappointed, deeply hurt, and at the exact same time, completely confused. The father of my child stood at the doorway and told me to enter, his voice casual as if my boundary meant nothing. Summoning every ounce of the "spirit of endurance and faith" to stay in my covenant, I flatly refused to go inside, and a violent argument erupted.

## PART SIXTEEN: THE TRAP OF THE HUMAN TRAFFICKER

As we were arguing outside, two young men suddenly emerged from the shadows and approached the scene. They claimed to be local police officers intervening in a public disturbance.

In my confusion and terror, I didn't know the dark truth: they were not law enforcement at all. They were human sellers—ruthless traffickers hunting for vulnerable prey.

The two young men aggressively forced me to enter their car and slammed the doors shut. The moment the vehicle sped away into the Libyan streets, their true nature was exposed. They stripped me of everything I had. They collected all my hard-earned money, and then they reached deep into my belongings and maliciously collected my sacred tithe—the dedicated portion of my income that I had meticulously gathered and set aside for God ever since I started working.

Inside the confines of that moving car, a horrific nightmare unfolded. They tried to brutally rape me. Treating my body with absolute malice, they unleashed a wave of physical violence. They began hitting me with the butt of their gun, the heavy metal slamming violently against my flesh as they sought to shatter my resistance.

As they were beating me, I summoned a fierce, desperate strength. I held my clothes incredibly tight to my body because they wanted to use raw physical force to remove my garments and strip away my dignity.

But right there among the terrifying chaos and pain inside the car, the physical noise faded. I felt the undeniable, tangible presence of God envelop me. Above the shouting of the human sellers, I still heard His gentle whisper speaking directly to my heart. The voice said to me clearly: *"If you don't give them the chance, they will not touch you. They may beat you, but they will not touch you."*

Armed with that divine shield, I tightened my grip on my clothes, choosing to endure the blows rather than yield an inch. I felt this sacred presence so intensely that it defied the horror around me.

The car jolted to a stop, and they dragged me out into the cold night. They carried me to an open area in the middle of the night—an empty, desolate field away from the eyes of the city. Out there in the dark, they tried once more to use force to tear my clothes off my body.

Defiant, I began to look straight up toward the open heavens with hot tears streaming down my face. As I began to cry, an extraordinary sensation washed over me: I felt that the sky was so close to me. It felt exactly like the sky wanted to fall down on me because the heavens felt so very close to my face. That unyielding vision gave me an immediate, massive wave of confidence and a solid assurance that God was truly with me.

The miracle unfolded exactly as the voice had promised. They didn't touch me. Despite their weapons, their rage, and their physical power, they could not violate my body. The invisible boundary held firm, just as the Lord had whispered to me while they were beating me inside the car. After all this terrifying drama, they shoved me back into the vehicle.

## PART SEVENTEEN: THE VALUATION AND THE TRADE OF HUMANS

I don't usually enter public cars or mass transport because of a persistent physical affliction—I vomit or feel intensely sick whenever I am inside a car. The traffickers ignored my nausea completely; they kept driving me through the dark streets, forcing me to endure the grinding movement as my stomach twisted.

Finally, after what felt like hours of motion, the car came to a definitive stop. They pulled me out and dropped me inside one man's house. As I stood trembling in the room, the man told me, "They have sold you to me for 4,000 Libyan dinars."

Just like that, without warning or consent, I had been sold as a piece of property.

The foreign man took me and immediately brought me to his workplace. I stepped across the threshold, and a heavy, suffocating atmosphere hit me. The building was completely full of young girls, all of them looking exhausted and trapped. At first, I was entirely confused, my mind unable to piece together what kind of business required so many captive women.

Seeing my disorientation, one of the girls in the room quietly walked over to me. She leaned in close, looked at my face, and told me the raw truth. She revealed that this entire place was a connection house—a forced prostitution house.

The moment the words left her lips, absolute panic gripped my chest. Refusing to yield to the trap, I immediately called out to the foreign man who had purchased me. I dropped to my knees, weeping bitterly, and began to beg him frantically from the bottom of my heart. I told him straight, "I cannot do this type of work." I pleaded with his conscience, crying out that he should help me look for housemaid work instead, begging him to let me clean floors rather than sell my soul.

## PART EIGHTEEN: THE TRANSFER OF INDENTURE

Thank God, a miracle broke through the man’s hardened exterior. He looked down at me, agreed not to force me to do prostitution work, and respected the invisible boundary that protected my body. But his mercy was entirely financial. He told me flatly that since I would not generate profit under his roof, he had already seen another work arrangement for me entirely without my knowing. He had sold me again to one Nigerian woman who operated a different labor ring.

