27/09/2025
My Son Was Kidnapped for Rituals – But What He Did Shocked the Kidnappers
Lesson: Teach your children wisdom and prayer early.
I remember the day vividly. September 5th, 2022. The rain had just started falling softly over our small town in Ogun State, Nigeria. It was one of those gentle showers that smell like earth and peace. But what happened that day turned my heart to ashes.
My 10-year-old son, Daniel, had gone to school as usual that morning. His uniform was clean, his lunchbox packed, and his smile — radiant. He kissed me on the cheek and said, “Mummy, don’t forget to pray for me today.” I remember those words clearly now, like they were etched in stone.
That was the last time I saw him before everything changed.
By 2:00 p.m., I was already waiting at the junction near his school. Normally, the school bus would drop him off by 2:15 p.m. sharp. But 2:30 came. Then 2:45. Then 3:00.
No sign of Daniel.
I called the school driver — no answer.
I called the school — they said Daniel left with the bus like every other day.
Panic began to crawl into my chest like a snake. Cold sweat soaked my clothes. I ran straight to the school, screaming, begging, and losing my mind.
Everyone was in chaos when they realized Daniel was truly missing. The teachers, the driver, even other parents joined the search.
But deep in my heart, something told me — this was more than just a child wandering off.
Daniel had been kidnapped.
The hours passed like years. My husband and I went to the police station, filed a report, and returned home that night with broken hearts.
I couldn’t sleep. I kept walking up and down the sitting room, holding Daniel’s picture, whispering prayers through cracked lips. “God, please… please… I’m not ready to bury my son.”
I remembered all the times I made Daniel join me in night prayers. All the times we read Psalm 91 together. All the mornings we anointed his head before school. I suddenly wished I had done more. Prayed more. Covered him more.
But unknown to me, those prayers — those seeds — were about to speak.
Two days later, at exactly 3:43 a.m., my phone rang.
It was a strange number.
A man’s voice said coldly, “Your son is alive… but you’ll never see him again unless you send ₦5 million in three days.”
My scream could’ve woken the entire neighborhood.
The police tried to trace the call. They failed.
We didn’t have ₦5 million. We barely had ₦50,000 in savings. But somehow, all I kept thinking was: Daniel is still alive. God, please keep him alive until we find him.
What we didn’t know was that Daniel had been taken far into a remote village in Osun State. The kidnappers weren’t just ordinary criminals — they were ritualists.
They had picked him at the bus stop after school, offering him a lift, pretending they were his uncle’s friends. Daniel, sharp as he was, had hesitated. But they grabbed him anyway.
When they got to their shrine, they stripped him, locked him in a dark room with a red bulb and blood-stained floor.
He was supposed to be a sacrifice.
But something unexpected happened.
The chief priest entered the room the next night with a red calabash in his hand. He began chanting incantations, trying to “open Daniel’s spirit.”
But Daniel… this 10-year-old boy… looked him straight in the eye and said:
“I am covered with the blood of Jesus. No weapon formed against me shall prosper. You can’t touch me.”
The chief priest froze.
According to one of the younger boys who later confessed, the atmosphere of the room changed instantly. The candles started flickering. The air grew cold.
Daniel knelt down in the middle of the shrine and started singing softly:
“There is power in the name of Jesus… to break every chain… to break every chain…”
At first, they thought he was just singing. But then he began to pray. Firey prayer. Not baby prayer.
“Lord, confuse their tongues like you did at the Tower of Babel. Let their evil altar scatter. I am your child, and I will not die here!”
The chief priest screamed, “Shut up, shut up! Make am no talk again! This boy go bring wahala!”
They rushed out of the room.
By morning, strange things began to happen.
One of the ritualists collapsed and died.
Another one started confessing and foaming at the mouth.
The chief priest developed sudden blindness in one eye.
They tried to perform another ritual to “reverse the curse,” but the more they tried, the worse things got.
Finally, the oldest among them shouted, “This boy is not ordinary. Return him before we all die!”
On the fourth day, they tied Daniel’s eyes and drove him back to a major road in Ibadan. They dumped him by the roadside with a bag of food and a note on his chest:
“This one is untouchable. We’re sorry.”
A good Samaritan found him weeping and praying by the roadside. The police were contacted, and hours later, Daniel was returned to us.
When I saw my son, thin, barefoot, and covered in dust — I collapsed in tears. I held him like my life depended on it. My husband cried. The neighbors cried. Even the police officer who brought him cried.
Days later, after proper investigations and statements, the police arrested two suspects who led them to the hideout. The shrine had been abandoned. No sign of the others.
Daniel told us everything.
And the part that broke me the most?
He said, “Mummy, I remembered what you taught me. You said whenever I’m scared, I should call on Jesus. I didn’t stop calling. Even when they slapped me. Even when they said they would cut my head.”
I hugged him tighter.
That day, I realized something profound:
We can’t protect our children 24/7. We can’t go to school with them, follow them on every road, or be in every bus they enter.
But we can plant wisdom in them.
We can teach them prayer.
We can introduce them to God early.
Daniel survived not because of the police, or our efforts — but because of the spiritual weapon we had given him long before that evil day.
💡 Moral of the Story:
Teach your children wisdom. Teach them prayer. Not when they're grown — but now. Because when you're not there, GOD WILL BE.🙏
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