Between Life and Death: A Near-Death Experience That Taught Me the Power of Love and Prayer.

Part One: The Struggle of Illness.

It wasn’t just any hospital stay. This was the aftermath of my bone marrow transplant—a battle that drained me physically, mentally, and emotionally. I had just undergone the final rounds of chemotherapy, and I was lying in that hospital room feeling like my body had been stretched to its limits.

I was in the hospital for three weeks, sick beyond words. My body felt like it was falling apart. I hadn’t showered in days—hell, I hadn’t even been able to move much beyond the confines of my bed. The pain was unbearable, the exhaustion overwhelming. I felt filthy, both physically and emotionally. And on top of that, I was ignored by the nurses. Despite crying out for help, despite the countless moments where I felt like I was suffocating in pain and weakness, they didn’t come. My cries were dismissed. I was left alone in my suffering, in a dark place both inside and out.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I wasn’t imagining it when I heard the nurses talking about me from the other side of the room. They were taunting me, mocking my pain. It was like I wasn’t even human to them. My room was right next to the reception desk, so I could hear everything.

My family was miles away. They were in Nigeria, unable to be with me in those moments when I needed them most. It wasn't any fault of theirs because a trip like this one costs a lot of money and let's not talk about the hurdle of getting a visa into the UK. I had a couple of "friends" from church who visited every other week, but strangely, they hadn’t come in the past week. I don’t go to that church anymore.

Looking back, it almost felt like it was expected that I wouldn’t make it—that everything had been set up in a way to remind me of how alone I truly was. I was isolated, abandoned in a place that was supposed to care for me, but instead, I was left to face my greatest fear alone.

In those moments, the loneliness was suffocating. The pain was unbearable. And yet, I held on. There was a quiet resolve deep inside me that refused to let go.

Part Two: The Moment of Death.

By the third week of being in the hospital, after what felt like endless days of suffering, something unexpected happened. After the last nurse came to flush my line and left for the night, I lay in bed exhausted. The pain was so intense that I could barely think. I closed my eyes, hoping for some sleep, but what happened next was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

As I drifted off, a strange and comforting sensation came over me. It was as if invisible arms, as large as the bed itself, gently wrapped themselves around me. There was a weight, a warmth, and a feeling of being completely enveloped. Despite my sickness, I felt safe, protected. It was as if a calmness had settled over my soul—something beyond this world, beyond the pain and isolation of my physical state. I felt at peace for the first time in days. And then, I fell asleep.

But what happened next was even more surreal.

I found myself standing in a completely dark room. There was nothing in the room except for a single candle flame. It stood in front of me, flickering softly in the darkness. And then—just as quickly as it had appeared—it was blown out. The room plunged into absolute darkness.

In that moment, I knew. Without a doubt, I knew—I was dead. The realization hit me with a strange calmness, as though I had always known this would happen. There was no fear, no panic. I wasn’t scared. I was simply… aware.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by the sounds of voices. At first, they were faint, distant. A man, a woman, a couple of voices, all praying. I couldn’t quite make out their words, but I could hear their desperation, their pleas. The voices grew louder, closer, until they all merged together, becoming a cacophony of prayers and cries. It felt like an overwhelming wave of voices, a flood of people trying to reach me.

And then, in the middle of all this, I heard something that stopped me cold: My mother’s cry. It pierced through the chaos, raw and full of pain. Her voice was unmistakable, heart-wrenching. It was as if her grief was reaching through the veil, and I felt every inch of it.

I wondered how it was even possible to hear her, how it was possible to hear so many voices from all over the place. It was as though I was hearing the prayers and cries of people from all over the world. Some were shouting, others were screaming, and others were praying quietly, but all of it—the collective energy—was focused on me. And in that noise, my mother’s voice rang out the loudest. She was screaming in anguish, crying for me to come back.

I wasn’t sure what was happening, but the noise was overwhelming. I couldn’t understand why I felt the pull of all these voices, why it felt like a crowd was trying to drag me back to them, back into life. And then, in the midst of the confusion, something else started to happen. I could hear breathing—a slow, steady breathing, like someone standing right behind me. It was heavy, deliberate.

At that moment, the flame that had gone out suddenly reignited. A soft glow filled the room again, and I felt a shift. It was as if a force was pulling me, a tugging sensation. My spirit jerked back toward my body. I could feel myself being pulled, my very essence drawn back into the physical world.

And then, in a moment that felt both immediate and eternal, I was awake.

I jumped out of bed, gasping for air, and screamed, “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus!” I was talking to death itself, the force that had tried to claim me. I felt as though it had been reaching out for me, trying to drag me into the darkness, and I fought back with everything I had left.

The doctor and nurse rushed into the room, startled by my sudden outburst. They were shocked, confused, and frankly, a little concerned by the intensity of what they had just witnessed. There was an expression of disbelief on their faces, but also something else—something I couldn’t quite place, maybe disappointment. How could they not understand what had just happened? How could they not see what I had just felt?

At the time of my first discharge, eight weeks after everything started, one of the nurses who had been part of my care, who taunted me came to me and, to my surprise, apologized rather half heartedly offering me chocolate, a large easter egg. This apology didn’t happen during the moments of my suffering, but rather when I was finally leaving the hospital. It was late, but insincere enough to offer a sense of closure. After all, everybody must reap what they sow.

In all this and more importantly, I realized something else profound: The power of love is unlike anything else. The love my mother has for me—her prayers, her anguish, and her hope—had pulled me back. It wasn’t just the prayers of others; it was her love that reached across the boundary between life and death.

I’ve come to understand, that prayer is one the most powerful weapons. It is not just words—prayer is a living, breathing connection to God, and it can reach places beyond our comprehension. It can change the very fabric of existence, both in life and in death.

And while coming back from death didn’t immediately take away the pain, it started the long process of healing—a healing that has lasted for over a year. The road to recovery has been slow and challenging, but I’m incredibly grateful to God for bringing me back to life. The pain hasn’t gone away entirely, but I carry it with me as part of my journey. It is a reminder of what I overcame and the strength that I discovered in the process.

When I look back on that experience, I don’t just think about the terror or the suffering I endured. I think about the love that surrounded me, the power of my family’s prayers, and the miracle of life itself. No matter how dark it gets, no matter how impossible things may seem, there is a force stronger than death. And that force is love, the love of those who care for you, and the prayers they send up to God on your behalf.

There is no greater magic than the magic of prayer born of love and to a God that is love. It is the power of love, the power of faith, and the connection we share with one another that can move mountains—even death itself.

Stay Connected.

If you enjoyed this content and want to explore more insights like this, consider subscribing to my page. Your support helps me continue creating meaningful content. And, if you feel led to, you can also leave a tip as a token of appreciation. Thank you for being part of this journey!