When I think of prayer, I remember that the African way was often through calling on our ancestors. Long before formal religion came to our lands, our people believed that those who had gone before us still walked with us, standing at the threshold between the living and the divine. Ancestors were not distant shadows but custodians of wisdom, protectors of families, and intercessors who carried our cries to God. Whether through libations poured on the earth, whispered names in the quiet of the night, or ritual gatherings around the fire, prayer in Africa was deeply relational, a way of keeping the bond between generations unbroken.
I never imagined I would one day find myself reaching for that path. But when my niece lay in a hospital bed, and doctors struggled to find a clear diagnosis for her discomfort, I felt powerless. That night, my sister sent a message saying the doctor suspected a heart defect. My younger sister and I had just left Gertrude’s Children’s Hospital around 3 a.m., finally reaching home an hour later, exhausted and heavy with worry. The thought of that possibility made my heart sink.
For two days, we rotated in and out of the hospital, sitting with our sister, her little girl, and her husband, doing our work from the hospital’s restaurant areas, grateful that our jobs allowed such flexibility. The entire family and close friends were bound together in prayer for our little angel. But that evening, when the news came, I felt an unfamiliar emptiness. What words could I find? How could I plead with God in that moment? My prayers felt small, fragile. And so, instinctively, I called on my grandparents, men and women of faith who had lived their lives serving in the church, who had already crossed over into eternal rest.
I told them what was happening, spoke their names, and asked for their help. In that moment, I wasn’t abandoning my faith; rather, I was drawing on it in the African way through the lineage of prayer, through those who had prayed before me and whose spirits still lingered close. I realized that sometimes prayer is not just about our words to God but about remembering that we are never alone, that generations before us still form part of the chorus that lifts our petitions heavenward. In the end, our little girl grew stronger. The doctors found a diagnosis, and before long she was home again, happily chewing on her favorite snack - boiled maize. Was it the ancestors, the desperate cries of her parents, the tireless prayer of both of her paternal and maternal grandparents, extended family and friends, or all of it woven together? I may never know for sure. What I do know is that she is well and that sometimes, when the heart sinks deepest, the oldest prayers rise the highest.
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