Ancient Of Days — Paul Nwokocha -

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 crowd fell silent.

The villagers called it a miracle. The pastor called it an act of God. But Paul knew something they didn’t: the song had not come from memory. It had come through him, from a place older than his own bones. By the time Paul turned thirty, he had built a reputation that stretched from Lagos to London. They called him "The Healer of the Delta." His crusade ground was a half-acre of red dirt ringed by plastic chairs and rusted speakers. Every night, the sick came—women with tumors like hidden fruits, men with legs twisted by polio, children who had never spoken a word.

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. Paul Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days

But deep down, Paul Nwokocha knew the truth.

He walked off the stage slowly, leaning on a security guard’s arm.

And also—strangely—ageless.

After each healing, he aged.

And every night, Paul laid hands on them, closed his eyes, and called upon the Ancient of Days.

The blind saw. The lame walked. The mute shouted hallelujah. The Ancient of Days does not give power for free

Adwoa sat up. She blinked. She saw her granddaughter’s face for the first time in fifty years and laughed like a child.

He calculated quickly, the way a gambler counts cards. Adwoa was old, near the end. To undo fifty years of blindness, to rebuild her marrow, to push back the grave—that would cost years. Not months. Years.