Without knowing anything about this new handler, or what conditions awaited me under her roof, and believing I had narrowly escaped the ultimate horror, I began to get prepared for work as a housemaid, adjusting my spirit to endure whatever grinding labor was necessary to preserve my dignity.

## PART NINETEEN: INSIDE THE NETWORK OF SLAVERY

The man sold me again. He told me that he had helped me to secure a job as a housemaid, not knowing he had already sold me. He sold me to a Nigerian woman. Then, not long after, the Nigerian woman took me to her place (I don't want to mention her name).

And that Nigerian woman sold me again to another unknown Nigerian woman (I don't want to mention her name either, but I later found out that we are from the same state, though that didn't change anything for me).

Three different people sold me before I finally reached the hands of this one Nigerian woman. That is when the nightmare truly started. She began to maltreat me. She treated me as if I were an animal. At first, I didn't even know that I had been sold again. It was only later that the woman who bought me spelled it out and told me, "They have already sold you to me. If you don't know, you should know now."

When I first arrived at that place, I saw four girls. I didn't understand what was happening in that house. But later in the evening, I noticed that young men started coming in. All the girls were dancing. They were greeting the men by shaking their hands. I just stood there. I was completely confused. I didn't know what was happening.

Then, I finally understood—this was a prostitution house. Even before I fully knew, something had been whispering to my mind that this was a harlot house. I was so scared, but I still wanted to confirm whether it was true or not.

So, I went to meet the Nigerian woman, the Madam. I explained to her what brought me to Tripoli and how I was sold and found myself again in her house. What I didn't know then was that they had already explained everything to this woman. (Later, she was arrested in Libya. As I am writing this testimony right now, she is still in police custody in Libya; she was arrested for human trafficking.)

I stood my ground. I explained to the woman that our body is the temple of God, and we should not destroy it by fornicating. Although they never told me the kind of work initially, I perceived it immediately upon entering. I spoke to them exactly the way the Holy Spirit directed me. But she refused to listen to me.

They had sold me there, but I remembered my faith. On my second day there, which was a Sunday, I refused to shake the hand of any customer or "man-friend."

## PART TWENTY: THE TRIAL OF FAITH

Because I was so confused and felt so much disappointment, I refused to greet them. When I refused, she began to beat me—I mean the Nigerian woman. She beat me as if I were not human. She beat me as if I were an animal, using a big, long stick.

I cried and cried. At first, I was so disappointed—not because of the beating itself, but because I felt disappointed by God. I began to talk to myself, saying, "This is not our plan. This is not what we planned."

They locked the door so that I would not run away. They mocked me because I preached Jesus to them. From then on, they gave me the name "Mummy G.O."

Still, I refused to do the prostitution work. I refused to dance to their worldly music. I refused to sit with them in the parlor while they played their worldly music because my spirit was not with them. Whenever they played that worldly music, I would use my hands to cover my ears. I did it to the extent that my ears began to hurt.

The Madam didn't see anything good in me. Instead, she always mocked me. She even told me that even Jesus had a girlfriend while He was on earth. They harassed me. They would beat me to the extent that I began to say abominable words to God, and I began to insult God.

During this time, the Madam did not force me directly into prostitution because I was so stubborn—no matter how she beat me, I still refused to do their work. I didn't know that she already had a plan in her mind. One day, they were planning to relocate to another place. This new place was a site of even greater exploitation—a large complex where many young women had been gathered. All of them had been sold, just like me, to be forced into that life.

They were planning to allocate me there so that they could handle me well. Their plan was to beat me and torture me there until I finally agreed to do as they demanded.

One evening, the Madam left the house to make arrangements for the relocation. She left me with a young lady and two other girls. During this time, a conflict arose over the chores I was assigned. I continued to hold firmly to my personal and spiritual principles, refusing to handle items that I felt compromised my faith. This refusal met with intense hostility. The situation escalated into a severe physical confrontation where I was subjected to harsh treatment by those in the house.

The experience was one of profound suffering. I had to use every ounce of my strength to protect myself from the aggression directed toward me. In those moments of extreme duress, the physical pain was matched only by the weight of the situation, yet I remained committed to my beliefs despite the pressure to submit to the environment around me.

