Ramadan in space
Fasting while studying for finals in Tokyo tested everything I thought I knew about gratitude.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my third Ramadan in Tokyo.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was a community event. My father would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole village smelled of garlic and cumin by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I break fast alone. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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 the Arctic 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, a stranger shared their last date. 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.