IBADAN, Nigeria — Marcus Chukwu was having a hard time coming to terms with the idea that he should refrain from evangelizing to a patient on his deathbed. “Religion is always effective, when the patient gets to the end of the road,” said Chukwu, who works as a nurse at an Anglican hospital in the southwestern Nigerian city of Ibadan. “When you are seeking medical help, and you know there is nothing left to do, then the next step is God; even a Muslim, in that situation, 70 percent of them will go to church.”
Chukwu and a handful of colleagues were gathered around a horseshoe of folding tables at the Center for Palliative Care in Ibadan, a cream-colored stucco bungalow that houses Nigeria’s oldest hospice program, established in 2007. The occasion was a three-day “Training for Carers”, which for the first time included a session on the role of spirituality and religion in end-of-life care. As an oversized fan hummed in one corner, Chukwu and other caregivers working for local religious organizations went over the basics and boundaries of palliative care.
Life-threatening illness can bring anyone face to face with the supernatural. In Nigeria, though, the supernatural peers out from posters and billboards everywhere. It invites you to attend “Miracle Arenas” and “Anointing Revivals,” and reminds you in block letters on hospital walls, “We care, God cures.” Nigeria is roughly 50 percent Christian, and an increasing number of the faithful are “Renewalists,” a subset of Protestant Christianity including Pentecostal and so-called Charismatic churches, whose adherents believe in God’s ongoing intervention in daily life. This is thought to occur through the physical presence of the Holy Spirit, which possesses believers and wards off illness and all manner of misfortune.
For these reasons, Nigerians, who attend church at rates that are among the highest in the world, often echo the words of their pastors when faced with a terminal diagnosis. “It's not my portion, in Jesus’s name,” they declare. To say anything else would be to cast doubt on God’s power. That makes delivering end-of-life care difficult—particularly in a region, sub-Saharan Africa, where faith-based organizations administer 40 percent of hospitals and clinics.
The growth of Renewalist Christianity in Nigeria mirrors a trend throughout sub-Saharan Africa, and indeed much of the world. Renewalists represented just 6 percent of global Christendom in 1970; today, they account for one in four Christians worldwide, or more than 500 million people. In Nigeria, that increase has been spurred along by religious services that attract more people than the Super Bowl and showcase the power of miracles. While I was in Lagos, evangelists stood at busy intersections in neon-green vests advertising the “Only God can do this” crusade, to be held by the Lord’s Chosen Church the following week. The church’s general overseer billed the two-day gathering as a place where “problems that have defied solution will … receive solution.”
The challenge for Nigerian doctors providing palliative care, then, is to make the case for treatment that is explicitly not about solutions, or at least not about the sort of solutions you encounter at a Christian crusade. O.A. Soyannwo, an anesthesiologist who founded the Center for Palliative Care, says it’s difficult to persuade patients that some diseases can only be managed. “Everything about palliative care is new, because everybody wants a cure,” she notes.
If the country’s radio and television programming is any indication, Nigeria is a place where miracles happen every minute: HIV, tuberculosis, diabetes, and cancer melt away at church services every Sunday and at all-night prayer vigils on Fridays.
Across town from Soyannwo’s clinic, I visited the Apete branch of the Celestial Church of Christ, one of several popular churches where believers walk barefoot and wear white robes from head to toe. Pastor Emmanuel Adewale, known to his followers as Daddy, showed me a medical clinic his congregation had recently built in the church compound, where members are screened for diabetes and high blood pressure. He proceeded to tell me, however, that many medical problems are caused by “spiritual attacks” and therefore cannot be cured until they’re resolved spiritually. Accordingly, Daddy encourages members of his congregation to pray and ask for deliverance before seeking conventional medical treatment.
To demonstrate how commonplace miracles had become, he asked an aide to bring him artifacts from a kind of museum of miracles past. Exhibit A was a plastic water bottle filled with rusty nails, which he emptied onto a clean white sheet of paper on his desk. A nine-year-old boy, he explained, had vomited them up without explanation during a revival a few months earlier. At the service that same day—between choral singing backed by synth-keyboards and African drums, and fire-and-brimstone preaching by Daddy—a woman in her forties gave raucous testimony over a fuzzy PA system. Terrible stomach pains had plagued her for years before subsiding once and for all at a revival led by Daddy the year before; she blamed the problem on the Devil.
“There needs to be a re-orientation,” Soyannwo says, starting with the causes of illness. “If people believe a disease is caused by witchcraft, then they believe there’s nothing an orthodox hospital can do.”