A pastor, his trials and triumphs
I still remember the fear of that season as though it happened yesterday. It was the most terrifying period our family had ever faced. It happened nearly twenty-five years ago,
- By Olukorede Yishau
I still remember the fear of that season as though it happened yesterday. It was the most terrifying period our family had ever faced.
It happened nearly twenty-five years ago, towards the fading days of 2001. My brother and friend, the one that remains Sadoh to me, but many others call Pastor Olumuyiwa Yishau, gave us a fright that I have never quite forgotten. He was at work in a manufacturing firm when a strange discomfort gripped his throat. It was no ordinary irritation. In a desperate attempt to find relief, he thrust his hand deep into his throat. The act brought not comfort, but blood. Yet the discomfort lingered.
That moment did not come out of nowhere. It was preceded by grief—raw, unfiltered grief. Only weeks earlier, he had come to Auntie Tawa’s apartment on Orile Road, where I was staying, bearing devastating news: our elder sister, Olusola, had died. She had endured years of battling multiple illnesses before finally succumbing. My brother was shattered. I had never seen him cry like that. His naturally large eyes seemed even more pronounced, swollen with sorrow, as though they might spill over with the weight of his pain.
We were so worried about his emotional state that we initially did not want him to accompany us to the cemetery. It took his repeated promises to hold himself together before we agreed he could join us to lay her to rest.
Then, suddenly, it was his own life that hung in the balance. I remember he was rushed to the General Hospital in Ikeja. What followed were weeks of anxiety and quiet dread. His condition was critical. In the silence of my thoughts, I feared the worst—that we might lose him too. But I kept that fear to myself. Our parents had just buried their second child; I could not bring myself to burden them with the possibility of another loss, the loss of their third child and first son.
Each hospital visit felt like a confrontation with mortality. I walked in with courage but carried fear in my chest. Relief began to creep in only when he emerged from a coma and, in a return to the familiar rhythms of life, started asking me to bring him food—this or that craving. Those small requests, so ordinary, became powerful signs of recovery. The daily commute from my job as a reporter-researcher at The Source magazine, based on Emina Crescent in Ikeja gradually became less emotionally draining.
He did not die at 25, as I had feared. But survival, I would come to learn, is often only the beginning of another battle.
Not long after his discharge, we shared a modest studio apartment on Alaramimo Street in Oko-Oba, Agege. It was there another challenge surfaced—this time, a persistent cough that refused to yield. When he eventually sought medical attention, the diagnosis came as a shock: Tuberculosis.
The treatment was as demanding as the illness itself. Daily injections. No breaks. The toll on his body was visible. His buttocks became sore from the relentless needles.
Our mother, ever watchful, was concerned for my safety. She advised me to take precautions, especially to avoid sharing plates and spoons with him. But she was careful to frame it not as fear, but as love. It was her way of teaching that wisdom and compassion can coexist.
After three months of grueling treatment, he underwent a test to determine if the disease had been eradicated. The result was discouraging; traces remained. More treatment followed, this time with two months of injections. He combined it with prayers and eventually, relief came. He was declared free of the disease.
That chapter closed, but its lessons lingered.
Today, more than two decades after that first scare, he is still standing—strong, purposeful, and deeply anchored in faith. The trials did not break him; they refined him. Each challenge drew him closer to God, shaping his spiritual journey in ways none of us could have predicted.
His decision to embrace Christianity was itself a battle. It did not sit well with our father, an Alhaji. The emotional strain was intense, the resistance palpable. But persistence, conviction, and time won the day. Today, he is not just a Christian; he is a pastor who has shepherded his own congregation for over a decade.
His life is a testimony of endurance; not of perfection, but of grace. His experiences offer lessons that resonate far beyond our family.
First, life is fragile. In a matter of moments, everything can change. Health, often taken for granted, can become the battleground upon which life itself is contested. This reminds us to pay attention to our bodies, to act early, and to never dismiss what feels unusual.
Second, resilience is built, not born. My brother’s journey shows that strength is often forged in adversity. The hospital bed, the injections, the emotional battles, each became a stepping stone rather than a stumbling block.
Third, love sometimes demands wisdom. Our mother’s counsel about taking precautions was a lesson in balancing care with caution. Loving someone does not mean ignoring reality; it means navigating it thoughtfully.
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Fourth, faith can be both an anchor and a compass. In his darkest moments, it was faith that steadied him and later gave his life new direction. Whether one expresses it through religion or personal conviction, having something to hold onto in times of uncertainty is invaluable.
Finally, time has a way of revealing purpose. What once looked like suffering often becomes, in hindsight, preparation.
As one reflects on such a journey, especially at the threshold of 50, life takes on a deeper meaning. Fifty is not merely a number; it is a milestone of perspective. It is an age where survival is no longer taken lightly, where both bitter and sweet experiences begin to form a coherent narrative.
My final take: At 50, one understands that life is less about speed and more about significance. The urgency of youth gives way to the clarity of maturity. Relationships matter more. Health becomes a priority, not an afterthought. Purpose becomes clearer, and legacy begins to take shape.
It is also a time to take stock, not with regret, but with gratitude. Gratitude for battles survived, for lessons learnt, for grace received. It is a time to forgive, to reconnect, to invest in what truly matters.
Most importantly, 50 reminds us that life, no matter how tested, is still a gift. And as my brother’s story shows, as long as there is breath, there is room for growth, for service, and for impact.
In the end, his story is not just about survival. It is about becoming, becoming stronger, becoming wiser, and ultimately, becoming a vessel through which others can find hope.
