Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while teaching children in Lagos tested everything I thought I knew about endurance.
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 Lagos.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the diagnosis, it was a community event. My uncle would start cooking at 3pm — stuffed vine leaves and kibbeh. The whole village smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In home, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, you eat what's available and thank Allah for it.
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 is 80 years old, 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, the entire ward prayed together. 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.