Serah. Shuru:A Story of Waiting, Pride, and the Gift That Came When I Stopped Trying

 

A friend's mum recently shared a concern with me. She was worried that her daughter was not speaking in tongues and longed for so much more for her spiritually. She asked if we could pray together about it.

As she poured out her heart, I smiled and listened attentively. I assured her not to worry and told her that I believed it would happen in God's own time because her daughter truly loved Him.

As I spoke those words, I realised that my confidence came not from theological certainty, but from my own journey. This is simply my story—one testimony among many. I share it not to prescribe a single path, but to encourage anyone who may be waiting on God or feeling discouraged. I recognise that faithful Christians from different traditions hold different views on speaking in tongues, and I honour that. But my story is what I know.

So, to encourage her, I decided to share my own journey.

It All Began at University

As a child, I knew about the Holy Spirit, but not in the way I know and relate with Him today.

During one of my mid-semester breaks from university, I started hearing stories about my childhood friend, Reuben. People said he had begun praying for others to receive the gift of the Holy Spirit and speak in tongues. There was a strong anointing upon him, and remarkable things were happening.

Back then, this was not a common topic in many ECWA (Evangelical Church of West Africa) settings. However, the church I attended (ECWA Rockhaven Chapel) was fairly open and encouraged young people to grow and express themselves.

One Sunday, Reuben was given a few minutes to preach about the gift of the Holy Spirit. Afterwards, he invited anyone who desired prayer to stand or raise their hands.

I remained firmly seated.

In my mind, I thought, "This is my guy. If he can pray, I can pray for myself; no need to stand up joor."

Looking back now, I recognise that attitude for what it truly was—spiritual pride. I had done what Nigerians call "see finish"—disrespect that comes through over-familiarity. I despised his age and believed I could do for myself what God wanted to give me through him.

To make matters worse, some students from a fellowship at school had made the whole issue rather unappealing to me. They strongly implied that if you did not speak in tongues, you were either not a true Christian or your Christianity was incomplete.

That bothered me deeply.

At the time, I could not speak in tongues, but I knew beyond doubt that I loved God and belonged to Him.

Whenever those conversations came up, I would challenge them with Scripture. Often, they would quote what their pastor had said, and I would respond by asking, "But what does the Bible say?"

I reminded them that the fruit of the Spirit is evidence of both God's work and His presence in a believer's life.

A Conversation That Changed My Perspective

When I returned home for our mid-semester break, my mom’s friend, 'Brother Leo,' came to visit. He worked with CAPRO (a missions organisation) and was someone I deeply respected as he was well-rounded in scripture.

I wasted no time asking him about the issue.

He asked me whether I had carefully studied Corinthians and the various expressions of the Holy Spirit.

Together, we opened the Scriptures, and from there, I learnt the difference between speaking in tongues, the gift of tongues, and the fruit of the Spirit.

Following our study, he asked me, "If someone has the gift of teaching but does not prophesy, does that mean they don't have the Holy Spirit?"

"Of course not," I replied.

His point became very clear.

The Holy Spirit distributes different gifts differently. Not everyone will manifest every gift, but every believer can display evidence of His work.

For the first time in my life, I recognised that encouragement—a gift that came naturally to me—could itself be a gift of the Spirit.

Years of Waiting

Years passed.

I was still "tongueless."

Initially, it didn't bother me much. But then I would attend services where ministers would invite those who could not speak in tongues to come forward for prayer. I have never been good at pretending, especially in matters concerning God. So if it wasn't coming, it simply wasn't coming.

Jeje.

One particular service remains unforgettable.

The minister prayed for everyone and then began saying, "Speak! Speak!"

Around me, people started praying in tongues.

Meanwhile...

Serah.

Shuru (No sound).

The microphone was moving from person to person.

As it drew closer, I whispered one of the most sincere prayers of my life:

"Father, na beg I dey beg. Please don't let Your child suffer shame o! Help me say something. The mic is coming close o!"

My people...

The microphone passed.

Still...

Serah.

Shuru.

Eventually, the preacher ended with a general prayer, and we all returned to our seats.

After the service, I went to meet him privately and asked what was wrong with me.

