Ramadan in a fishing boat
Fasting while teaching children in Athens tested everything I thought I knew about community.
How do you fast when there isn't enough food to break your fast? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Athens.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was a celebration. My grandmother would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole block smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In home, 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 prison is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Sister Aminah, who lost both legs, 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.