I’ve always loved Muslim prayers because of how easy they are to follow—the gentle hum of voices in unison, the uniformity of movement and that special aura as everyone bows in submission, all facing the Kaaba. Even before I took my shahada, I would often stand outside the glass windows of a mosque, smiling while I watched them pray. It was like watching a perfectly choreographed dance, both humbling and quietly majestic. Once I became a Muslim, I embraced these prayers wholeheartedly. I spent long hours learning Arabic phrases, deciding which Quranic verse resonated with me the most, and practicing my ablutions until they felt as natural as breathing. One dream kept me motivated through it all: the first time I would lead a congregational prayer.
Leading Prayers at the Mosque
On my final night in Lagos, I stood outside the mosque, speaking with my alfa. Before entering, I did my ablutions under his watchful eye. The ritual washing is something I find both soothing and powerful: the hands, face, and beard; the mouth, nose, hair, ears, wrists, arms, and feet. Each step feels like a symbolic cleansing of both body and spirit.
Inside the mosque, I picked up my phone to begin my prayer, as I still relied on the text for reference. My alfa gave me a sideways glance. “What d’you need it for? You should know everything by now.”; He didn’t say it harshly, but there was a challenge in his voice.
Soon, three other men came in, also ready to pray. My alfa turned to me. “Lead,”; he said casually, like he was asking me to open a door, yet my heart thumped as if I’d just been asked to recite the entire Quran from memory. Against my better judgment, I set my phone down, deciding to trust myself and recite from memory.
The first raka’ah went smoothly. My recitation sounded decent, and I felt a swell of pride. The moment of calm was short-lived, though, because halfway through the second raka’ah, I realised something was off. My flow was stumbling, and the words tangled awkwardly on my tongue. Before I could correct myself, someone behind me muttered in Hausa and stormed off. I closed my eyes, sighed deeply, then reached for my phone and completed the prayer alone. It felt like a momentary failure, but in many ways, it was a critical step—an initiation of sorts—on my path to leading prayers confidently.
A few weeks later, two brothers stood behind me on a Friday at the Belfast Islamic Centre and nodded. “Lead us,”; one of them said just as I was about to begin my prayer. This time, I clutched my phone unapologetically, determined not to repeat my previous mishap. I led them through the prayers, feeling more certain about my poses and recitations. After we concluded, they approached me.
“Are you a new Muslim?”; One asked.
“Yes,”; I replied, bracing myself for feedback.
“Okay. For the afternoon prayers, you don’t have to speak out loud. Say most of it quietly—inside.”;
He smiled reassuringly, but his companion stood back, a bit disgruntled. “I am going to pray again. That prayer won’t work,”; he muttered.
“I am fine with it,”; the first man said with a friendly shrug as he headed out the door.
At that moment, I told myself I’d take one out of two as a success. At least I had led a prayer that someone accepted. I felt relieved and strangely triumphant, smiling at the small victory. That day taught me the beautiful variety within our faith community. Ultimately, I learned that so long as I’m sincere and striving, I’m on the right path.
My First Ramadan
Long before I converted to Islam, I had an interesting relationship with food and fasting. My father, who had grown up in difficult circumstances, made it his life’s mission that his children would never know the kind of hunger he did. My mother took his words seriously, so our home was always well-stocked. What I remember most, though, is playing with food.
We had a dog-eared cookbook that became my passport to culinary adventures. Sometimes, I would flip to the snacks section, find a chin-chin recipe and rummage around the kitchen for ingredients. My sister preferred more exotic experiments like sautéed vegetables with who-knows-what spices. My adventures ended abruptly one fateful afternoon when a pan of hot palm oil slipped from my grip and splashed onto my thigh while I was frying plantains. The burn was awful, but it taught me to be more cautious in everything I approach with a bit too much enthusiasm.
Growing up, my father would also declare three-day fasts from time to time. He and my mother would carry their fast until 6 p.m., while we children had less strict hours. Of course, we found ways to cheat. My sister and I would sneak to the pantry around 11 a.m., stuffing our faces with as much food as we could handle before returning to our fast. One day, we got caught, and our punishment was an extended fast until 6 p.m. I genuinely cannot remember if we even managed to keep that extension.
When I eventually embraced Islam, I looked forward to Ramadan with both anticipation and a bit of nervousness. Fasting is a critical pillar of the faith, and I wondered if I had the spiritual conviction, and physical stamina, to see it through. Part of me also relished the idea of the health benefits. As I understand it, giving the body a break from constant consumption is like letting a piece of land lie fallow—a Biblical concept as well, from Leviticus.
My first official Ramadan began smoothly enough. My colleagues at work noticed when I was fasting, and some tried to lighten my workload. As thoughtful as that was, it bothered me; I’ve always believed personal faith shouldn’t impose on anyone else. My landlady, a nursing mother from Pakistan, offered me a different perspective. She wasn’t fasting herself because of her condition, but she cooked and provided meals for her husband at sunset. “I get blessings for feeding him,”; she explained. “Almost as if I fasted, too.”;
I did a bit more research and discovered that supporting those who fast also carries its own reward. With that understanding, I found a system that worked for me: on days when I genuinely couldn’t fast, I would make an effort to help someone else who was fasting, whether by sharing a meal, offering some service, or simply being supportive in small ways.
I soon fell in love with the weekend Iftar at the Belfast Islamic Centre. There were always plates of dates and bottles of water, followed by a lively meal of white rice, curry and diced chicken. Upstairs, the floor was cleared for group seating, and brothers from the inner room would serve everyone. After the main serving, you could walk up for seconds or signal for more. One Saturday, I sat on my haunches, date in hand, water bottle close by and asked the person next to me to snap a photo. “I want to remember this,”; I told him with a grin. That moment captured my giddy excitement at finally experiencing Ramadan in full.
They called to prayer soon after, and we all moved downstairs to pray. Then, it was back up for the second round of food. My friend, Eslam, was serving, and I asked for a second helping. “Serve him plenty, serve him more,”; a voice teased from behind. “He will write about it.”; I laughed and asked for my third serving of food, and an idea flickered in my mind to capture these experiences in writing.
When Ramadan ended on a leap-year Saturday (February 29), I remember finishing work and going to the mosque. By the time I got to the mosque, the top floor was closed, the remnants of takeout boxes piled outside. I had missed the celebratory closing meal, so I took out my own packed food, sat quietly on the floor and imagined everyone there. It was a solemn ending—perhaps a bit too solemn—but it felt oddly fitting.
I’ve come to realise that Ramadan isn’t just about celebration and community; it’s also about introspection and solitude. In those quiet minutes, I let the lessons of my first Ramadan sink in: gratitude, discipline, the importance of helping others and a profound sense of belonging. These memories, the good and the clumsy, the lonely and the communal, have solidified my faith in a way I never quite expected.
Allahu Akbar. Indeed, God is Greatest.