He laughed kindly and told me not to worry.

"The gift has already been deposited," he said. "You're simply overthinking it. You're trying to analyse everything instead of just opening your mouth in faith."

That was the end of our conversation, but the years continued to pass. I genuinely desired the gift. I had read Scripture, asked God for it, and waited. I celebrated when close friends received it suddenly—one after a frightening experience, another during a quiet prayer meeting—but my own experience remained unchanged.

By the time I graduated from university, I still could not speak in tongues. It had been about three years since I had rejected Reuben's prayers.

The Conviction I Could Not Ignore

One day, while reflecting on everything, my mind went back to that church service years earlier when I had silently despised the grace God was using through my friend Reuben.

I became convinced that God was dealing with the pride in my own heart. I had done "see finish" on a vessel God wanted to use. I had rejected the very channel He had sent to help me—trying to control how and through whom He would bless me.

So I repented and asked for forgiveness. But looking back now, I realise the waiting wasn't punishment. It was preparation. God wasn't withholding to shame me; He was purifying my heart so that when the gift came, I wouldn't use it to measure myself against others, but simply to love Him more.

By this time, I had begun speaking in tongues—but only just. I could mumble the same few syllables over and over. There was no fluency, no richness, just a halting repetition.

Later that year, Reuben happened to visit our home. While chatting in the kitchen, I narrated my journey to him—how I had rejected his prayers, how I struggled for years, and how I felt my arrogance had delayed me. I apologised for my pride and for despising his anointing.

He barely remembered the incident. We both laughed.

He went on to share some profound truths about forgiveness that have stayed with me ever since. Before he left, he prayed over our entire family, simply committing us to God's care.

Learning the Language of the Spirit

Even after that visit, my tongues remained limited. I continued speaking, but with little fluency. I would often jokingly tell God, "Please give me mine like a song." Because I love singing, I thought that would be the perfect expression. But that wasn't how it happened.

My contentment shifted to holy hunger one year when our pastor invited Apostle Michael Orokpo to minister at our church. His message was amazing, but his speaking in tongues was on another level—something I had never heard before. Just listening to him gave me chills. My husband and I discussed it after church, both of us spellbound. It sounded like Aramaic or Hebrew, yet with a heavenly cadence that stirred a deep longing in me. After service, I asked the Holy Spirit again for that type of tongues—and not to forget the singing one, either. (That still hasn't happened.)

Still, I continued with what He had already given me. I made it a habit to talk to the Holy Spirit about everything in life: ministry, work, relationships—and yes, even sex. He became my closest confidant.

Then one day, mid-conversation with Him, a thought suddenly crystallized in my mind: If tongues are the language of the Spirit, then languages can be learned. Someone who isn't born speaking French can study it and become fluent—provided they have a teacher or tutor to guide them. So why couldn't my prayer language grow? I simply looked up and whispered, "Holy Spirit, since You are my Teacher, teach me Your language. Add more words to my vocabulary. Enroll me in Your school."

Nothing dramatic happened immediately. Life simply continued. But every now and then, I found myself speaking words I had never spoken before.

Then one year, during our annual fast, something happened.

As I prayed, words began pouring out uncontrollably. I was saying things I had never heard before—guttural, rhythmic, foreign sounds that felt both alien and completely natural. They came so fast I felt breathless, almost choking, like my spirit was trying to outpace my lungs. Honestly, if someone had been standing outside my room, they might have thought a chicken had invaded the house.

I was thrilled.

Later that evening, while trying to explain the experience to my sister, she suddenly interrupted me.

"You started sounding like a chicken."

My eyes widened.

"Exactly!"

She laughed and shared that she had experienced something remarkably similar—including the feeling of almost choking because the words kept pouring out so rapidly. At that moment, I felt deeply reassured.

I wasn't alone.

Today, my tongues still don't sound like Apostle Michael Orokpo's. They don't sound like a song either. But they are mine. My vocabulary has grown, my words come more boldly, and I have learned to embrace my own style. The Holy Spirit gave me what I needed, not what I asked for in my imagination—and I am grateful.

The Stanley Cup Lesson

After I finished telling this story to my friend's mum, the Holy Spirit brought another illustration to my mind.

