43, Muslim, and Tired of Explaining
I've answered 'do you have to pray five times?' approximately four hundred times. Here's my actual answer.
I'm 43. I was born in Philadelphia to Nigerian parents. I have a American accent, an Arabic name, and a permanent cloud of questions following me.
do you have to pray five times?? I've never wanted to. Why do I fast? Because Ramadan is genuinely my favourite month. Why don't I date? Because it's my choice.
The questions are exhausting. Not because they're offensive — most are genuinely curious. But because I'm a teenager who wants to worry about exams, not conduct interfaith dialogue at every Christmas gathering.
Social media makes it worse and better. Worse because every time a someone on TV says something ignorant about Islam happens, my DMs fill with people asking me to condemn it — as if I personally orchestrated international events between maths homework. Better because I've found Muslim creatives online who get it.
My mother says I should be patient. My imam says I should be a good ambassador. But I'm 43. I shouldn't have to be an ambassador. I should get to be a kid.
I'm not a representative of 2 billion people. I'm just a woman from Philadelphia trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. Is that so complicated?
Apparently, yes. But I'm learning not to care. My faith is mine. My identity is mine. And both are non-negotiable.