Ramadan in the Arctic
Fasting while working 12-hour shifts in Kano tested everything I thought I knew about patience.
How do you fast when the sun doesn't set? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Kano.
I should tell you what Ramadan used to be. Before I lost everything, it was a celebration. My mother would start cooking at 3pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole block smelled of turmeric and chilli by Maghrib.
That Ramadan doesn't exist anymore. Now I fast while I pray between shifts. The hunger is different. In home, 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 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. Hajia Khadijah, who is 80 years old, 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, 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.