Bongolistically,
Mallam O.
In Warima I was born into a Muslim family. The rhythm of our days was set by prayer times, five times a day, and the calendar of our lives marked by religious observances with festivities. Among these, none was more significant than Ramadan, the holy month of fasting, just as the one that has started today, March 1st, 2025.
At the age of ten, I was considered old enough to begin learning the discipline of fasting. In our village, almost everyone was Muslim, and during Ramadan, the entire community transformed. The usual hustle and bustle slowed to a reverent pace during daylight hours, only to burst into joyful energy when the evening call to prayer signaled the breaking of the fast. I always observed that prayer to be the fastest.
My father owned a fuel tanker. Driving that took him away from the village during the day. He was a man of quiet strength and gentle wisdom, understanding the challenges his young boy Osman would face during his first attempts at fasting from dawn until dusk.
“You must learn,” he told me before the first day of Ramadan, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile that suggested he knew more than he said. “But learning takes time, and Allah is merciful.”
The days of Ramadan began early. By 5 AM, my stepmothers would have prepared a hearty pre-dawn meal. We ate rice, cassava bread, and whatever protein we could afford—often fish or occasionally chicken and diverse bush meat. Then we would pray, and by 6 AM, the fast had begun. No food, no water—not even a drop—until sunset around 7 PM.
The first few hours were easy enough. The morning air was still cool, and my stomach remained satisfied from the pre-dawn meal. But as the sun climbed higher, bringing with it the typical unrelenting heat, my mouth would grow dry, and my stomach would begin to protest with loud, embarrassing growls.
My father often reminded me that Ramadan meant more than just abstaining from food and drink. “The fast is not complete if you only deny your stomach,” he would say. “You must also keep your tongue from lies, your eyes from impure sights, your ears from gossip, and your hands from wrongdoing. This is the true meaning of fasting—to purify both body and soul.”
One particularly challenging day, when the heat seemed more oppressive than usual, I heard the familiar rumble of my father’s tanker returning to the village. He parked his large vehicle in its usual spot near our compound, and I ran to greet him as was customary. His eyes, tired from a day of driving, studied my face carefully.
“Come with me,” he said quietly, leading me toward his large room in our house.
Once inside, with the door closed, he reached into his bag and pulled out a can of Fanta—that bright orange soda that seemed to glow like treasure in the dimly lit room.
“Drink,” he whispered. “But do not tell anyone.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. The sweet, fizzy liquid was heaven as it rushed down my parched throat. I drank so eagerly that I hiccupped loudly, causing my father to press a finger to his lips, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“Better now?” he asked.
I nodded, feeling both relief and a touch of guilt. “But is it not wrong, Father? To break the fast?”
He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Allah understands that you are learning. The Quran teaches us that children, travelers, the elderly, and those who are ill are not required to fast if it causes hardship. You are still learning the way.”
Two hours later, he called me back again, this time with a small portion snacks hidden in a bowl. “Eat,” he instructed. “Just enough to keep your strength. Next year, you will fast a little longer. And the year after that, longer still.”
In the evening, when the call from the mosque signaled Maghrib prayer and the end of the day’s fast, I would position myself near my father at the communal breaking of the fast. Later in the night, we would gather again for the special prayers, the final devotion of the day that spiritually prepared us for the following day’s fast. Together with the other villagers, we would begin with water and small pieces of bread, following tradition, before enjoying a more substantial meal.
Looking around at the other children my age, I noticed the same relief in their eyes that I felt in my heart. Later, I overheard some of the other fathers exchanging knowing glances and subtle nods. It dawned on me then that perhaps I wasn’t the only child receiving secret sips and bites throughout the day.
The month culminated in Eid al-Fitr, a celebration marking the end of Ramadan. We donned our finest clothes, attended special prayers at the village field, and spent the day visiting neighbours, exchanging gifts, and feasting without restriction. The joy on everyone’s faces was unmistakable—both for the religious significance and, I suspect, for the adults’ relief at no longer having to maintain the charade of their children’s “complete” fasting.
The Prophet Muhammad himself said, “Make things easy and do not make them difficult.” In the quiet wisdom of the fathers of Warima, including my own, this teaching came to life—creating a generation of children who associated their faith not with unbearable hardship, but with love, mercy, and the gentle guidance of those who came before.
May the holy month of Ramadan bring you peace and happiness.