The violence escalated painfully. She hit me repeatedly on my head until it swelled up. If not for the absolute strength of God holding me that day, I know I would have run mad, fainted, or even died. The beating and the pain were simply too much to bear, but God gave me the strength to pass through it all.

To humiliate me further, she poured her body cream on my injured head. She used brute force and beatings to compel me to pack the ashtray she used for cigarettes and forced me to fold the clothes. My head and my hands were so swollen that I could not hold anything.

## PART TWENTY-ONE: THE DREAM

Yet, looking back, I realize that even before everything began, God had shown me what was coming. He revealed the trial to me from the very beginning to make me strong, ensuring that this pain had a purpose. It was just like the story of Job in the Bible—God allowed Satan to touch Job, but He did not allow him to kill him.

Before anyone ever started to beat or maltreat me, I had a dream. In my dream, I saw two beings. They separated themselves, creating a distance between them. One was on my right side, and the other was on my left side. The one on my right hand—whom I later came to know was Jesus—handed me over to the one on the left hand—whom I later came to know was the devil.

At first, I did not understand the dream. But later, I understood that God purposely allowed that thing. God allowed it so that I would be strong. I now understand everything clearly, including the vision I had while praying.

## PART TWENTY-TWO: THE VISION AND THE ONSET OF PAIN

Before the heavy beatings even started, I knelt down to pray in the evening. As I closed my eyes to pray, I saw a vision. I saw someone hiding from me, just like when young children play a game of hide-and-seek. It was deeply spiritual. Someone was actively hiding from me during my prayer. When I opened my eyes, I was so incredibly scared, but at the time, I just didn't understand what it all meant.

As soon as I finished that prayer, as I stood up and sat down, I didn't even reach two or three minutes before everything started. They called me, and the beating began. She beat me to her own satisfaction. After she finally stopped, I began to fold the trousers, pack the ashtray, and arrange her room.

I felt so much hatred coming from them. Especially since I surrendered my life to Jesus, people hated me to the extent that I could literally feel the hatred radiating against my body. After passing through all these things, I thought that it was the end. I did not know that it was just the beginning of my pain. I almost gave up while she was beating me.

Later that night, we packed our loads and relocated to the new place. The place was full of many people—hundreds of young girls, ladies, and old women. They had sold many of them there to work in prostitution.

Later in the night, someone came to me and asked me, "Are you here to work?"

I looked at them directly and said, "NO. I am not among you."

So I sat down, just watching them dancing, drinking, and most of them smoking. They told me to take off my clothes, but I refused. I absolutely refused to remove the long gown that I was wearing. I just sat down firmly. They began to play music, and they began to dance, smoke, laugh, and drink hot wine. They were laughing and looking completely happy, but I didn't mind them.

Later, in the deep hours of midnight, the very lady who had beaten me in the previous house before we packed approached me. She had gotten drunk. She took one big stick, walked right up to me, and commanded me to take off my clothes. Again, I refused to take them off.

Because of my refusal, she began to beat me all over again. It was the harmattan period, and there was a brutal, piercing cold—I mean a serious cold cutting through the air. Combined with the heavy beating all over my body, the pain was intense. She then commanded someone else to strip my gown off of me, and she threw me one small cloth like baby mother-and-care clothes.

## PART TWENTY-THREE: SHADOW IN THE UNCOMPLETED BUILDING

The house was an uncompleted building—a raw, hollow concrete skeleton that perfectly mirrored the empty, heartless souls of the people who ran it. This was the secret compound where they carried out their human trafficking operations. The people in charge were far from helpless; they were ruthless exploiters, using us for forced prostitution and profit.

The cruelty began almost immediately. One evening, a girl violently kicked me to the ground. She forced hot wine toward my face, commanding me to swallow it. In a final, desperate surge of defiance, I snatched it away, pouring it out into the dirt. My resistance only fueled her rage, giving her the twisted motivation to kick me even harder as I lay on the ground.

Then, she presented me with what she called "prostitution clothes." When I looked at the baby-like garments designed to strip me of my dignity, I flatly refused to take them. This made her furious. Suddenly, heavy strokes of a wooden stick began to rain down on my body. The pain was blinding. Four sticks literally broke over my body from the force of the beating. As she struck me, she sneered that if I died right there, they would simply throw my corpse away and no one would ever come looking for me.

