They say a child's birth is a whisper of his destiny. If that's true, then my first cry should have shaken the heavens.

I was born on a night when the sky refused to rest. The clouds rumbled like a troubled elder, and the wind howled through the village like an angry spirit. It was the kind of night when even the old women tightened their wrappers and muttered prayers under their breath.

"Wannan rana ba dai-dai bane," they said. "This night is not ordinary."

And they were right.

My mother, Hajiya Asabe, had carried me for eleven months—not nine. Eleven full moons had come and gone, and still, I refused to enter this world. The midwives whispered that a child who overstayed in the womb was either a blessing or a burden—a prophet or a curse. Some feared I would never be born at all.

"Ba za ta haihu ba," one of them had whispered. "She will not give birth."

But on that stormy night, after days of pain that stole my mother's voice, I finally arrived. And I did not come alone.

They say the moment I let out my first cry, the storm outside stopped—like a servant obeying a master's call. The wind grew silent. The rain softened to a whisper. Even the crickets outside the hut stopped singing.

"Wannan yaro… ai ba na duniya bane," the midwife murmured. "This child… he is not of this world."

They named me Nasir, meaning The Helper, The Victorious One. My father, Mallam Sulaiman, was a quiet man, but that night, he lifted me high and declared, "Allah ya aiko shi!"—"God has sent him!"

Whether he was right or wrong, I did not know. But I have spent my whole life trying to understand why.

---

From the moment I could talk, I was different.

As a child, I saw things others could not. Shadows that whispered my name in the wind. Light that flickered even when there was no lamp. People in white robes standing at the edge of my dreams, their faces hidden but their voices clear.

"Nasir," they would call, their voices like the rustling of leaves. "Are you ready?"

Ready for what?

I would wake up in a cold sweat, my small hands gripping my mat. At first, I thought it was just dreams. But then… things began to happen.

Once, when I was five, I wandered too close to the village well. It was deep, dark, and had swallowed many careless souls before me. One slip of a child's foot and—Allah ya kiyaye—only God could save him.

That day, I remember leaning forward, staring at my reflection in the water. But what I saw was not my face. It was a hand, rising from the depths, reaching for me.

I opened my mouth to scream, but before a sound escaped, someone grabbed my shirt and pulled me back.

It was my mother.

But her face… she looked shaken. Like she had seen something worse than a child's foolishness.

"Nasir," she whispered, gripping my shoulders. "What did you see?"

I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say, "A hand, Mama! There was a hand in the water!" But I couldn't. Because somehow, I knew that if I spoke those words out loud, something… someone… would hear me.

That night, as she tucked me into my mat, I heard her whispering prayers over me. Soft, urgent prayers, like a woman trying to erase something unseen.

I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. But deep inside, I knew—whatever had reached for me in that well had not left.

And it was only the beginning.

---

Growing up in Northern Nigeria, faith was not a thing you questioned. It was a thing you carried, like a name, like a shadow. You prayed when you woke up. You prayed before you slept. You did not ask why.

But I had questions. Too many questions.

If God was so powerful, why did my uncle, a good man, die so young? If prayer could move mountains, why did we still struggle? If faith was the answer, why did so many live in fear?

"Nasir, ka tambaya da yawa," my father once told me, shaking his head. "You ask too many questions."

But how could I not? When every night, unseen things whispered in my dreams? When every day, I felt an invisible war raging around me—pulling, pushing, waiting for me to choose a side?

I did not know it then, but the Spirit of God had been calling me long before I could understand His voice.

And soon, I would have no choice but to listen.