Ramadan in a remote village
Fasting while caring for patients in Johannesburg tested everything I thought I knew about faith.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Johannesburg.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I moved here, it was the highlight of my year. My aunt would start cooking at 4pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole street smelled of coriander and ginger by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In before, 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 hospital 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 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, 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.