In December 2009, I was walking through the bustling market in Mushin, Lagos, hoping to buy a material. Along the way, a woman dressed in white—one of those popularly known as Iya Osun—stopped me and asked for money. Without thinking much of it, I handed her ₦500 from my purse.
She looked straight at me and said, “Èsé, a tó le l’áyò”—“You will deliver safely.”
That statement struck me. The moment I got home, I rushed to take a pregnancy test. It came out positive. I was two weeks pregnant.
As the pregnancy progressed, I had a strange dream where ripe bananas (ogede agbagba) were tied around my waist. It didn’t make sense at the time, but I never forgot it.
A week before my delivery, I had another vivid dream. I found myself in an all-white room, surrounded by doctors also dressed in white. They took the delivery of the baby, and I felt a deep assurance that all was well.
Years later, in 2015, after I fully surrendered my life to Jesus Christ, the meaning of those encounters began to unfold. I kept praying for my daughter and her siblings because I finally understood the spiritual depth of what had happened. That ordinary ₦500 was not ordinary—there had been an exchange in the realm of the spirit.
I’ve always been someone who gives alms generously, but that experience taught me to be careful. Not every gift is harmless, and not every request should be answered casually. Many people, especially young ladies, unknowingly walk into covenants their parents are unaware of, and these things later manifest as delays, setbacks, or battles in life.
Before anyone dismisses such stories, remember this: “We wrestle not against flesh and blood.”
The enemy always looks for subtle ways to gain access.
Since then, I’ve become more discerning about where and to whom I give money—focusing on the truly needy, widows, and the house of God.
If God ever opens your eyes to the unseen, you’ll realize that life must be approached with caution and spiritual sensitivity.
Peace.
Written by Temmy Omoileri