With agony radiating through every nerve, I was finally forced to pick up the clothes. But the torment didn't stop. She commanded me to go outside and lie flat on the bare ground. I complied through the haze of pain, only for her to begin beating me relentlessly all over again. In that horrible place, there was absolutely no one to save you. If you looked up at the faces of the people passing by, hoping for a shred of mercy, my brother, their indifference only added to your despair. Everyone operating there was a demon disguised in human clothing. Every young lady trapped inside was completely helpless, with no one to cry out to except God. They maltreated human beings as if we were animals—denying us good food, denying us rest, and keeping us caged in that unfinished concrete prison.

By the second day, the nightmare escalated from physical torture to absolute violation. Orchestrated by the woman in charge, a very tall, giant man was brought into the room. They stripped away my remaining clothes by force, slapping and beating me as I fought back. The woman callously allowed the man to abuse me by force. In the aftermath of the assault, I lay on the ground, completely paralyzed by a deep, suffocating shame. I wept uncontrollably in the dark, entirely unsure of how a human spirit could survive such profound violation.

In the quiet hours following the assault, confusion and overwhelming guilt began to warp my mind. I started mistakenly thinking that I had somehow disappointed God. The weight of what happened crushed me; I felt as though I had committed a sin and destroyed the temple of God within myself. A heavy blanket of guilt settled over my heart. I felt so intensely ashamed, as if thousands of invisible, spiritual eyes were surrounding me, staring down at my broken state.

I felt a chaotic rush of horrible things all at once: demonic threats, paralyzing fear, total loneliness, acute distress, stress, frustration, oppression, and deep disgrace.

Then, my eyes fell upon the harlot clothes they had forced upon me. A sudden spark of righteous anger flared through my grief. With a heavy, weeping heart, I began to cry out directly to Jesus: "I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry for wearing this cloth. I am sorry for destroying Your temple!" Driven by that sudden surge of spiritual rebellion, I ripped the garments from my body in absolute anger and threw them away into the dirt.

I faced an endless onslaught of punishment for my defiance. I was beaten by many people in the compound, all trying to break my resolve. Among all of them, one particular lady was the most vicious, leading the cruelty against me under the Nigerian woman's command (the Madam). Whenever she was going out, she would command the girl to beat me and torture me for not attending to customers.

The torment reached a whole new level. I was beaten so much by her, deeply hated by her, constantly insulted by her, and brutally abused by her hands. She did many kinds of horrific things to me, inflicting a terror so profound that anytime I saw her approach, I would become utterly paralyzed with fear. I just wanted her away from me. Even now, as I sit down to write this testimony, the trauma still grips me; her mere presence in my memories evokes terror. She was the "senior" in that terrible place, wielding total authority over our suffering.

Then came the deepest sting of all: the betrayal. I was betrayed by my own bogger's sister—someone I trusted, someone who should have been a lifeline. I held onto a desperate hope. I genuinely thought that if the Nigerian woman in charge called my bogger sister, she would help me out. I believed with all my heart that she would come to my rescue and bring the money to bail me out, because they allowed a system of bail.

The brutal reality of their system was simple: if your family does not have that ransom money, you will be forced to work for them as a prostitute. But if you can pay the ransom, they will free you to go.

Because I was so sick, tired, and powerless at that time, passing through absolute hell, I didn't know what else to do. I had prayed countless times to God to save me from them, but it felt like no response was coming. So, I placed my final hope in that phone call. When I called my bogger sister, I fully expected to hear a good word—some kind words of consolation to help me.

Instead, the reverse was the case. The moment she answered, my bogger sister began to spoil my name and completely destroy me. She began to accuse me, spitting out all sorts of bad things about me directly to the Nigerian madam. Her words handed the madam a brand-new wave of fury and anger, fueling her desire to maltreat me even worse than before. She coldly told me that she did not have the money to bail me out. She told me that I should just stay there and work for them, and that when I finished paying them back through forced labor, they would finally free me.

But there was a dark lie beneath it all. The truth, etched permanently into my heart, was a simple note of fact: I didn't owe this Nigerian woman any money.

## PART TWENTY-FOUR: THE MATH OF OPPRESSION

Despite the truth, the madam fabricated a different reality. She claimed she had bought me with her own money and insisted that I was going to pay it back with double the amount. That was the predatory math of the house. For example, if they bought you for 2,000 Libyan dinars, they would demand that you double it back to them as 6,000 Libyan dinars.

Sitting in the aftermath of that phone call, replay after replay of everything my bogger sister had said to the Nigerian woman ran through my mind. I began to deeply think about it all. A quiet, agonizing question haunted me: Why would my bogger sister talk like this? Even if I had offended her in the past, a person is not supposed to say such damaging things in this kind of life-or-death situation. She knew I was already passing through so much hell. She was supposed to speak a word that would calm this volatile madam down, a word to ensure she would not maltreat me again. Instead, she chose to push me deeper into the fire.

