If you’ve ever been to Christ the Lord Cathedral Camp in Igboora, you’ll understand why my friends and I did what we did. Picture a place deep in the bush of Oyo State—dry ground, scattered trees, and flies that fly like they’re on a mission. The camp itself was huge, with over 10,000 children packed under one wide white canopy with a low wooden fence. Honestly, the fence was just for decoration—any goat or determined child could cross it without stress.
Every morning, like clockwork, we were marched into Children Church like sheep heading to judgment. The program started with loud singing and clapping, and then moved into long talks from aunties and uncles who acted like they were preaching to grown-ups. Nothing made sense to us. We just sat, counted ceiling holes, and waited for the next round of boredom.
Well, not all parts were boring. We lived for the Children Choir Concert, where some kids wore white gloves and danced like angels on stage. We screamed during Sword Drill—that Bible race game that made us feel like champions. Catch the Fish game was our Olympics. And praise and worship? That was our own disco.
But the rest? Torture.
So one Sunday, I gave my friends The Look. You know that look of rebellion that says “Today, we break free!”
There was me, Tope, Chika, Amaka, and Daniel—all aged between 8 and 10. Small in size, big in plans. We were seated in the middle row under the canopy, surrounded by hundreds of sweaty children and several fat, no-nonsense female children leaders who guarded the entrance like angels with plastic chairs instead of swords. These women did not smile. Their eyes could detect mischief from one kilometre away.
We waited for the perfect moment—when one of the leaders stood to adjust her wrapper and another got distracted shouting, “Sit properly! You there! I’m talking to you!”
That was our chance.
One by one, we slid under the wooden fence like soldiers on a secret mission. We ran behind the canopy, dodging low tree branches, and slipped into the bush. The ground was dusty, and my slippers got stuck in a thorny plant, but I didn’t care. We ran like antelopes escaping lion.
Now, the hostel was another beast. The main entrance had two mean hostel aunties who were always holding big wooden keys and speaking with thunder in their voice. If they caught you, they would report you to every adult on camp and still scold your soul.
So we used the window.👅👅👅👅👅
Our hostel was in an uncompleted building at the edge of the camp. There were no louvres on the windows, just iron bars and enough space to squeeze our tiny bodies through. Tope went first, then Amaka, then me. I scraped my elbow, but freedom has a price.
Once inside, we whispered like spies, giggled like hyenas, and dove under bunks like action movie stars whenever we heard footsteps. We ate cabin biscuits we had hidden in our pillowcases. We told jokes. We braided each other’s hair. We even gave ourselves code names like Agent Jollof and Commander Cabin.
It wasn’t about the escape anymore—it was the friendship. The laughter. The thrill of doing something bold.
And speaking of jollof…
Let me tell you - the best part of that camp was not the worship. Not even the choir. It was jollof rice day. We usually ate beans that tasted like charcoal, yam that could injure your teeth, and eba that looked like punishment. But when they brought that steaming jollof rice—with meat the size of a baby's thumb—ah! It felt like love. The tomato smell, the soft grains, the little meat glistening on top like a diamond in red sand. That was our gospel.
Now, was our escape the right thing to do?
No.
Did we learn any Bible verse that day?
Absolutely not!
But did we bond? Did we laugh till our stomach hurt? Did we create a memory that still makes me smile years later?
Yes.💋
Would I do it again if I had the chance?
Without blinking.😁👅👅👅👅
🤣Just don’t tell Aunty Florence. She’s still searching for the five missing children from Children Church that Sunday. 😇
