Ramadan in a refugee camp
Fasting while working construction in Tokyo tested everything I thought I knew about faith.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my second Ramadan in Tokyo.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was a community event. My father would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole street smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In the old country, fasting was a choice — you knew the feast was coming. Here, every morsel feels like a gift.
But here's what I didn't expect: Ramadan in the camp is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Hajia Khadijah, 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, we heard Quran from every direction. I stood there and cried. Not from sadness — from awe. These people, who had every reason to give up, 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.