“My Mother Was a CAC Prophetess, but After My Sister Died From a Spiritual Attack, I Walked Away From the Church”

Loye’s journey began in Kaduna, in a home where faith was the fabric of daily life. But even that foundation could not shield him from tragedy. When his sister died, his life was upended, forcing him to leave Kaduna.

In his As Told To with Zikoko, Loye shares his story: his struggle with faith, the grief that almost broke him, the hunger and near-misses that tested him, and the quiet ways he’s rebuilding his belief.

This is Loye’s story as told to Marv.

The day my sister died was the day my faith began to crumble. We lived in Kaduna. My mother was a prophetess at the Christ Apostolic Church. She told people their futures, and her words always came to pass. Children feared her. Cheating husbands feared her. Every sinner dreaded Sundays because she could reveal their secrets. Yet, when my sister came under spiritual attack, she could not save her.

Sundays began at 3 a.m. The kitchen filled with the smell of beans and pepper as my mother cooked moi-moi, which we packed and sold in church. We wore our best clothes, even if mine were dusted combat trousers pulled from under the bed. My mother led the way, and her presence kept the bullies in the neighbourhood at bay.

At church, we stood beside her as she sold her moi-moi. I was born into the CAC, my life measured in prayers and fasting. Twice a week, we fasted for twelve hours, our young bodies aching with hunger. Every season meant climbing mountains to pray, shivering in the cold as my mother insisted: “The more uncomfortable you are in God’s presence, the more He knows you are serious about your prayer.” I tried to understand, but it never really clicked.

Years later, my sister returned from Ilorin in 2017, and strange things began to happen. It started with an itching on her back. Soon, the itch turned into sores and open wounds. Her back became covered in bruises she couldn’t explain. Our fasting and prayers didn’t help. Eventually, she died.

Her death broke me. She had always carried her faith like armour, but watching her fade made me question everything. How could tragedy strike a family that prayed day and night, a family led by a prophetess mother?

Days later, I found myself gasping for breath on the streets of Kaduna. Something told me I needed to leave if I wanted to survive. That December, I left and never returned to Kaduna or my mother’s church.

In 2020, I gained admission into YabaTech. By then, I had just started making music. It wasn’t serious, but I hoped it would “blow.” Studios were easy to find in Yaba, so I recorded songs and performed at school events.

One night while performing, I heard a voice urging me to step outside. I obeyed. Minutes later, gunshots rang out at the same spot where I had been standing. Someone died there. That moment shook me.

But life in YabaTech was rough. I had no home for five months, sleeping on benches, in classrooms, or sneaking into friends’ hostels. I owned just four outfits, swapping with friends to survive appearances. Music became my only lifeline.

Eventually, word spread on campus about my singing, and I got small gigs. One night, I was invited to perform at an orgy party in Lekki. It was strange and humiliating — the crowd ignored me until the end. Still, a few girls approached to say my voice touched them. That little encouragement kept me going.

That same night, a man noticed me. He later asked me to sing for his grieving girlfriend. I gave him my number, and not long after, he transferred money to me and invited me again. When I finally sang for his girlfriend, she took a call mid-performance — it was M.I. Abaga on the line. He heard my voice and asked for my number.

Two months passed before I heard from him again. By then, I thought he’d forgotten. But when we finally met, he asked where I stayed. I admitted I had no place. To my shock, he booked a hotel room for me and my friend, urging us to find an apartment. That was how I moved into my very first home — a two-bedroom flat that felt like heaven.

Soon, I signed with Incredible Music, the label M.I. created after discovering me. For two years, I trained under his guidance, recording hundreds of songs and even completing an EP with Chopstixx.

One day, without thinking, I said, “Alhamdulillah” — God is great. I realised that despite my doubts, everything that happened was divinely orchestrated. I haven’t returned to church, but through it all, I found my way back to God.