Ramadan in space
Fasting while serving in the military in Prague tested everything I thought I knew about endurance.
How do you fast when you're alone in a foreign country? That was the question I faced during my fifth Ramadan in Prague.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before the war, it was the highlight of my year. My aunt would start cooking at noon — jollof rice and suya. The whole street smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while the iftar is bread and hummus. The hunger is different. In the old country, 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 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 buried three children, leads taraweeh with a voice that makes grown men weep. Children who have seen too much 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.