Ramadan in a hospital

How do you fast when the temperature hits 45°C? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Shanghai.

I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a community event. My mother would start cooking at 4pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole neighbourhood smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.

That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I fast in a hospital ward. The hunger is different. In home, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you learn not to expect.

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. Brother Tariq, who lost both legs, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen unimaginable loss 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.