What Christians mean when we say we are fighting a battle that has been won — A short story on how a sick boy won a national championship
One sunny day in the first quarter of 2013, I visited a friend around Independence Hall, University of Ibadan. Returning from that visit, I had to pass through the great Nnamdi Azikiwe Hall. As I walked through the hall, I remembered a friend in Zik Hall, as we fondly call the Baluba Republic, so I decided to visit him too. I walked up to his room, knocked, and someone opened. I asked to see Ola, who had been my friend for about five years. When he heard my voice, he came out of his corner to welcome me.
For those who don’t know the setting, a room in Zik Hall is often demarcated into four “corners”. The demarcations are often done with curtains or plywood, just to give privacy to every member of the four-man room.
I sat on his bed, we talked about any and everything, from our Christian student association (CACSA) to a play we wrote, to my newly-found love as a campus journalist. Just anything. When we were done, and I was to take my leave, he asked that we pray. I was surprised. I have never been to anyone’s room on a casual visit and they’d ask that we pray. I thought that is what pastors do when they go visiting on church “follow-up”.
Anyway, who says no to prayer. I obliged him. We prayed together, and in a few minutes, we were done. I opened my eyes to leave, he said: God told him that I was going for a national public speaking contest, and I was going to win. Saying that wasn’t strange as I knew he had the gift of prophecy and operated in the office of a prophet even as a student of political science in UI, at the time.
But three things countered what he had said. One, we never spoke about the competition, so he should ideally have no idea about this contest. Two, the organisers seemed to have cancelled the competition, we applied in January, we were told we’d get a response by February 25th, we didn’t. When we called, they gave us a story that discouraged us. They promised March 30th, but that also did not work. Finally, we had applied as a team of four people — it was “we” not “I”. You should say “we” — the four of us — will win, not “I” — Mayowa — will win. I raised all these with him, but he insisted. “Mayowa, I am only telling you what God told me”. I took the info and left.
I prayed about it and got confirmation in my spirit. But the organisers did not contact us. So there was no place for the prophecy to be fulfilled.
From the blues, the organisers sent a mail on April 22, 2013, saying the finals of the competition would be held from June 12 through June 15, 2013. Oh, so this thing would eventually happen. They asked that we get a letter from the University, showing that we were truly students. We got the letter, sent it and prepared for the event.
June came, the organisers cancelled again.
By this time, most of us were frustrated. But because I had what we Christians call “a sure word of prophecy” (II Peter 1:19), it was easier to cope.
It goes from impossible to hard, to done
In July, we got the final mail to come over to Abuja for the finals, where we’d be competing with other teams from across the nation, but this is where things get interesting. Like the British Missionary Hudson Taylor said: “There are three stages to every great work of God; first it is impossible, then it is difficult, then it is done.”
I took ill, was taken to UI Health Centre popularly known as Jaja Clinic. Somehow, things got very bad, and I was referred to the University College Hospital (UCH), Ibadan. I was admitted. Placed on IV and ran multiple tests, had numerous injections and tablets. By every passing minute, the finals of the Nigerian Championship of Public Speaking (NCPS) drew closer. On the Sunday starting the week of the finals, my childhood friend, Olasubomi Alawiye, and teammates — Oredola Ibrahim, Onele Peter Cole and Seyi Awojulugbe — visited me in UCH.
They stood at my bedside as I gave them a leader’s pep talk. I told them to go win for us. That it was sad I wasn’t going to make it. These great guys encouraged me and promised to do their best, asking me to get well and come with them. But how was that possible, they were to travel in less than 48 hours?
On Monday, the doctors came for a ward round, I begged to be discharged to attend the competition in Abuja, even if it meant just cheering my team on. The doctors said no, I explained to them that I was to represent the University at the contest in Abuja. They joked around and asked if I even stood a chance at winning, seeing I don’t look like a good speaker. I told them I had won a few laurels before, but within the university, that this one meant a lot to me — it’s national.
So, one of the doctors asked me to give a speech in the ward, that if I did well, he’d discharge me. He was joking, but I took him seriously, I stood in the middle of the ward and delivered a speech. When I was done, the nurses and other patients who I did not know listened to our conversation began to clap. The entire ward was clapping for a boy who could barely stand on his feet.
The nurses mobilised for me and said the doctors must keep their end of the bargain and release me. The doctors said they were joking, but the nurses were not going to have it. The doctors asked how I was going to get to Abuja, that I could not go through the road stress, seeing I was not fully recovered. I said the school had given us N100,000 as transport fares, that I could take a flight. The nurses added more steam to the conversation. I was discharged against medical advice.
On Monday night, I was discharged. And we were to travel to Abuja Tuesday morning.