My younger daughter, Zahra, had wanted a Stanley Cup for a long time because her best friend and her older sister (Nainai) had one. I told her she would have to earn it. If she performed exceptionally well and won a prize at the end of the school year, I promised I would buy it for her. We made this agreement at the beginning of the school year.

She worked incredibly hard. Although already an excellent student, she pushed herself even further. Her grades climbed, and her writing sharpened. Even her teacher commented, "Miss Zahra vexed this second term! She left nothing for anyone!" I was so proud of her.

Then, while thinking about what to buy for her birthday this year, the Holy Spirit reminded me of that Stanley Cup. Even though the school year is still wrapping up, her dad and I went to get it for her.

In that moment, I realized something. Zahra had worked hard, sure, but I wasn't bound by the timeline I had set for our agreement. I was the giver of the gift. I could choose to give it early simply because I loved her and wanted to delight her. Nothing restricted me. And so I did. Zahra was overjoyed.

In that same way, God is the giver of every good gift—including spiritual gifts. He isn't a reluctant dispenser. He doesn't wait until we've jumped through every hoop. We may ask, we may desire, we may pray—but He alone determines when, where, and how He gives. Whether we feel He is seemingly early, late, or right on the dot, know that His timing is always rooted in perfect love.

As Jesus reminds us in Matthew 7:9–11:

"Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone?... If you then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask Him?"

My Final Thoughts

My friend's mum laughed in her usual way, and together we agreed that we would simply continue praying with and for her daughter while trusting God with the outcome.

As for me, I'm grateful for how far the Lord has brought me. Today, I speak in tongues regularly—sometimes in a quiet whisper during private prayer, a language only He hears; other times, openly and freely as the Spirit prompts during worship or ministry. It has become a natural rhythm of communion. And yet, I hold it lightly. Paul teaches that this gift builds us up (1 Corinthians 14:4). It is sustenance—a direct line of edification between my spirit and God, bypassing my sometimes-clouded mind. But it is not a badge of honour.

I am reminded of this every time I think of my own mother. She is one of the finest Christians I know. She has long desired the gift of speaking in tongues. She has prayed for it and has been prayed for many times. Yet, to this day, it has not manifested in that way. Still, the fruit of the Spirit is evident throughout her life. Her character reflects Christ. God answers her prayers. Her life continually blesses others.

So no, our ability—or inability—to speak in tongues does not determine whether we belong to God or whether He hears us. It does not make us more loved or less loved. It does not make us more Christian or less Christian. And it certainly does not speed up or delay our prayers. What matters is this: we are His. And He is good—whether we speak in tongues or only in the language of a sincere, desperate heart.

This is simply my journey. Your story may be different. And that's perfectly okay.

I'd genuinely love to hear your own experiences, testimonies, questions, or reflections. We all learn when we listen to one another, and perhaps your story will encourage someone else the way others have encouraged me.

 

I Shredded Her Clothes (Then Folded Them Neatly)!!

 Most people marvel at my level of tolerance, especially when it comes to triggers around me. Very few of my family members or friends have ever seen me truly angry or lose my cool.

I often get questions like, "Do you even get angry at all?" or remarks such as, "All my years working with you, Sese, I have never seen you angry! I will try my best to ensure I see it!"

Those comments always make me laugh because if they had known me as a child, they definitely would not think that way. Looking back now, I realize I had very vengeful tendencies growing up.

So what changed me?

Well... this is the story.

And for those of you who read my blog "The Teacher Who Changed Me," this story is about someone else entirely.

Maria was one of the many nannies we had while growing up and the first one we encountered after returning to Nigeria. She was small in stature and almost my height even though she was much older than me.

We often played together and, with the same level of intensity, we fought too.

Most times, our fights started because Maria laughed at the worst possible moments. For example, I could trip while playing and badly hurt my foot, and instead of saying "sorry" or showing concern, she would burst out laughing.

That infuriated me.

With my injured foot, I would then make sure she suffered the same fate. Sadly, that was our normal routine.

But the incident that completely changed the trajectory of my life happened differently.

