Forty-one-year-old Billy Oyiza, a former cultist who claimed to have killed three rivals in pursuit of promotion and indirectly caused his father’s death, has finally reunited with his mother and siblings in a deeply emotional moment, just days after regaining freedom from the Kirikiri Correctional Centre, Lagos.
After seven years behind bars, Billy Oyiza finally returned to his hometown, Ankpa, in Kogi State, where he tearfully reunited with his mother and siblings.
At exactly 8:02pm, Oyiza boarded an 18-seater Young Shall Grow Hummer bus at Festac First Gate, Old Ojo Road, Lagos, bound for Ankpa, a journey that would mark the beginning of his reconciliation with the family he had once shattered.
He sat quietly in seat number 13, dressed in a blue flowing jalabia and clutching a small Bible, which was a gift from a church that had supported his rehabilitation and reintegration into society.
It was a striking sight: a man once feared for his ruthlessness, now subdued and uncertain, his eyes distant as though weighed down by memories of his past.
The journey ahead was more than a trip home; it was a pilgrimage of remorse, redemption, and the longing for forgiveness.
As the bus rumbled along the familiar yet distant road to his hometown, Oyiza sat in silence, his thoughts a storm of regret. Every turn of the wheel seemed to drag him deeper into the burden of his guilt.
He later said that the journey was emotionally draining and torturous, as memories he could neither escape nor silence flooded his mind.
“I was restless throughout the journey, gripped by fear and guilt,” he recalled softly, his voice heavy with remorse. “I didn’t know how to face my mother. I made her a widow. I destroyed my home. What if she rejects me? What if she collapses like my father did in court?”
Each question hung in the air like a sentence yet to be served, a reminder that though he had left prison behind, freedom from his past was still a long way off.
In the Sunday PUNCH interview titled “Shocking Confession of an Ex-Cultist: I Killed Three Rivals for Promotion, Caused My Father’s Death,” Oyiza recounted how his thirst for power and respect drew him into the world of cultism.
“When I got to Lagos State University, I joined a cult willingly. Nobody forced me. I thought it was the fastest way to gain power and influence,” he had said.
By his second year, he had become a pilot — an enforcer feared for his ruthlessness. But his meteoric rise soon ended in tragedy.
In 2018, a violent clash between rival groups, Aiye and Vikings, left several people dead. Seeking revenge and promotion, Oyiza killed a neighbour he later discovered was a member of the rival cult.
“That day changed my life forever,” he said, full of remorse. “I pulled the trigger without thinking. When I realised what I had done, it was too late. The police came almost immediately. I was arrested and charged with murder.”
During his arraignment, his parents were in court, silently weeping as the charges were read. But when the word “murder” echoed through the courtroom, his father clutched his chest, slumped, and never rose again.
“I saw him fall from the dock. They rushed him to the hospital, but he was gone before they got there,” Oyiza recalled, his voice trembling. “My father died because of my actions. I became the man who killed and made my mother a widow.”
When he was released from the Kirikiri Correctional Centre in the first week of October 2025, Oyiza walked out a changed man, no longer the brash, power-hungry cultist he once was, but a broken soul seeking forgiveness and redemption.
“The journey home was torturous,” he told Sunday PUNCH. “I couldn’t sleep. While others snored, I kept wondering about the possible outcome of my homecoming. It was the longest journey of my life.”
When the bus finally pulled into Ankpa, the weight of his past pressed heavily on his shoulders. He stepped down slowly, scanning the familiar streets and faces, some curious, some fearful. It was clear that while Oyiza had left prison, he was only just beginning the harder journey, the one toward acceptance and peace.
Emotional reunion
For his mother, the reunion was both tearful and heart-wrenching. For years, she had believed her son was lost forever, the same son whose actions had taken her husband’s life.
“When I got home, I learnt she had gone to the farm that morning,” Oyiza said. “So I waited, rehearsing how to apologise. The house hadn’t changed much. Nothing had improved because my father was gone. My mother now farms to survive.”
