The Smell That Came Before Death

It happened when I was about twenty.

That season, something opened inside me. We were fasting a lot then—long, hard fasts that stripped the flesh down to the bone and left the spirit alert, almost too alert. You didn’t just pray; you noticed things. Sounds felt sharper. Silence had weight. And sometimes, without warning, the air spoke.

We went to pray for a woman—my friend’s mother. A decent house. Clean walls. Nothing wrong at first glance. But the moment I stepped inside, it hit me.

A smell.

Not rot. Not sickness. Something colder. Something final.

It sat in the room like a quiet guest no one acknowledged. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. I already knew. We prayed anyway. We always prayed. Faith doesn’t give you permission to walk away.

She died a few hours later.

That was when I learned there is such a thing as the smell of death.

The lesson came again, harder this time.

A young convert—barely settled in faith—was sick. His stomach was swollen, round and tight, like a man carrying a child that was never meant to be born. Brother Sunday Egwakhide and I took it seriously. Three days. Dry fast. No food. No water. Just prayer and hunger and silence.

When we entered his room, the smell was there again.

Same cold presence. Same final note.

Something rose in me—anger, desperation, grief. I prayed in tongues until my voice broke. Until my legs shook. Until I had nothing left to give. We left the room quietly.

I told myself our fast wouldn’t be wasted.

I had barely finished bathing at home when the news came.

He was dead.

That one hurt. It sat heavy in my chest. Brother Sunday and I didn’t talk much after that. There was nothing to say. I learned something then—not everything is about victory in the way we define it. What matters most is closeness. Knowing when God is speaking, and what He is saying now.

Later, much later, my Uncle Dodo fell ill.

I visited him and the smell was there again.

But this time, I didn’t panic.

I asked God.

The answer was quiet and clear: He is going home in peace.

My uncle had given his life to Christ. His work was done.

I asked him gently. He smiled and nodded.

He died that night.

I learned that gifts are not trophies. They are signals. Warnings. Invitations to listen more closely. And that devastation comes when we walk in darkness—not when God speaks, but when we don’t understand what He is saying.

In all things, God remains faithful.