The Night the Church Went Silent I still hear the scream that broke the night. It wasn’t the kind of scream that fades away, it hung in the air, sharp and long, like it wanted heaven to hear it too. That night in Ogologodo, our small Christian village in Ogologodo, felt different. The wind was too quiet. The dogs didn’t bark. Even the crickets seemed afraid to sing. We had finished evening prayers in the church and were heading home when the power went out. Darkness swallowed everything. My mother whispered, “Let’s hurry.” Her voice trembled, but we didn’t ask why. We all knew what it could mean. The first gunshot cracked the silence like thunder. Then came another. Then many more. It sounded like rain made of metal. People started running, shouting, crying. I dropped my Bible and grabbed my little sister’s hand, but she slipped away in the crowd. I remember hiding behind a broken wall, shaking. I could smell smoke. I could hear houses burning. And between the shots, I heard voices shouting in a language I didn’t understand. They were close, too close. Someone ran past me, bleeding, screaming “They’ve set the church on fire!” My heart sank. That church was all we had , our meeting place, our comfort, our hope. We built it ourselves, stone by stone, after the last attack. I crawled toward the sound, tears in my eyes, praying under my breath. “God, please… not again.” When I reached the church, flames were already climbing the roof. I could see the cross glowing red in the firelight, bending as the wood cracked. I saw people trying to put it out, but the attackers were still shooting. One of them fell beside me. I didn’t even scream. I just froze. Everything smelled like blood and smoke. The ground was hot. I thought I would die there. But then I heard singing- faint, trembling voices. It was the women from the prayer group. They were singing “It is well with my soul.” Their voices shook, but they didn’t stop. Even as the fire ate the walls, they sang. That sound… it broke me. It made me cry and it made me strong at the same time. When soldiers finally came the next morning, everything was ash. The church was gone. Houses were gone. So many people were gone. But the survivors were there, sitting in the open, still singing. I don’t know how we still have faith after that night. Maybe it’s because faith is the only thing they couldn’t burn. Even now, years later, when the night gets too quiet, I hear that same scream — and the song that followed it. In Ogologodo, we’ve learned that faith doesn’t stop fear. It just teaches you to stand while the fire burns around you.