Ramadan is a time for fasting, prayer, and spiritual reflection, but for *Hakeem, 32, the month also comes with a strong wave of frustration. While Islam allows intimacy between married couples at night, his wife refuses any kind of sexual contact.
In this story, he shares how his sex drive seems to skyrocket during Ramadan, but his wife wants nothing to do with it. Even when he suggests something as simple as a handjob, she shuts him down. Now, he’s left feeling rejected, confused, and desperate for the holy month to end.
As Told To Adeyinka
I always look forward to Ramadan. It’s a month of deep spiritual reflection, discipline, and blessings. But what I didn’t expect was that it would also become the month my wife and I started having problems in the bedroom.
Let me be clear: Islam allows married couples to be intimate after breaking their fast. I know this. My wife knows this. We’ve even attended lectures where scholars reinforced the fact that sex is perfectly permissible once the fast has been broken. Yet, for some reason, she has decided that this year, she’s suddenly too holy for sex.
It wasn’t always like this. We’ve been married for two years, and before now, intimacy was never a major issue. We had a good rhythm — sometimes spontaneous, other times planned, but always fulfilling for both of us. Even during our first two Ramadans as a married couple, we still found time for each other. The routine was simple: break our fast, pray taraweeh, enjoy some downtime, and then, if the mood was right, get down to business before performing ghusl (spiritual cleansing) and getting some sleep before sahur.
But this year? It’s like I married a different woman.
It started subtly. A few nights into Ramadan, I initiated things, and she pulled away, mumbling something about being tired. Fair enough; fasting is exhausting, and I didn’t want to push. But then it happened again. And again. Every time I tried, she’d shake her head and say, “It’s Ramadan, Hakeem.”
At first, I thought she was just adjusting to the fast. Maybe she was mentally drained and needed time. But then, one night, after taraweeh, I tried again, and she looked at me like I had just suggested we break our fast with pork. “I just don’t think it’s appropriate this month,” she said.
That was when I realised this wasn’t just exhaustion; she genuinely believed sex should be off-limits for the entire month.
Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail
Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action
To be honest, I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. I understand that she wants to be more spiritually focused. But intimacy is a huge part of marriage, and completely shutting me out for 30 days is unfair. I even tried asking for small things — a little touch here and there, maybe just a handjob—something to bridge the gap, but she shut it down completely.
I don’t get it. We’ve both sat through Islamic lectures where scholars clearly stated that sex is permissible at night during Ramadan. I even tried reminding her of that, but she just waved me off with “I know, but it doesn’t feel right.”
And that’s where my frustration lies. If it’s not haram, and it’s something we’ve done before during Ramadan, then why does it suddenly feel wrong this year?
I won’t lie, my sex drive is higher during Ramadan. Maybe it’s the self-control required throughout the day, the healthy diet or the heightened emotions that come with fasting. But whatever it is, by night, I’m ready.
In the past, if she wasn’t available, I would just handle things myself. But this month, even that doesn’t feel right. It’s one thing to avoid haram things like porn; it’s another to feel guilty for even thinking about self-pleasure. So now, I’m stuck. I can’t be with my wife, and I can’t even take care of myself.
I’ve thought about pushing harder, maybe insisting that she honours my needs as my wife. But then what? Do I really want to be in a situation where she’s only doing it because she feels obligated, not because she actually wants to? That’s not the kind of intimacy I want.
[ad]
I’m relieved that the month is ending soon. But this has made me think about the possibility of future reoccurrence. What if this happens again next year? Will I be expected to endure an entire month of rejection every Ramadan? And beyond that, what if this isn’t just about Ramadan? What if this is the start of a bigger shift in how she views sex?
I don’t want to bring it up now because I know she’s in a deeply spiritual headspace, and I don’t want to ruin that for her. But once Ramadan is over, we have to talk. Because while I respect her feelings, I also need her to respect mine.
Marriage isn’t just about worship; it’s also about companionship, understanding, and yes, intimacy. And if we don’t figure this out now, I’m afraid it’ll only get worse.
