BY RITA OYIBOKA
For as long as I can remember, we have always had two kitchens: one outside for cooking with firewood and the other inside for gas. Every morning, as early as 5 a.m., someone had to go outside to sweep the ashes from the cooking spot. Sometimes I went with a lamp; sometimes I didn’t, because I knew the terrain.
This time, I did take a lamp.
Half asleep, sweeping, I saw something black and long by the fireplace. It had rained the night before, so I assumed it was a millipede+ seeking warmth. I moved closer and instinctively reached to pick it up. Before my hand landed, something told me to look properly. I raised the lamp. And there it was.
I bolted out of the kitchen screaming, “Snake! Snake!” My father appeared almost instantly, cutlass in hand, then grabbed another, just in case he came face-to-face with an anaconda. It wasn’t one. It was a small black snake, no longer than two fingers stacked on each other.
Afterwards, the testimonies poured in. Thank God you took the lamp. Thank God you checked. Thank God you didn’t touch it.
That memory came rushing back when news broke of the death of Ifunanya Nwangene, fondly called Nanyah, a 26-year-old singer who died after a snake bite in Abuja. Almost immediately, the familiar fault lines appeared. Medicine versus spirituality. System failure versus prophecy. Facts versus faith. Within hours, Nigerians had picked sides. Within days, everyone became an expert.
What is clear is that a young woman died. That alone should slow us down. Instead, the internet did what it does best: it turned tragedy into a courtroom, a pulpit, and a debate hall all at once.
From a medical standpoint, the facts are grim but straightforward. She was bitten, likely on the wrist, a high-risk location for venom spread. She sought help. The first clinic reportedly lacked antivenom. She was moved to the Federal Medical Centre (FMC) Abuja. There are conflicting accounts: friends insist treatment was delayed and inadequate; the hospital insists antivenom was administered and complications proved fatal. What is not in dispute is this: she died from a condition that is largely treatable in a functional emergency healthcare system.
A capital city without reliable access to life-saving antivenom is not a spiritual problem. It is a governance problem. Antivenom requires refrigeration; refrigeration requires electricity; electricity requires planning, funding, and accountability. This is not mysticism; it is infrastructure. When people die because systems don’t work, calling it “fate” is a convenient escape route.
And yet, it would be dishonest to pretend the spiritual angle does not exist, or that it doesn’t matter to many people. It does. Nigeria is deeply spiritual, and dismissing that outright is neither realistic nor intellectually honest.
Yes, spirituality has a place. Faith helps people process loss, find meaning, and cope with randomness. Even medicine admits uncertainty. Doctors work with probabilities, not guarantees. No one knows anything 100 per cent. Outcomes are shaped by timing, biology, response speed, and sometimes sheer bad luck. Hindsight, as always, is 50/50, clear only after the fact.
But spirituality turns dangerous when it replaces accountability.
The claim that “her snake family came to carry her” and “the marine kingdom is spreading” shuts down inquiry. It absolves institutions. It ends the conversation where it should begin. Worse, it subtly blames the victim, implying lineage, destiny, or hidden guilt, without evidence.
The discovery of multiple snakes in her residence is shocking, yes. But unusual does not automatically mean supernatural. Snakes follow rodents. Rodents follow food and shelter. Poor drainage, weather conditions, and environmental factors offer plausible explanations.
The same logic applies to the prophecies now circulating online. Humans are exceptionally good at connecting dots in hindsight. Give any tragedy enough time and context, and someone will remember a dream, a sermon, a post, or a vague warning that suddenly “makes sense.” That doesn’t automatically make it divine foresight; it makes it a very human attempt to find meaning in loss.
Since her death, several posts and videos have resurfaced claiming that a prophecy or warning was issued beforehand. Some allege she was specifically warned about “three snakes” in her house, sometimes narrowed down to her toilet or drainage, sometimes before January 31, 2026. One widely shared claim points to a supposed warning from November 25, 2025, which, according to online narrators, went unheeded. Social media platforms, Facebook, Instagram, and TikTok, are now awash with videos bearing titles like “Prophecy that was given to the late Ifunanya Nwangene about snake bite resurfaces online,” often accompanied by dramatic captions that suggest a direct, personal prophecy.
There is also an alleged “old exposition” attributed to an anonymous group, warning her about three snakes in her house. Beneath these posts are comments steeped in regret and moral judgment: “If only she listened.”
But this is where caution is necessary. Prophecies that only gain clarity after an event deserve scrutiny, not automatic acceptance. This does not invalidate faith or spiritual belief. For many, prophecy is a sincere and meaningful framework for understanding life. However, turning hindsight narratives into proof risks distorting reality and, worse, unfairly burdening the deceased with blame they can no longer respond to. It also feeds a dangerous culture where tragedy is reduced to “warnings ignored” rather than examined through practical, social, or systemic lenses.
In moments like this, empathy should lead, not sensationalism. There is a difference between seeking meaning and manufacturing certainty. One helps people heal; the other merely satisfies the human urge to explain the unexplainable.
If we spiritualise everything, we fix nothing. If we medicalise everything without acknowledging cultural and religious context, we persuade no one. It is possible to believe in God and demand functional hospitals. It is possible to pray and insist that antivenom be stocked. Faith and systems are not competitors; they are complementary.
Ifunanya’s death sits at the intersection of faith, biology, and systemic collapse. The snake was the trigger, not the root cause. The root cause is a country where emergencies become lotteries, and survival depends on timing, privilege, and luck.
Attributing her passing to prophecy alone or system failure alone oversimplifies a complex reality. The snakebite was the catalyst, but not the sole cause. And in that space, certainty is an illusion; hindsight, a partial lens. What remains is the call to learn, to improve systems, and to honour her memory without succumbing to easy explanations.