I was completely heartbroken. With no lifelines left and a soul heavy with grief, I reached a grim determination in my mind. Seeing that I truly had nobody left on this earth to help me, I resolved that I would work for them. I would pay them the inflated money they claimed I owed, just to survive and buy back my life.

## PART TWENTY-FIVE: UNBROKEN DEVOTION AMIDST TRIAL

Even inside that prostitution house, I did not leave God. In that demonic place, I continued to face a mountain of hardships, even after I had outwardly agreed to do the work just to survive. The external submission did not stop the internal war. I still faced constant persecution, relentless temptation, ongoing challenges, deep frustration, and structural oppression.

Yet, the work could not force me to abandon my faith. I still believed. I still trusted Him, even though I was entirely helpless and powerless in the physical realm. Sometimes, heavy thoughts would cloud my mind, and I would ask myself in the dark, "Is this truly the will of God for me?" Whenever those doubts crept in, I would anchor my soul by remembering the powerful words of Pastor Kumuyi, who taught: *"Anything that is contradicted to holiness is not the will of God."* Holding onto that truth reminded me that the darkness surrounding me was a product of human evil, not divine intent.

Deep down, I wanted to help people. Anytime I saw others suffering or in pain, my heart would completely break for them because a lot of things are going on with our youth in Libya. If you see how they torture or beat human beings in that place, you will be heartbroken. They even commanded me to be beating people who refused to work, but I didn't have the mind to beat or hurt my fellow human beings. Sometimes I would leave my own case and be crying for another person because the way they tortured them was unbearable. But I simply didn’t have the strength or the means to help.

Sometimes, I would find the energy to read my Bible and pray; other times, the exhaustion was so consuming that I had no strength left to do it at all.

Then came the physical crisis of my first pregnancy. During this harrowing process, my body gave way, and the pregnancy aborted on its own. I was not feeling fine because of the pregnancy. I was on my own, with no good food and an environment that looked so dirty. Even with the pregnancy, many men were still sleeping with me because our madam must not hear that we don't work. If we get an unwanted pregnancy, she will leave us without caring, with the hope of aborting it for us. But because of stress and hard work, I had a miscarriage, which caused me so much pain that I needed to pass through alone without any medical treatment. But I thank God that it didn't cost my life.

But the darkness of that house grew heavier. Soon came my second pregnancy.

In that house, we were not seen as human beings, only as property to be managed. When the madam—the Nigerian woman who held our lives in her hands—discovered that another girl and I were pregnant at the exact same time, she decided our fates without a second thought. Our bodies were not our own. She brought out a medicine, cold and clinical, and commanded one girl there to administer it to both of us.

As the medicine was forced into our bodies, the physical pain was immediate, sharp, and overwhelming. But it was nothing compared to the agony that tore through my soul. In that blinding moment of pain, tears streamed down my face as I cried out to the heavens, repeating the words like a desperate prayer over and over into the empty air: "I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry." The weight of a profound guilt crushed my chest—a terrible sorrow for a life taken away before it could ever begin.

## PART TWENTY-SIX: THE CYCLE OF EXPLOITATION

During my stay, before her arrest, the Nigerian woman had eventually entrusted me to run her market stall. The goods in that market were bought with our money—the very funds we earned by selling our own bodies through forced prostitution. She would gather every coin we made to build her business, yet she placed me in charge of monitoring them for her, as if trying to paint a veneer of trust over an empire built on our pain. Even when we were forced into those unwanted abortions, the cruelty doubled: she would deduct the cost of the medical procedures directly from the meager money we were supposed to have.

The house was a revolving door of misery, a station where broken women were constantly passing through. Life there was stripped of basic human dignity. There was no good food—sometimes no food at all. There was no clean water—sometimes no water at all. We were forced to work under the threat of starvation, yet we had to pay for everything ourselves. Food, water, clothes, sandals, and even the very rent of the house we were trapped in were all deducted from our forced labor. We paid for our own imprisonment.

Time lost all meaning in that place. Some women had spent two years there; some had survived for three long years. Others were brand new, having arrived only six months prior. Far away, our families in Nigeria would call and disturb us, desperately begging for money to pay for our children’s school fees. They had no idea of the horror we were living. We had nothing to give them.