Ramadan is a deeply personal journey, but experiencing it with a partner adds a new layer to the experience. For some, the early years of fasting together were filled with the excitement and struggle of waking up late for sahur, arguing over who should cook iftar, or figuring out how to balance religious devotion with relationship expectations. Years later, things have either settled into a comfortable routine or changed in ways they never expected.
We spoke to five married Muslims at different stages of marriage — newlyweds, young parents, and those who have spent years together — about how Ramadan as a couple has evolved for them over the years.
“We’re figuring out what works for us”
The first Ramadan as a married couple is often a reality check. Before now, *Nasir (30) and *Barakat (27), spent Ramadan with their families, where everything — from meal prep to wake-up calls — was taken care of. But now, it’s just the two of them, and nothing is going as planned.
“We thought it would be romantic waking up together for sahur, cooking iftar side by side, having deep spiritual bonding moments. But in reality? We’ve missed sahur twice already, and half the time, we just order food for iftar.”
Between work stress and adjusting to a new routine, they’re struggling to keep up. But even in the messiness, they’ve found small wins, like meal prepping on weekends to make things easier.
“I grew up watching my mum do everything during Ramadan,” Nasir adds. “But now, my wife and I are learning to share responsibilities. It’s our first, so we’re cutting ourselves some slack.”
“We used to struggle, now we’re each other’s rock”
Long-distance during Ramadan can be lonely, but for *Fatima (33) and her husband, it also built the foundation of their relationship.
“Our first Ramadan together wasn’t really together. I was still in school, and he was working in another city. We tried virtual iftars, but the bad internet didn’t always let us be great. The loneliness used to hit hard because Ramadan is such a communal experience,” Fatima recalls.
Now, five years in, things are different. They share their fast-breaking moments in the same space, wake each other up for sahur, and even plan their sadaqah together.
“Long-distance taught us not to take our time together for granted. Even if we’re too tired to talk much, just knowing we’re here for each other makes all the difference.”
[ad]
“It’s the absolute trenches with kids”
Having kids changes everything, and for *Amina (41) and her husband, Ramadan is no exception.
“Before kids, Ramadan was our time. We’d cook together, have long talks after iftar, and even go for taraweeh together for most of the 30 days. Every Sunday was also for one Ramadan lecture or the other. It was really peaceful back then. Romantic, even.”
Now? Their Ramadan looks completely different.
“With two kids under six, it’s all about survival. The MVP is whoever wakes up first to sort sahur while the other steals a few extra minutes of sleep. Sometimes, we’re too exhausted to even eat properly. If one of us makes it to the mosque for taraweeh, it’s a miracle.”
Despite the exhaustion, there’s an unspoken teamwork between them. Ramadan may not be romantic anymore, but the love is still there, just expressed through moments of rest and shared responsibilities.
“Some nights, we barely get to pray together. But we remind ourselves that this is a phase. In a few years, the kids will be part of our Ramadan traditions too, insha Allah.“
Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail
Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action
“We’ve found a rhythm, but we’ve also changed”
At the start of their marriage in 2013, *Kareem (49) and *Toyin (36) had an unspoken rule: Ramadan meant doing everything together.
“We tried to wake up at the same time, break our fasts at the same time, pray every prayer together. It was sweet and exhausting but we didn’t feel it so much because of ground rule of togetherness, “Kareem” shares.
Over time, they realised that faith is a personal journey for each individual.
“I was in a really bad place spiritually some years ago and wasn’t praying. My iman was weak, and my wife would get worried and sometimes involve other family members especially during Ramadan. It caused a lot of rift because I felt I was being forced against my will, but alhamdullilahi, I found my faith again. However, that period taught us to be more understanding. Now, we give each other space. If one of us is extra tired and wants to skip sahur, that’s fine. If one person prefers to pray at home while the other goes to the mosque, it’s no problem. Ramadan isn’t about performing together, it’s about supporting each other’s spiritual journey.”
What started as a relationship built on doing everything as a unit has now evolved into one of understanding and balance.
“It’s more meaningful now. We’re more intentional about encouraging each other’s individual faith rather than forcing a routine that doesn’t always work for both of us.”