It was a Sunday, and for some reason, we were unable to attend church as a family. My grandmother, Amma Shatu, was around, and we were all seated at the dining table chatting and laughing together — something that was not always common because, somehow, I had a special gift for getting on her nerves.

Everything was going well until Maria stepped out dressed for church and asked to borrow my precious Bible.

Now, this was not just any Bible.

It was the Bible my Sunday school teacher had given me — the one I cherished more than life itself. (If you have not read "The Teacher Who Changed Me," you should for proper context. https://lessonsfromnailah.blogspot.com/2020/05/the-teacher-who-changed-me.html)

Everyone in the family knew how sacred that Bible was to me, so to even think she could ask for it felt absolutely appalling to my 9 or 10-year-old self.

Before she even finished her sentence, my answer was already waiting:

"No!"

My grandmother was horrified.

She looked at me like I was a tiny demon. Who refuses to give someone a Bible to attend church?

She immediately scolded me, and if you know me well, you know I absolutely hate harsh words and yelling. So naturally, I became furious. In my mind, Maria had done it intentionally just to get me into trouble.

After she left for church, I stormed straight into our room, boiling with anger.

I sat on the bed replaying everything in my mind when suddenly I looked around and realized... the stage had been perfectly set for me.

Beside me were:

·         a razor blade,

·         Maria's clothes,

·         nail polish,

·         and lipstick.

I did not even give myself time to think.

My hands simply began to work.

Yes. I did it.

I removed all her clothes from her bag and shredded them with the razor blade. I shredded those clothes better than any machine I knew. Then, for extra effect, I artistically decorated her purse and other belongings with nail polish and lipstick.

And because excellence matters, I even folded the shredded clothes neatly back into her bag afterward.

The funny thing is that our house was always busy with people constantly moving in and out. To get to the rooms, you had to pass through a small hallway.

Yet somehow, on that particular day, nobody passed through those doors while I carried out my masterpiece. I did not even lock the room.

As a master craftsman, my work was complete.

The moment I finished, it felt like a rushing wind left my body, and instantly, I felt better.

So I got up and continued my day, playing and having fun as though nothing had happened.

It was not until Maria returned from church and went to change before helping with lunch that reality came rushing back.

She was definitely not prepared for the surprise waiting for her.

As soon as she saw the destruction, she ran straight to my mother. Everyone was confused, and because I was already known as an extremely daring child, I immediately became the prime suspect.

I was summoned at once.

My mother asked if I knew anything about it.

I lied immediately.

"No, Mummy. I do not know anything about it."

Now let me explain something: my mother hated lies.

In fact, she had made us a promise growing up that no matter how terrible the offense was, if we told the truth, she would not beat us. But if we lied? Ah... that was where the real trouble began.

I had just broken that promise.

Thankfully for me, there was little evidence, so I was temporarily released.

But unfortunately, I had an extremely weak conscience.

After some time, I quietly confessed to my Auntie Jummy and begged her not to tell anyone.

She snitched immediately.

The moment I heard my name being called again, I knew I was finished.

I was already used to being beaten, so I mentally prepared myself for what was coming. I knew I deserved it — especially because I had lied to my mother.

As I walked into the courtyard, I saw all their faces.

My father looked shocked and deeply disappointed, probably wondering what kind of possessed child this was.

My mother looked completely exhausted.

My grandmother wasted no time. She gave me one sharp smack, and I braced myself for the rest to follow.

(Except from my dad — he never hit us.)

Then suddenly, I heard my aunt's voice cut through the crowd.

"Stop it," she said to my grandma. "You people beat her too much. That is why she is becoming more stubborn."

Let me introduce this aunt properly.

Her name was Princess Rahila Bulus Kinging (aka Baby) — may her soul continue to rest in peace. She was my father's immediate younger sister, the first daughter and second child in a family of ten. She was also one of my mother's closest friends from secondary school.

Though she was physically small, her words carried enormous weight in the family.

The moment she spoke, every hand went down (sort of like Jesus and the adulterous woman).

Then she turned to me and said:

"Go and wear your shoes. You are coming with me”.

She wanted to visit my maternal grandmother and needed me to show her the way.

