Paul Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days -

The Ancient of Days does not give power for free. Someone must pay the rent of time. The breaking point came in Accra, during a crusade so large the police had to close the motorway.

The tomb of Paul Nwokocha is empty.

A job description. Paul Nwokocha knelt beside Adwoa’s stretcher. He placed one hand on her eyes and one hand on her heart. The old song rose from a place deeper than memory—the place where time began, where time ends, where time is merely a suggestion. Paul Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days

His mother, Beatrice, had fallen asleep while braiding his hair. The comb slipped from her fingers, and her hand went cold. In the village of Umueze, the women wailed and the men shook their heads. Malaria, they said. The rainy season’s curse.

He walked off the stage slowly, leaning on a security guard’s arm. The Ancient of Days does not give power for free

But Paul placed his small palm on her chest and whispered the song his late grandmother used to hum—the one about the One who was, who is, who is to come. Beatrice opened her eyes. She sat up. She asked for water.

"If God is good, why does He make us beg?" The tomb of Paul Nwokocha is empty

Paul felt the familiar pull—the heat behind his ribs, the whisper of the old song rising in his throat. He could heal her. He knew it. One touch, one word, and she would rise.