Out of pure desperation to send something back home to protect my children's future, I was reduced to begging the very men—the customers who abused us—for a few extra coins. I begged those men just so I could see something, anything, to send to my family to buy basic food and clothes. Driven by a mother’s necessity, I even tried to start a small hustle right within those walls. I began hawking roasted chicken, selling it to the people in the compound because we were not allowed to go out. They camped us like fish inside a fridge. I sold the chicken especially to the male customers, trying desperately to gather whatever pennies I could.

During that dark time, a glimmer of humanity appeared. God sent a young boy who helped provide for me during the process. I still pray for that boy, asking that God bestow His mercy upon him and bless him in all of his endeavors. He was a small light in a vast, dark place.

But the true trap of human trafficking is that the debt never ends. I paid everything they asked for. In fact, I paid well past the original amount of money they claimed I owed to buy my freedom. I paid it off. Yet, the moment the money was in their hands, they simply turned around and demanded more.

After completing the payments, I went directly to my madam’s husband. The police had finally arrested his wife for human trafficking, but he still controlled the house. I stood before him and told him clearly that I had paid everything. He looked at me, completely silent, saying nothing at all. I left him there, but the quiet was agonizing.

When I went back to face him again, the husband finally spoke, but he utterly refused to release me. He wanted me to keep working. Trying to entice me with an illusion of partnership, he promised that if I continued to work, he would start giving me my own share of the money at the end of every month. He claimed that because I had paid everything off completely and no longer owed them anything, any work I did moving forward would mean getting paid monthly.

But my spirit revolted. I looked him in the eye and told him flatly that I would never use this dirty, filthy money to feed my family back home. I told him plainly that I could never accept this exploitation as my job, because it was an abomination before God. "We had a contract. When you bought me, you said that once I paid you back, I would be free. I have paid you back every single dime, and I have even paid extra money on top of it. Our contract is finished. I cannot and will not do this kind of work to earn a living." I looked at him and firmly said, "NO."

Determined to break my resolve, I approached them yet again later on, demanding to know exactly when they were going to let me leave. But the answer remained a vicious, unchanging trap. He looked back at me coldly and said that if I ever wanted to walk away, I would have to pay even more extra money before he would release me.

The demand crushed the remaining air from my lungs. I began to cry, the tears burning hot against my cheeks. “Where will I see extra money?” I pleaded, my voice cracking under the weight of utter despair.

My family needed me. I desperately needed to leave this terrible place and find normal, honest work as a housemaid so I could finally send safe, clean money back home to sustain them. But he didn't even look my way. My tears, my desperation, my humanity—none of it meant anything to him. He looked away indifferently and repeated his cold ultimatum: it was an absolute must that I pay the extra money before he would ever release me.

In my pain, I tried to make him see reason. I told him straight, “If I had someone out there to help me with money, I wouldn't have stayed trapped here all this time.” But he gave no answer. He simply ignored my voice, treating me as if I were invisible.

Left with nothing but my sorrow, I began to cry uncontrollably. I cried, and I cried, and I cried, pouring out years of hidden agony, but he never once looked my way. Finding no mercy in him, I turned my heart upward. I began to talk to God as if I could see Him standing right in front of me. “Why?” I asked Him, my soul weeping. “I have paid my money. Why is it that they don’t want to release me? Why are they demanding extra money?”

After pouring out my heart to heaven, a few days later, the young boy that God had brought into my life appeared as my true benefactor. I told him everything about the husband's cold demands and the endless cycle of extra money. The boy looked at me, a calm presence in the middle of the storm, and told me gently not to worry. He promised me that he would bring the extra extortion money himself, just so they would finally release me.

Throughout that final, agonizing stretch, I had become deeply, terribly sick. My body was broken, and my only remaining prayer was to step outside those walls just to rest and take care of my failing health with the assurance that God would provide.

True to his word, a few months later, the young boy returned. He handed over the extra money to my captors, and just like that, the heavy iron gates finally swung open. I walked out of that horrible and demonic house forever, finding temporary shelter at a friend's house. That was how God finally rescued me from that horrible, cursed place.

