My Mother Is a CAC Prophetess. But After My Sister Died From a Spiritual Attack

[Shekinah Brama]

My Mother Is a CAC Prophetess. But After My Sister Died From a Spiritual Attack, I Left the Church

Loye’s story begins in Kaduna, in a home where faith was stitched into daily life. But even that kind of grounding could not shield him from the blows life would deal. After his sister died, his world cracked open, forcing him to leave Kaduna and wrestle with everything he thought he knew about God.

In this As Told To with Zikoko, Loye opens up about grief, religion, brushes with fate, hunger, music, and the slow rebuilding of faith.

“The day my sister died was the day I began to lose my faith.”
We lived in Kaduna. My mother was a prophetess at the Christ Apostolic Church. She told people their futures, and everything she prophesied came to pass. Children feared her. Cheating husbands feared her. Everyone who had sinned during the week feared her because on Sunday, she could reveal their deepest secrets. Yet when my sister suffered a spiritual attack, my mother could not stop it.

On Sundays, we always woke at 3 a.m. The air was heavy with beans and pepper as steam filled the kitchen while my mother made moi-moi, which we helped her pack to sell in church. We wore our best clothes—my combat trousers brushed off after a week under the bed. Sundays were good, not just because of church, but because walking with my mother meant safety. The boys who usually tormented me never dared when she was with us.

At church, we stood beside her as she sold her moi-moi. I was born into CAC. My entire life was measured in prayers. My mother had us fast twelve hours twice a week, our bodies aching with hunger, lips muttering scriptures. Daily Bible readings were non-negotiable. Every season meant climbing mountains to pray harder, louder, closer to heaven.

One night on the mountain, shivering in the cold, I wrapped my arms around myself. My mother said, “The more uncomfortable you are in the presence of God, the more serious He knows you are about your prayer.” My teeth chattered as I tried to make sense of it. It never really clicked. It still doesn’t.

The Attack
When my sister grew older, she moved to Ilorin to live with a relative. But when she returned to Kaduna in 2017, strange things began to happen. My mother called it a “spiritual attack.”

One morning, my sister woke with an itch on her back. It seemed harmless, but the itch refused to go. She scratched until sores appeared. Soon, her back was covered with bruises and wounds that no one could explain. She hadn’t fought anyone. She hadn’t fallen. It was as though her body was turning against itself.

The bruises worsened. Fasting didn’t save her. Eventually, my sister died.

It broke something in me. She had always worn her faith like armour, but now that armour failed. I kept asking myself: How could tragedy strike a family that prayed morning and night, a family with a mother who prophesied and lived devotion like a second skin?

A few days later, walking on the street, I suddenly couldn’t breathe. My chest tightened. In that moment, I knew I needed to leave Kaduna. That December, I left—and never returned to Kaduna or my mother’s church.

Survival in Yaba
By 2020, I was in YabaTech, chasing music. At first, it was just vibes—I recorded a few songs and performed them at events like Miss YabaTech and Departmental Night. But survival was hard. I was broke, homeless, and hungry.

For five months, I had no place to sleep. Benches, empty classrooms, hostel corners—those were my bedrooms. Sometimes, I sneaked into a female friend’s hostel just to get a roof over my head for the night. My wardrobe was just four outfits, which I swapped with friends to pretend I had more.

Music kept me breathing. Even when shows didn’t pay, it gave me something to hold on to.

A Whisper, a Gunshot, and Fate
Once, while performing, I suddenly felt a nudge—a voice whispering, “Step outside.” I obeyed, though my friends laughed it off. Minutes later, a gunshot shattered the venue. Someone died in the exact spot I had been standing.

It shook me. It also convinced me that maybe God wasn’t fully gone from my life.

The Orgy Party and First Break
Then came the strangest opportunity: a group of guys invited me to perform at an orgy party in a hotel in Lekki. Wild as it sounded, I saw it as a door. I scraped together money from classmates’ assignments just to get there.

Hours passed before they finally let me sing. By then, only twenty drained people remained in the room. I still sang with everything I had, but silence followed. No claps, no cash. Just silence.

Outside, discouraged, I almost gave up. Then a small group of girls approached, clapping softly, saying they’d heard me. That little spark kept me alive.

Later, a man invited me to sing for his grieving girlfriend. That night, his manager asked for my account details. The first transfer failed, but when I corrected him, he sent the money again—and told me to come the next day.

When I sang for his girlfriend, she picked up a call mid-performance. On the other end was M.I. Abaga. He asked, “Who’s that singing?” and requested my number. For the first time, my voice travelled farther than I imagined.

Meeting M.I.
Two months passed. I thought M.I. had forgotten me. Then word came: “M.I.’s been trying to reach you.”

I rushed to meet him, nearly missing him at the door. He stopped, asked, “You’re Loye, right?” and invited me in.

We talked. He asked who I wanted to work with. I listed Don Jazzy, Olamide, others. He called them immediately, but none were ready. Don Jazzy offered me two years in his incubator program. It sounded good, but I was too restless, too hungry for change now.

M.I. asked where I stayed. I confessed I was homeless, squatting here and there. Unexpectedly, he booked me and my friend into a hotel for two weeks, telling us to find an apartment. That was how I finally got my first place—a two-bedroom flat.

Becoming an Artist
Soon, I signed with Incredible Music, M.I.’s label. For two years, I underwent artist development, recording hundreds of songs, refining my craft, and even creating an unreleased EP with producer Chopstixx.

And slowly, without realising it, faith found its way back into my life. One day, I caught myself saying, “Alhamdulillah”—God is great.

I haven’t returned to church yet, but I’ve returned to God.

[Author]

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