The Last Hurdle
That morning, before I gave the hospital speech, I had read Job 13 during my morning quiet time, and verse 15 stuck with me: “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him”. My siblings and my mother picked me up from the hospital on Monday night, and we drove home.
We were in particularly high spirits, all set to go pack up for the next day’s journey. But when we got home, my dad — who was in another city for work — called and said I couldn’t travel to Abuja. That I was still recovering. He gave very careful reasons why it was better to stay back at home, and fully recover.
My siblings were having none of it, they wanted me to go by all means. My mother, who is often very careful, was more on my side than my dad’s. She saw, first hand, how we won a “discharge against medical advice” only to be told to sit at home. Then I remembered Job 13:15 “Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him”. So I told my siblings, let it go, there’ll be another opportunity. They couldn’t understand my sudden change. But they agreed. We spoke late into the night and fell asleep.
By 5am the following day, my dad called, and said he couldn’t sleep, that he thinks I should go. He said the signals in his spirit were clear to go. My mom woke us up and the rush began. Tired, jaundiced, weak, I gathered myself and off we went to Ring Road, where we boarded a cross-country bus to Abuja. My teammates were excited to see me. This prophecy was finding reality.
Fighting a battle already won
The night we got to Abuja, the organisers — SHI Nigeria and Toastmasters International — announced to us that we weren’t competing as a team but as individuals. It led to a big uproar that night. Everyone came prepared as a team, leveraging each other’s strengths and covering for partners’ weaknesses. But all that is gone now, everyone was on their own. I felt that was almost the end of the competition for me, because I also banked on the strength of my team: the spontaneity of Peter, Ibrahim’s creativity, and Seyi’s tempering dexterity.
I didn’t participate in the debate that night, my gifted friend, Moyosoreoluwa Eleso, was the star that night. It was that night I was sure she’d go on to study law. When she would later tell me years on, I wasn’t surprised one bit. And the night, and morning, it was Day 2 — the actual competition started.
Recall, there was a prophecy that I’d win, and despite all the challenges, I had come this far. At this point, it’s only natural to think the rest would play itself out automatically. So I may just sit back and watch things play out. But that is not how the Christian assurance works; while you know you’ve won, you still have to fight. Apostle Paul puts it this way in his first letter to the Corinthian church: “But by the grace of God I am what I am, and His grace toward me was not in vain; but I labored more abundantly, yet not I, but the grace of God which was with me”. So while there is grace for victory, that victory is not automatic. The grace simply gives you energy to “labour” and to know how and what to labour on.
In this case, thirty-six students had gathered from across the country, some of the best speakers I had encountered. From UNILAG, UI, LASU, Igbinedion, Covenant University, ABU Zaria, and so on. No matter how daunting these speaking champions were, I knew it was a battle I already won. All I needed to do was to show up for every speech, speak, and win.
Over the next three days, I, like almost everyone else, gave nine speeches — about three per day. A day before the last day, I had made the cut to the final seven who would slug it out for the trophy. That night, Distinguished Toastmaster Olarotimi Smith hosted a pre-departure party for us. I was at the party till about 2am, oblivious of the fact that the six people I was competing with at the final leg of the finals were in the room rehearsing the last speech. Seyi, my teammate, asked me to look around if I saw anyone else who was speaking the next day at the party. I saw none of them. I also retreated to my room and slept.
I told Ibrahim to wake me up as early as possible the next day so we could whip up a speech for the finals. But you guessed right, we woke up late. Ran to have a bath, and it was time for breakfast. I had what I wanted to speak about, but had not written a speech nor practiced. I spoke extempore to Ibrahim once, before they took us to the studio at DTM Mike Omotosho’s office in Jabi.
When I got to the office, all the speakers were rehearsing their speeches. They scared me. The best of the best were ready, and I didn’t even have a speech. I plugged my earphones and listened to TY Bello’s “The Future”, I danced like I had a speech, and had my #JoyIsWar attitude on. I had no worries. I was the 3rd or 4th speaker. I spoke on “Nigeria and lessons from my grandmother”, with inspirations from my grandmother, Pius Adesanmi, and TY Bello. When I was done, I had a standing ovation.
When all was said and done, I won the championship. It was surreal. This, my friends, is fighting and winning a battle already won.
It is when we get a sure word from God in our spirits or through His sons and daughters on the earth, and we labour towards it, with God’s grace as our direction and fuel. This win went from impossible at the hospital, to difficult at home, to done in Abuja because the battle was won long before it started.
Dear friend, you too can join in fighting battles already won. My life as a whole is a battle already won. I just show up to fight daily — it is how I am undaunted by any of life’s circumstances, not even COVID-19. This too can be you — everything is better with Jesus. Roll with Him.
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