But freedom from a cage does not instantly erase the damage done inside it. I sat down and looked back at my life: three years and six months in Libya, and absolutely nothing to show for myself. Ever since I committed myself to a journey of faith, a journey with Christ, everything had been a battle. The very moment I was supposed to be building a life and earning my own honest living was exactly when this trial began. Throughout that entire period, relentless temptations, persecutions, and crushing challenges never gave me a fair chance to work for myself or secure my own future. Even now, I don't have a single coin in my bank account, but I believe in God's word that quotes: *"I will restore the years locusts have eaten."*

My long journey began when my husband told me to travel to Libya to make a living. Like many others, I carried big dreams of building a better life, working hard, and perhaps migrating to America or Europe to secure my family's future. But upon my arrival, those dreams shattered into a waking nightmare.

I was cruelly bought and trapped in Oshofana—a horrific facility used for human trafficking and forced prostitution. The most agonizing part of this ordeal was the source of the betrayal. The woman who bought me came from my same home state of Ekiti State in Nigeria. Driven by pure greed, she joined hands with traffickers from Ghana to maltreat and torture me until I finally succumbed to their demands. Libya is filled with these dark prostitution houses, places where human greed and bondage trap vulnerable souls.

The worst reality is seeing fellow Nigerians and other African people join hands with Arab and Ghanaian traffickers to sell their own people into modern slavery for the sake of money. The devil has turned our own brothers and sisters against each other, chaining them in Libya and covering their eyes with money to the extent that a brother will sell his sister, or a daughter will sell her mother, and vice versa. It is so foolish how some people join hands with their enemies to attack their own blood because of greed and a lack of knowledge, just as the Bible says: *"My people are perishing because of lack of wisdom."*

Throughout that suicidal environment, I witnessed the endless suffering of countless women trapped alongside me. Even now, so many people remain there waiting for God to send helpers, even though many are praying for death because of the sheer suffering. These Libyan prisons are full of African people, left with no food and no water.

In Libya, there is absolutely no freedom of movement and no freedom of religion. They strictly forbid you from letting the name of Jesus leave your mouth—if they hear it, they will either kill you or imprison you. Yet, even if they deport you, you must still thank your Creator. Tragically, even underage girls and boys are trapped in these terrible conditions; some underage girls are living with men for food and shelter because they don't have the strength to work.

When I finally escaped that living nightmare, I left many behind, praying fiercely that God would make a way for their liberation too.

Even after regaining my physical freedom, the invisible chains of trauma clung to me. I took refuge at a friend's house, but my mind became a daily battlefield where anxiety followed me like an unbreakable shadow. Upon my release, I knew I needed deep spiritual deliverance. I turned to intense prayer and fasting to break free from these heavy spiritual chains. God answered my cries, wrapping me in the comfort of Psalm 147:3: *"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds."*

The physical toll was just as heavy as the emotional one. My stomach was in constant agony due to a severe gonorrhea infection. Instead of going to a hospital—because the financial strain was too much—I used my phone to research medicine online. Taking the very little money I had left, I went straight to a local pharmacy to buy what I could.

I knew I had to remain strong. Pushing through the weakness, I found a job so I could send money home. Every time my family called, I forced myself to calm them down, reassuring them that everything was fine and everything would be okay. I hid the depths of my suffering to protect them from panic, but the struggle intensified at my workplace.

Even though my work was good, neat, and thorough, my boss constantly found reasons to complain. This relentless negativity led to immense frustration until I had absolutely no strength left to continue. My body was entirely depleted due to the lack of proper medical treatment, forcing me to leave the job.

Defeated, I returned to my friend’s house. She became my lifesaver, feeding me when I had nothing. Whenever I could manage it, yet even with zero in my account, God spoke to my heart through Joel 2:25: *"I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten."*

When it was finally time for me to start working for myself, I made the most important decision of my life: I surrendered completely to Jesus. My worldly plans shifted as I leaned entirely on Matthew 6:33: *"Seek first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you."*

Today, I still do not possess material wealth or a full bank account. In the eyes of the world, I have nothing, but I believe completely in the God of Provision. I carry the promise of Philippians 4:19 and stand firmly on Psalm 37:25, knowing the righteous are never truly forsaken. With Jesus, I have everything.

I write this testimony now as a solemn warning and a beacon of hope for the youth. Start your journey with Jesus. Even if you make wrong turns, if He is genuinely in your heart, He will reach down and rescue you from the deepest pit. Tell your friends, your family, and your loved ones: do not listen to people who entice you to travel blindly across borders. Wisdom is your armor. Beware of the wolves in human clothes who will betray their own countrymen for greed. Hold onto your faith, guard your steps, and know that true restoration is always possible.

