I was at my father’s house when the phone rang. On the line was my friend H:
“Precious, I don hear say ma papa don die for Bamenda. I dey road di cam.”
(I heard my father died in Bamenda. I am on my way there.)
Her voice did not carry the raw grief I expected. Instead it was steady, almost military — like someone preparing for a mission rather than a mourning call.
I told my mother about the call and we arranged for H to stay with us when she arrived after an eight-hour journey from Yaoundé, the capital. That evening I went to the motor park to meet her. She laughed when she saw me and kept glancing around as we hunted for a taxi. It was her first time in Bamenda.
At home H said her father’s death was not natural and she intended to raise him through prayer. She told us she had dreamt the night before that someone was trying to kill a family member, and she believed she could stop the attacker. She brought a large bottle of “anointing” oil in her bag and began fasting the moment she heard the news.
Word of her plan spread through the house and reached my mother and grandmother. My grandmother, who was visiting, asked bluntly,
“So when wona wookup yi for die, wona go keep yi for wuside?”
(Where will you keep him after raising him from the dead?)
H answered that we would take him to a hospital ward to receive drips after the miracle. As a fellow Pentecostal, I supported her plan and borrowed some of her faith. I decided to go with her to the mortuary. My mother also chose to come along to be with me.
We left early the next morning, determined to “raise the dead” as commanded in Matthew 10:8. H wore the same brown Ankara kabba she had traveled in, walking tall at the head of our small party — my mother and I trailing behind. At the hospital we asked for the mortuary attendant, a man whose lined face and worn trousers suggested years spent around the dead. We requested to see H’s father’s body.
He opened the mortuary. The room was cold in every sense: a wall of drawers, each large enough to hold a body. The attendant pulled out the drawer with H’s father. H quoted the Bible passage about Jesus asking onlookers to leave when he prayed for a dead girl, then asked the attendant to step out. He complied.
There we stood — H, my mother and I — before a lifeless body, armed with olive oil and faith. H began to pray aloud.
“Egbe-Tabe Samson (not his real name), in the name of Jesus, rise up!”
She commanded with authority.
“I command your spirit to return to your body!”
I stood beside her and answered amen as she continued, alternating tongues, shouts and prayers while pouring oil over the corpse.
Instead of signs of life, the situation grew stranger. We labored for what felt like thirty endless minutes. We were sweating, the body was soaked in olive oil, and my mother edged toward the door, ready to leave in case the dead man did wake.
The mortuary attendant lost patience and came back in to usher us out. Outside, we learned more about H’s father: he had worked as a native doctor and herbalist and was considered powerful in the area. His death stirred frustration among those who knew him.
I left that day feeling like I had been part of something unforgettable, though not in the way I had imagined. At home the first thing I did was take a long, scrubbing shower, trying to wash away the image of standing over a still body and waiting for life to return.
I do not doubt that God can raise the dead; Christianity centers on a man who died and rose again, and the Bible records several resurrections besides Jesus’. But this episode felt driven by human urgency and emotion rather than a clear sign of divine intervention.
Have you ever been involved in something similar? Do you know anyone who has attempted to raise the dead through prayer? What are your thoughts on praying for the dead? Share your views below.
“I tell you the truth, the Son can do nothing by himself. He does only what he sees the Father doing. Whatever the Father does, the Son also does.” John 5:19