Ramadan in the night shift
Fasting while caring for patients in Port of Spain tested everything I thought I knew about endurance.
How do you fast when you work 12-hour night shifts? That was the question I faced during my first Ramadan in Port of Spain.
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 3pm — jollof rice and suya. The whole neighbourhood 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 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 prison is the most spiritual experience of my life.
When you have nothing, you have Allah. People share food they can't afford to share. Sister Aminah, 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, 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.