## PART TWENTY-SEVEN: THE MIRAGE OF GREEN PASTURE

In Libya, many underage youth find themselves trapped in marriages of survival. They remain in men's homes not out of love, but out of necessity, lacking the strength or opportunity to work and feed themselves. For many immigrants, Libya has ceased to be a country; it has become a prison for African people. While a few fortunate souls manage to find safety by pure luck, the reality for the majority is vastly different.

To my sisters and brothers staying behind in Nigeria: God can send helpers to locate and bless you right where you are. Do not let the desperate desire for "green pastures" blind you. Countless people have died on the perilous roads leading to Libya. Many young girls and men have tragically lost their lives, while others have been driven to madness by the sheer trauma of the journey. Many are captured and kept as slaves in masters' houses, suffering deeply at the hands of those who exploit them.

Perhaps the most painful realization is that right now, many more are out in the harsh desert, making their way toward Libya. They are moving forward blindly, completely unaware of the horrors and agony that await them if they arrive.

If you are a parent reading this, speak to your children. Spread this urgent warning to them. Teach them to walk in the way of the Lord. Today, many broken parents are left waiting in Nigeria, desperately hoping for their children to call them; they do not know that their beloved children have already died on the dangerous road to Libya. Some parents go five or six years without hearing a single word, completely unaware that their children have been thrown into Libyan prisons, taken as slaves, trapped in brothels, or kidnapped for ransom.

If you read this testimony and still insist on letting your children travel to Libya or leave the country without a visa, it means you are willingly sending them to an early grave. It means a love of money is pushing you to place your own children into demonic bondage.

Instead, look to Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer. He is so caring, so loving, and a truly compassionate friend. He has revealed many things to me and has been actively helping me throughout my own journey. And there are still many things to share: God has revealed the punishment for fornication in hellfire to me, and He also showed me how the rapture will be just like a normal day—exactly like the days of Noah. My fellow brothers and sisters, there is a lot to share.

We must wake up to the spiritual battle around us. The devil is working day and night to capture souls and drag them to Libya and especially to hellfire. In the face of this, only Jesus can help and save you. Your religion cannot save you, and your pastor cannot save you; Jesus alone is the One who can save.

Surrender your life to Jesus. Let Him lead you, let Him be your guardian, and let Him be your mentor. Jesus is ready to accept you no matter how filthy you have become. He wants you to come exactly as you are, and He will wash you clean.

Do not let us seek after worldly things that will vanish one day. Our soul is far more important to Jesus. As the Bible asks in Mark 8:36, what is the essence of gaining the whole world for yourself only to lose your own soul? In Matthew, Jesus instructs us to seek first the kingdom of God and its righteousness, and all these physical things—a house, a car, money—shall be added unto you.

Matthew 6:19 tells us not to lay up for ourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. Instead, lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust corrupts and where thieves do not break through or steal. The rapture will soon take place, and Jesus wants all His children to be ready in order to meet Him in the sky.

Although I am still alone now, carrying the heavy weight of responsibility for my family, I hold onto the assurance that God will provide and bless me. I am still set apart, and I am still isolated. I write these words with a saddened heart, but I trust and believe in God's promises. He has said, *"I will restore to you the years the locust has eaten, and I will bless you according to My riches in glory."* He has promised never to leave me nor abandon me.

As Deuteronomy 31:6 says: *"Be strong and of good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, He it is that doth go with thee; He will not fail thee, nor forsake thee."* That is God's personal promise to me.

I pray that the Lord will use this testimony to open some eyes and draw them closer to Himself. In Jesus' name, Amen.

As for the father of my child, he does not look for me. He does not care whether I live or die. He has already gotten married and had a child before I was released from captivity—though they are not legally married. That no longer concerns me, and I do not even care. Despite everything, I still stand firm on my feet, determined not to commit fornication again if I leave this place. I thank God for making me fulfill my promise, although it remains incredibly challenging.

My fellow brothers and sisters, run for your dear lives! Do not enter the trap that the devil has set in the country of Libya. To crown it all, run to Jesus, the Author and the Finisher of our faith and our soul.

Remember always that the salvation of your soul is much more important than any other thing you may be doing in this life. And through it all, never forget: **JESUS TRULY LOVES YOU.**

## PART TWENTY-EIGHT: THE MORAL OF THE LESSON

The ultimate measure of a life is the condition of the soul, anchored securely in divine love. Earthly trials, human rejection, and geographical traps lose their power when we realize that our true value lies in eternity. No worldly pursuit is worth risking your soul, and no hardship is too great to overcome when you remember that you are deeply, unconditionally loved by God.

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