“It’s no longer about the merriment, it’s about faith”
In their early years, *Rahman (44) and his wife saw Ramadan as an opportunity for extravagant iftars and hosting big gatherings.
“Back then, Ramadan was all about the thrill of good food and hosting our friends and families. We’d spend hours planning the best meals, trying new recipes, inviting people over. It was fun, but looking back, it was also a bit excessive.”
Now, in their 40s, their focus has shifted.
“We keep it simple. We eat less, we pray more, and we spend more time giving back. We used to be so caught up in the material aspects of the month. Now, we’re more at peace. We’ve learned that Ramadan isn’t about how much you do, but how sincerely you do it.”
For most Muslims, Ramadan is a month of fasting, abstinence from everything considered “haram”, and increased devotion. But for single Muslims, it can also be a month of deep longing — whether for companionship, emotional intimacy, or simply someone to share sahur and iftar with. While married couples enjoy the privilege of breaking their fast together, praying side by side, and even indulging in halal intimacy after iftar, singles often experience the opposite: solitude, temptation, and, in some cases, an overwhelming sense of loneliness.
We spoke to seven Nigerian muslims about what it feels like to navigate Ramadan alone.
“Ramadan makes my sexual urges feel tripled”
Ramadan is a time for spiritual cleansing, but for some single Muslims, it’s also a time when their physical desires become harder to ignore. For *Faruq, 25, resisting temptation becomes an even bigger challenge during this period.
“I don’t know what it is, but during Ramadan, my sexual urges go into overdrive. Maybe it’s because I know I shouldn’t be thinking about it, or maybe it’s just the test of discipline that comes with the holy month. But wallahi, it’s like my body is actively fighting my mind.
I try to stay focused — fasting, praying, avoiding triggers — but the thoughts still creep in. And the worst part? I’m not even married, so there’s no halal outlet for these desires. Some days, I find myself wishing I already had a wife because at least, marital intimacy is allowed after iftar. I won’t lie, I’ve slipped a few times. I’m not proud of it, but self-pleasure sometimes feels like the only way to keep my head straight. And then I feel guilty after, questioning if my fast is even valid. The cycle of restraint, struggle, and guilt is exhausting, but I’m doing my best. May Allah make it easy for all of us.”
“I don’t even have someone to remind me it’s time for sahur”
*Amina’s, 27, biggest struggle isn’t loneliness; it’s waking up on time.
“Sahur is always a struggle for me because I sleep like a log of wood. When I was in a relationship, my ex would call or text to wake me up, but now, nobody is checking for me. I’ve missed sahur so many times that I’ve started setting three alarms and keeping my phone volume at the loudest just so I don’t oversleep. It’s making me realise that small things like this are why having a partner makes life easier. Who knew I’d miss something as simple as a 4 a.m. wake-up call?”
[ad]
“Being around family helps, but the backhanded comments? Whew”
*Hafsat, 31, enjoys being with her family during the holy month, but they come with a side of unsolicited commentary.
“I won’t lie, I’m grateful for my family. If I lived alone, I’d probably fall into depression during Ramadan. My mum makes sure I never miss sahur, my siblings keep me entertained, and iftar is always a full house with food that slaps. But the moment I sit down to eat, someone must mention marriage. I try to laugh it off, but sometimes, the comments really hit home. I know they mean well, but can I eat my food in peace? I try to remind myself that at least I have my family around me. It’s not the worst thing in the world to be single, but sometimes, it feels like it.”
For *Ameen, 25, Ramadan used to be filled with the warmth of community, but after relocating, the loneliness has been overwhelming.
“Back in Lagos, Ramadan never felt isolating. There was always a mosque nearby, Muslim friends to break my fast with, and a sense of belonging that made everything easier. But since moving to the East, I feel so alone. My family is Christian, and even though they respect my decision to fast, they don’t really understand it. I break my fast alone, sahur is lonely, and I can’t even hear the call to prayer from any mosque because the nearest one is miles away.
