By Richard Dablah
The smoke from mourning candles still hangs heavy over Ghana. The tragic crash of a military helicopter in Adansi Akrofuom, claiming eight lives dedicated to fighting illegal mining, has plunged the nation into grief. Yet alongside official condolences and national mourning, a disturbing counter-narrative erupted with viral urgency: social media flooded with prophets—named and anonymous—proclaiming, “I saw it coming.” One even audaciously claimed their prayers diverted disaster from the President.
This is no mere expression of faith. It is the symptom of a corrosive spiritual economy emerging from our digital age—one where religious authority is increasingly measured not by compassion, service, or wisdom, but by the algorithmic timeliness of predictive spectacle. Prophecy has become click-driven currency . Catastrophe strikes; prophets scramble to claim foreknowledge. When a prediction appears to “hit,” followers multiply. When it misses, it’s spun as proof that prayer altered fate. Either way, the prophet’s reach expands. The spectacle itself—sensational, shareable, self-referential—becomes the end goal.
The consequences of this economy are neither abstract nor benign. Amplified public anxiety is among the first casualties. When trusted spiritual voices broadcast ominous predictions, the ripple effect transcends the digital pulpit: markets falter, communities fracture, and simmering tensions ignite. We’ve seen this volatility before, and the aftermath of the helicopter crash lays bare its national scale. Fear, repackaged as divine insight, becomes a profitable commodity.
Equally corrosive is the diversion of moral energy. Authentic religious leadership mobilizes tangible aid—fundraising for bereaved families, coordinating search efforts, offering trauma counseling, building literal and metaphorical shelters. Yet the viral prophecy model thrives on spectacle, not substance. Too often, the urgent video is followed by an urgent appeal for offerings or loyalty, monetizing spiritual authority. This leaves the slow, essential work of community repair—reburning riverbanks after floods, organizing volunteers, sitting quietly with the grieving—starved of oxygen. Which truly fortifies a village: a shared prophecy clip, or shared sandbags?
At its deepest level, this spectacle erodes civic trust. When prophecies are traded as dramatic content, they risk becoming tools for division or political manipulation. Predictions of violence or leaders’ deaths can morph into self-fulfilling prophecies, exploiting fragile institutions and a public raw with sorrow. In a moment demanding unity and factual clarity, the amplification of fear frays the social fabric.
Contrast this with the wisdom of older traditions woven into Africa’s spiritual tapestry. In many indigenous systems, misfortune signals a disrupted balance within the community or cosmos. The response is not self-aggrandizing prediction, but collective, preventive action: libations poured to honor ancestors, cleansing rituals led by elders, communal efforts to call rain when fields parch. Here, authority rests not on views or virality, but on the ritual’s tangible healing effect within the community. It is work rooted in repair, addressing root causes, and shared responsibility—performed because the village depends on it, not for digital validation.
This is no call for uncritical nostalgia. Traditional practices have their own complexities. Nor is every televised prophecy malicious. But the Adansi tragedy demands a reckoning for our religious public life. If faith leaders claim divine foresight, they owe more than a replayable clip. They owe accountability, humility, and practical solidarity. Did your vision “save” a leader? Then organize blood drives. Did you “foresee” the crash? Then coordinate aid for families, demand transparent investigations, help navigate the labyrinth of state compensation. True spiritual authority is earned not in the prophecy feed, but in the mud and sweat of collective action.
Religious councils and media regulators must awaken to their role. Ghanaians hunger for moral leadership that calms rather than inflames—an ethic demanding extreme caution with prophecies affecting public figures and insisting that fearful proclamations be paired with verifiable, protective steps. Without this, we risk a self-perpetuating cycle of spectacle that corrodes trust and distracts from the vital labor of actual protection.
Ultimately, the test is personal. What do we, as congregations and citizens, truly value? Do we elevate the prophet who “knew,” or the community that showed up? Do we chase the fleeting validation of a viral clip, or invest in the patient, unglamorous work of soup kitchens, trauma counselors, and rebuilt homes?
The eight men lost were called “gallant servants.” Let that word guide us beyond eulogy. True gallantry in faith isn’t performed for the camera. It is found in the humble, present-tense labor of protection—shoring up the levees of our communities, both physical and spiritual. If religion claims the language of the future, it must prove its worth in the urgent reality of the now. Praemonitus, praemunitus —”forewarned is forearmed”—only rings true if the warning sparks tangible fortification, not just digital spectacle. It is time to reclaim that deeper, older currency.