If righteousness shaped my outward life, curiosity shaped my inner world. On the surface, I was the obedient son, the church boy, the one who kept his head down. But in the quiet corners of my mind, questions bubbled and refused to stay buried.
I remember being about twelve years old when I first asked myself a question that felt dangerous: If God is love, why does He want to burn people forever?
It was a thought I could not share with anyone. In my family, asking such a question was like inviting demons into the house. My parents would have prayed fire down on me, and my Sunday school teacher would have scolded me for doubting the Word. So I swallowed my question, but it remained lodged inside me like a stone.
As I grew older, more stones gathered in my chest. Why did the pastors shout so much about giving when most of their members were poor? Why did we call them "men of God" when they lived better than the very people they preached to? Why did they promise blessings in exchange for offerings, when even my own father who gave faithfully remained broke?
Everywhere I turned, there were contradictions.
On one side, I saw classmates who didn't care much for church but were bold, daring, and full of life. They seemed happier, more confident, even more successful in school activities. On the other side, there was me quiet, afraid of sin, afraid of mistakes, afraid of the invisible hell that hung over my head like a shadow.
The worst part was how guilt became my constant companion. Every little "sin" felt like a one-way ticket to eternal flames. If I had a lustful thought, I panicked. If I skipped a prayer, I trembled. If I lied to escape punishment at school, I would kneel at night crying, "Father, forgive me, I don't want to go to hell."
I was too young to know it then, but what I was experiencing was psychological warfare fear dressed as faith. Religion had captured my imagination, caged it, and used it against me.
Yet, my curiosity refused to die. I started paying attention during church services, not just to what was said but also to what was not said. I noticed how the Bible verses pastors quoted often skipped certain parts, how they jumped from one scripture to another in a way that always ended in: Give, obey, fear God, respect the man of God.
Something in me whispered: There is more to this story than they are telling us.
The whisper grew louder when I saw how diverse life was. In my neighborhood in North Central Nigeria, there were Muslims, traditional worshippers, and even a few people who proudly declared they had no religion. And yet, they were living. They weren't all struck by thunder. Some even prospered better than the "born-again" families.
This diversity pinched my curiosity. Could it be that God didn't belong to only one religion? Could it be that righteousness as we were taught was not the full picture?
But again, I kept quiet. Because fear was stronger than curiosity at that time. Fear of hell. Fear of being labeled rebellious. Fear of disappointing my parents.
I lived with a silent war inside me: the urge to question versus the duty to obey.
By my teenage years, the war intensified. I began to admire bravery in others. Friends who dared to hustle, who dared to speak their minds, who dared to dream beyond what was given to them. They didn't seem weighed down by the fear that crippled me. They laughed louder, lived freer, and sometimes even dared to challenge teachers or elders when they felt unfairly treated.
Meanwhile, I remained "the good boy." Always righteous, never brave.
But deep inside, I envied them.
I envied the boy who dared to skip church and play football without trembling at the thought of hell. I envied the girl who spoke her mind boldly in class and still walked home without fearing lightning would strike her. I envied the classmates who broke small rules, tested limits, and seemed to come out stronger, while I followed every rule and remained invisible.
Life, I was beginning to see, didn't punish the brave the way religion said it would. In fact, life seemed to reward them.
Still, I didn't have the courage to break free. I carried my questions silently, like contraband hidden under clothes. At night, when the world was quiet, I whispered them to myself, sometimes even to God.
"Why, Lord? Why must I be so afraid of You? Why does righteousness feel like a prison?"
Of course, no thunder answered. No angel appeared to explain. Only silence. But in that silence, a seed was planted a seed of awakening that would later grow into rebellion, discovery, and eventually, a new kind of faith.
For now, though, I remained trapped between curiosity and fear. A boy caught between the righteousness of his upbringing and the bravery his soul craved.
The silent war of my mind continued, and I didn't yet know that this battle would shape the man I would become.