I didn’t wake up one day and decide to become a Muslim. It wasn’t a rebellious act, it wasn’t because of a man, and it definitely wasn’t to spite anyone. It was a quiet journey, one that started with questions I couldn’t ignore and a restlessness I couldn’t shake.
I was raised Pentecostal. Church every Sunday, Bible study on Wednesdays, all-night vigils, and fasting programs that started at 6 a.m. and sometimes ended at midnight. I was the one who led the youth choir. I spoke in tongues, laid hands. I was that girl, until I wasn’t.
It began in my second year at university. I started reading religious texts from other faiths just out of curiosity. Islam was the one that pulled me in. The discipline, the rhythm of the prayers, the clarity. I found peace in it. Real peace.
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When I finally told my parents I had converted, my mother cried like someone had died. My father didn’t even speak, he just walked out. My siblings stopped including me in the family group chat. My uncle, a pastor, came to my hostel the next day to “cast out the demon of confusion.” I stood there, silent, as he prayed over me with spit flying from his mouth.
They stopped paying my school fees two weeks after that. I had to start tutoring part-time to survive. Nobody told me directly, but I heard the whispers. “She’s possessed, she’s strayed, she’ll come crawling back when life humbles her”.
My mum once sent me a message, “I don’t have a daughter who worships other fake gods.”
It broke me. Not just the silence. But the way they turned their backs like I’d committed a crime. Like I wasn’t still me. Like faith had erased every good thing I’d ever done in their eyes.
The hardest part? Celebrations. Christmas came, and there was no invite. I watched them post pictures. My siblings in matching outfits, my dad eating the turkey, my mum smiling in her red gele, and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even missed.
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Still, I kept going. I started attending jummah prayers at a small mosque near campus. I found community. I found people who didn’t see me as a problem to be solved, but a person choosing her own path. I cried a lot. I still do. Especially when I see old pictures from home.
It’s been three years. My father hasn’t called me once. My mother only messaged me when her sister died. She still refuses to say my Muslim name. But I’ve stopped begging for their love. I’ve made peace with the cost of my truth.
Because, even though I lost my family, I found myself. And that is something they can never take away from me.
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