Ramadan in a fishing boat

How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Abuja.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was the highlight of my year. My grandmother would start cooking at 4pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole village smelled of cardamom and saffron by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I fast in a hospital ward. The hunger is different. In my mother's kitchen, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, the feast is whatever the canteen has.

But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the night shift is the most spiritual experience of my life.

When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Ustadh Ibrahim, who buried three children, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen things no child should see sit in circles memorising Quran as if the words are armour.

Maybe they are.

Last Ramadan, on the 27th night, someone put candles in every doorway. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had lost everything, were still reaching for the holiest night of the year.

Ramadan taught me that worship is not about abundance. It's about what you offer when you have almost nothing left to give.