Psalm 91 Was a warning

I opened my wife’s Bible to read Psalm 91 for protection.

Instead, I found my death sentence.

The Bible slipped from my hands and hit the tiled floor with a dull thud. My knees buckled. I didn’t even remember running only that seconds later I was in the guest room, heart slamming against my ribs, locking the door with fingers that refused to cooperate.

Now she was outside.

Knocking gently.

“Honey? Baby? Open the door. I made your favorite zobo.”

Her voice was soft. Loving. The same voice that used to pray for me every morning before work.

But I knew if I opened that door, I would not see tomorrow.

My name is Collins.

I married Deaconess Nkechi three years ago.

In church, people admired her like a trophy of righteousness. Head Usher. Prayer warrior. The kind of woman pastors used as an example.

“Brother Collins,” my pastor said on our wedding day, gripping my hand, “you didn’t marry a woman you married a prayer altar.”

And truly, my life exploded into success.

Contracts came without stress. Deals closed themselves. Money flowed like water. I built two houses in Abuja. Bought a Prado. People said, ‘Grace is following that man.’

But grace is quiet.

What followed me was loud.

Every night 12:00 a.m. on the dot Nkechi rose from bed.

Not to drink water. Not to use the bathroom.

She went to the parlor.

She knelt.

And she prayed until 3:00 a.m.

Violently.

She shouted in tongues like she was wrestling the air. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she laughed. Always, she finished by wiping her face with a white handkerchief she never washed.

I thought I married an intercessor.

I married something else.

Last night, sleep refused to come. A headache drilled behind my eyes like a warning.

At 1:30 a.m., I heard her praying but this time, no shouting.

She was whispering.

I crept closer.

That was when I heard the names.

“Thank you, Lord, for the soul of Brother John…

Thank you for Pastor Mike…

Thank you for Mr. Benson…”

My stomach turned to ice.

They were all dead.

John car accident.

Mike collapsed on the altar.

Benson food poisoning.

Men from her past.

Then her voice changed.

“Father… accept the soul of Collins today.”

I froze.

“Let his blood seal the contract. Let his departure bring greater wealth to the coven.”

I ran back to bed and pretended to sleep.

She stood over me for ten minutes.

Ten.

I felt her eyes on my face, searching for life, for breath, for readiness.

Then she went to the kitchen.

This morning, she was normal.

Too normal.

She sang worship songs while sweeping. Kissed my cheek. Said she was going to the market.

The moment the gate closed, I went to her prayer corner.

Her Bible was there.

Old. Torn. Heavy.

It wasn’t a Bible.

It was a container.

Inside:

A red notebook.

A bottle of oil that smelled like decay.

The list inside the notebook was neat. Organized. Calculated.

John Delivered Reward: Promotion

Mike Delivered Reward: Land

Benson Delivered Reward: Chieftaincy

COLLINS  DUE TODAY  6:00 PM

Method: The Zobo of Sleep

That was when I ran.

Now the clock says 5:55 PM.

She’s outside the door.

The knocking has stopped.

I hear keys.

“Why have you locked the door?” she asks.

Her voice is no longer hers.

It is deeper. Thicker. Wrong.

Through the crack, I see her eye.

Red.

In her hand a glass of dark zobo.

In the other a calabash carved with symbols I don’t recognize but somehow understand.

I have seconds.

Then my phone vibrates.

I had called my pastor earlier. He didn’t answer.

But my mother did.

She is praying on the line.

Loudly.

In Igbo.

The kind of prayer that doesn’t negotiate.

The door bursts open And Nkechi SCREAMS.

Not in anger.

In pain.

She drops the glass. It shatters.

The calabash cracks.

She staggers back like something has torn out of her chest.

By the time neighbors rush in, she is on the floor, convulsing, foaming, screaming names I don’t recognize.

Police come.

They find the notebook.

The bottle.

More names.

More dates.

More “rewards.”

That night, they took her away.

She never looked at me again.

I moved out.

Sold the houses.

Returned every kobo I could trace.

Some blessings are not blessings.

Some prayers are transactions.

And some Bibles are not meant to be opened

Because the Psalm you’re looking for might be the warning that saves your life.

Be careful.

Not everyone who shouts “Hallelujah” is praying to God.