She did not need to repeat herself.

I disappeared immediately and was already waiting inside the car.

On the drive there, I was unusually quiet. Normally, I could be chatty, but this time, I sat silently waiting for the lecture or scolding I knew I deserved.

But she said nothing about the incident.

Instead, she spoke to me normally.

On our way back, we stopped at Monak Stores to buy a few things, and she asked me to pick whatever I wanted.

I stared longingly at the chocolate bars — usually my absolute favorites — but respectfully declined.

She noticed my hesitation anyway and quietly bought some for me before we left.

I thanked her, but I still could not eat them.

I kept waiting for punishment. Or at least a serious lecture. Or something.

That night, I slept with one eye open because surely, they would eventually come for me. Such an atrocity could not possibly go unpunished.

But nobody came.

The next day passed.

Then another.

Still nothing.

I could not believe it.

How had they simply let me go?

Safe to say, after that day, I never allowed anger to control me in that manner again.

At such a young age, I realized how dangerous my anger could become if I did not deal with it quickly. That day, Maria's clothes took the hit, but it could easily have been a human being.

That realization frightened me.

So I began to pray earnestly that God would help me control my anger and never let it control me. I genuinely loved people and never wanted to hurt anyone, but I knew that if I did not work on myself, I eventually would.

One day, while reading my Bible — one of my favorite hobbies at the time — I came across a verse that deeply stayed with me:

"A gentle answer turns away wrath, but harsh words stir up anger." — Proverbs 15:1

I held tightly to that verse.

I asked God to teach me how to use gentle answers instead of destructive actions whenever anger arose. Slowly, I began to work on my words, my reactions, and my responses.

Over time, I realized something powerful:

When anger approaches, I help determine the outcome.

I can either allow it to consume me or choose to redirect it by the way I respond.

The choice is mine.

Over the years, I also learned something important about anger: it is often pent-up energy seeking expression. That is why people react differently when they are upset.

Some people hit things. Throw objects. Wash clothes aggressively. Jog. Clean. Cry. Walk around. They do anything just to release what they are feeling inside.

For me, depending on the situation, I write.

I write exactly what I am feeling in that moment — every painful thought, every harsh response, every word I wish I could say to the person. Then, instead of sending it to them, I send it to myself through WhatsApp or email and let it sit there.

Writing gives me a safe space to express my emotions on paper rather than pouring them onto another human being who may never forget the words I said. Physical wounds may heal, but certain words can scar people for life.

By the next day, I usually reread the message and ask myself if it is still worth sending.

Most times, I am incredibly grateful I did not.

Because honestly, those words written in anger are usually horrid. And by the next day, the situation often no longer feels as terrible as it did in the heat of the moment. I can then express myself more calmly, more clearly, and far more graciously.

So there you have it.

My aunt showed me mercy when I deserved punishment — and even bought me gifts on top of it.

That unexpected kindness was enough to make me rethink my behavior completely.

Not everything requires shouting, punishment, endless lectures, or quarrels. Sometimes, genuine love and mercy can create deeper and more lasting transformation in people.

And for those of you wondering what happened to Maria — do not worry, she benefited from the situation too. My parents replaced her entire wardrobe with brand-new clothes.

Maria never mentioned the incident again. She also stopped laughing when I got hurt.

So honestly... she probably owes me a thank you. (Shhh.)

In conclusion, anger itself is not a bad thing. It is simply an emotion, just like sadness, joy, fear, or disgust.

God gave us emotions for a reason.

What matters is not whether we feel anger, but how we respond when we do.

Who is in control at that moment?

The anger?

Or us?

Self-control is our ability to govern ourselves despite the triggers around us. It is part of the fruit of the Spirit, and the Holy Spirit can do incredible work within us if we allow Him.

So there you have it, people — my journey with anger and the aunt who showed up for me when I least deserved it.

Have you ever struggled with anger issues before, or am I alone in this?

If you have, what helped you overcome it?

Please spill the tea in the comments. I would genuinely love to hear your stories.

 P.S. This is a memoir to my aunt, Princess Rahila Bulus Kinging, who went to be with the Lord  April, 2008. I wrote this in her honor.