A chicken in church launched a pastor on an l8,000-mile journey depositing him in the middle of a snowstorm without a coat.

What propelled Oyo Nsifek from Africa to Chicago?

A dream-bolstering Presbyterian church.

Oyo Nsefik, 28, bowed his head when he saw the Chicago skyline and thanked God for giving him back his life.

But that came later.

Dream-wrestling can be daunting anywhere. In an African war, it can be appalling. Fourteen years before coming to America, Oyo, age 14, had been destined to die. His father had screamed on that fear-crazed night in their Calabar, Nigeria home, “Hurry. The rebels are coming.”

All the usual God-seeking ways of staying alive in an African Civil War weren’t enough for religious families housed in commodious suburbs of prosperous cities. Now, they must balance head-baggage through dark fields to remote villages, sleeping on hard earth in strange huts. They would subsist on nuts, berries, and cold fish.

The Biafran War was bloody. Foot messengers relayed news of homes burned, women raped, and teens conscripted to fight. Survival for every family meant taking the farthest trek they could across Africa every night with a faith undimmed by dislocation.

Daytime hideouts could be quiet and thoughtful. At night, they fled armed men pillaging villages and burning houses, knowing soul-deep, they might never again see home, school, or church. For weeks they faced capture and torture.

And, then came the telling day. Fallen branches and debris made the African bush so impassable Oyo’s family squeezed desperately into a dinghy to cross an uncharted river to get to the other side before dark. But no land came. Just a quiet conviction they must beg God for a miracle for the l3 cramped, hungry people in a leaking boat.

What came was an African song of hope someone started to sing. Others followed, as one voice, personalizing their prayers until through the blackness they spotted an island. They were spared. The war ended. Oyo’s family walked intact to their town to inspect the biggest miracle of all — their house had been raided, with chicken bones scattered in the yard, but private papers and books lay untouched.

“And, that tipped the balance,” Oyo says today. “God had brought us back to where we started as He frequently does. And, when the Lord blesses you, he often adds something extra for you to do. But how would we know? An uncle had vanished. Our neighbor’s house was gone. We’d escaped. And the deepest message of our survival seemed to be, ‘Draft a new dream.’“

Oyo was enrolled in college and the ministry, graduated, and was called to the Presbyterian Church of Calabar, Nigeria.

Under his leadership, new dreams appeared. The congregation grew with them. As one parishioner said, “We’re proud of what we are doing. Oyo wants to tell America about us. We’re not going to let him down.”

The deacons met and opened a travel account. Shortly after that, the chicken came to church. But that was only the beginning. Enthusiastic church members brought goats, pigs, yams, potatoes, fruits, grains, baskets, tomatoes, skirts and blouses, tablecloths, shawls, mats, and one cow. Auctioneers got trained and put on call. Families sewed and sold. They cached pennies in mattresses and sewed them in hidden spots for long-term safekeeping from relatives.

Founding members argued Nigeria has oil interests, so why not spread the news of Calabar’s creativity to big cities and invite business people of wealth to bazaars and auctions?

The auctions took hold. The travel account grew. And on a winter day of 100 degrees in Nigeria, the church celebrated. “Oyo’s Sendoff Sunday” was celebrated with singing, dancing, speeches, toasts, banquet foods, goodbyes, and a plane lifting off for the United States.

He arrived in Chicago, enrolled in college. He had little time for anything other than washing dishes, scrubbing floors, and shoveling snowy sidewalks to buy meals and pay bills. Along with hundreds of new Ph.D. Presbyterian pastors, not all double-schooled as he had been, he prayed not only to be invited to a church, but to speak of Africa to other denominations in as many cities nearby as he could. Holidays were lonely. His ill mother in Nigeria called him, “Oyo, keep praying.”

Finally, with degrees from Chicago Theological Seminary, McCormick Seminary, Loyola University (with honors), Trinity College, and coursework in many others, with his long-awaited church-call still forthcoming, a well-known company employed him as a counselor sending him to almost every large U.S. city to encourage others. The job was enlightening, but staggering. Every night meant a different hotel. He racked his brain for an answer. Was I supposed to head a church in America and does God still share my dream? He prayed, Lord, what is your will? Where do I belong?

When Oyo’s 96-year-old mother became desperately ill, he was summoned to Nigeria, took her in his arms and heard her say, “Never, ever give up hope in God.” The beautiful girl he married while there and his mother were torn between wanting what was best for him and not wanting him to leave. If only he could delay the trip longer.

But miracles arrive in their time. His wife registered for a someday U. S. visa. His mother recovered. And a call came for Oyo to be director of parish life at Eastminster Church, East Lansing, Mich., working with Margie Osborn, pastor, with time to speak to other denominations about the Presbyterian focus in Africa.

And about the dream-supporting people of Calabar, Nigeria.

And, about what God and one chicken can do.

Marguerite Reiss Kern is a retired librarian and writer living in East Lansing, Mich. She is the author of numerous articles and books.

TrackBack URI for this entry

Comments (0)

Subscribe to this comment's feed

Show/Hide comment form