According to him, when his mother finally returned and saw him, she stood motionless, her lips quivering as she stared, caught between anger, disbelief, and relief. Then, tears began to roll down her cheeks.
“Her basket dropped. Then she ran to me, crying uncontrollably. We both wept. For a long time, she couldn’t speak; she just kept touching my face, as if to be sure I was real.
“I had rehearsed my apology a hundred times. But when I saw her face, I forgot every word. All I could say was, ‘Mama.’ She touched my face again, tears in her eyes, as though to confirm I wasn’t a ghost. Then she broke down, held me tightly, and we cried together.
“For over 30 minutes, my mother wept and trembled without a word. She shivered as though she were cold, her teeth chattering. I knew she was overwhelmed by the trauma I had caused her; years of pain, shame, and loneliness since my imprisonment and my father’s death,” he recalled.
Fearing the worst, Oyiza prayed silently that history would not repeat itself.
“God, please spare my mother. Don’t let her die like my father. I can’t bear that guilt again,” he said quietly. His siblings soon joined in the emotional reunion, their tears mingling with relief and disbelief.
After what seemed like an eternity, his mother finally found her voice. Her words pierced his heart.
“My son, who made me a widow, has come back. The son I thought I would never see again.”
“When I heard those words, they cut through my heart like a knife,” Oyiza said, his voice trembling. “It wasn’t an accusation; it was anguish, the cry of a mother who had endured seven years of torment, loneliness, and stigma because of her son’s choices.”
“I’m sorry, Mama… I’m sorry,” he repeated, tears streaming down his face. They clung to each other, two broken souls bound by grief, forgiveness, and blood.
“I apologised, but she said my apology could not bring back her husband or erase the name my actions had given her, ‘a cultist’s mother,’” he said.
Inside the small family home, the air was heavy, thick with a mix of joy and sorrow. Photographs of his late father still hung on the wall, a haunting reminder of the price of youthful recklessness.
“When I saw my father’s picture, I couldn’t bear it,” Oyiza recounted. “I knelt before it, weeping. ‘Papa, forgive me. I know I caused your death. I’ll spend the rest of my life making things right,’ I vowed.”
Later, his family took him to his father’s grave for spiritual closure. Kneeling before the headstone, tears streaming down his face, he spoke to his late father.
His mother placed a trembling hand on his shoulder and said softly, “Your father loved you. He warned you, but you broke him. Promise me you’ll never return to that life.”
“I promised her,” Oyiza said quietly. “And I meant it.”
Back inside the house, he shared stories of his time in prison, his conversion, years of reflection, and how his charge was eventually reduced from murder to manslaughter, a second chance he now sees as divine mercy.
Burden of the past
In the quiet town of Ankpa, where whispers travel faster than the wind, Oyiza’s story has become more than a tale of crime. It is a story of fall and redemption — of a family torn apart by violence and mended by forgiveness.
As he moved around the community with his mother, visiting relatives and neighbours, he could feel eyes on him, some filled with anger, others with pity or quiet condemnation.
Since his release, Oyiza has found solace in faith. He now attends a local Pentecostal church, where he shares his story with young people.
“I tell them to flee from cultism,” he said. “It promises power but delivers death.”
Though forgiven, the scars of his past remain visible. “When people hear my story, some look at me with fear; others avoid me. I don’t blame them. I understand. I was once a bad boy,” he admitted.
Yet, he remains hopeful. “I believe my father is at peace now. His death woke me up. I won’t waste this second chance,” he promised.
Today, Oyiza’s return has sparked conversations across the community about cultism, repentance, and second chances. His name, once synonymous with shame, now serves as a living reminder that redemption, though painful, is possible.
“Prison didn’t just punish me,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It remade me. I’m not proud of who I was, but I’m grateful for who I’m becoming.”
● This moving story was first published in The Sunday PUNCH of November 2, 2025.