I’ve tried to make the best of it. I follow my Muslim friends online, join virtual Islamic discussions, and watch Ramadan lectures on YouTube, but nothing replaces the feeling of physically being part of a Muslim community. Some nights, I want to cry from how lonely it feels. I know this is supposed to be the time when I strengthen my faith, but it’s hard when I feel so disconnected. I keep telling myself that Allah sees my efforts, even if I don’t have a community around me. That’s the only thing that keeps me going.”
“Iftar at the mosque reminds me that I don’t have my own family yet”
For many, iftar at the mosque is a beautiful communal experience, but for *Imran, 39, it’s a reminder of what he doesn’t have — his own home, wife, and children to share it with.
“Every evening, I sit on the mosque floor, breaking my fast with strangers who, by now, feel like brothers. And while I love the sense of community, I can’t help but feel the absence of my own family. I see married men rushing home after Maghrib to eat with their wives. I hear fathers on the phone telling their kids to behave. And here I am, wondering when it’ll be my turn. I used to think I had time, but now, at 39, it’s hitting me differently.”
Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail
Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action
“I spend most of my free time at the mosque”
For *Fatai, 48, Ramadan used to be an intimate period filled with the chatter of his late wife and children around the dining table. But since losing his wife three years ago and sending his children off to university, the silence in his home has become deafening.
“It’s just me and the maid now, but she’s not Muslim and doesn’t even speak Yoruba fluently. So, there’s not much conversation between us. I eat suhoor and iftar alone, and sometimes, it feels like I’m fasting in isolation.
The only thing that makes it bearable is going to the mosque. There, I get to be around people, hear laughter, exchange pleasantries. It reminds me that I’m not entirely alone. But the second I step back into my house, it all comes rushing back.”
“Going to Tarawih alone makes me wish I had a praying partner”
For *Demola, Ramadan nights are beautiful, but they also highlight the fact that he doesn’t have a special someone to share them with.
“Tarawih is one of my favourite parts of Ramadan, but walking to and from the mosque alone makes me realise how much I crave companionship. I see couples walking hand in hand, sometimes with their kids, and it stings. Not because I’m jealous, but because I know I’d love that for myself too. Praying alone is fine, but sometimes, I just want someone to say ‘Ameen’ beside me.”
If you can relate to these stories or know someone experiencing similar, here’s an article with useful and practical tips on managing loneliness during Ramadan.
Breaking fast during Ramadan isn’t just about food; it’s also about faith, community, and kindness. Hosting Iftar gatherings allows fasting Muslims to come together, support those in need, and earn spiritual rewards through charity.
But with food prices soaring, hosting an Iftar gathering has become an expensive act of devotion.
With budgets stretched thin, how much does it really cost to feed a fasting community in today’s Nigeria? We spoke to four young Nigerians who are finding creative ways to make it happen, no matter the cost.
“We’ve raised ₦1.4 million but are still pushing to hit ₦3 million before our March 22 Iftar.”— Muhammed, 20, Student.
I’m a fourth-year mechanical engineering student and the chairman of the Sanusi Hostel Muslim Community Committee at the University of Ilorin. Every year, my team and I organise a grand Iftar gathering for fasting students, ensuring they have a proper meal to break their fast and bring smiles to their faces.
As the Qur’an says: “The example of those who spend their wealth in the way of Allah is like a seed of grain that sprouts seven ears, and in every ear there are a hundred grains. Thus Allah multiplies the action of whom He wills.” (Qur’an 2:261)
But hosting Iftar comes at a cost.
Last year, we spent ₦950,000 feeding 700 people against a ₦1 million budget. Our caterer charged ₦800 per plate, totalling ₦560,000. We didn’t have to pay for protein because someone generously donated enough meat. Fruits cost ₦200,000, zobo and drinks ₦150,000, and logistics around ₦30,000. We even had ₦100,000 left over for the mosque.
With rising costs and the added expense of buying meat ourselves this year, our budget has jumped to ₦3 million for 800 people.
We started planning in November 2024. We have 30 people on the committee, and each person was responsible for bringing in at least 10 donors. We’ve raised donations from 300 people. Also, each committee member has been paying monthly dues of ₦1,500 each. In addition, we’ve been running small ₦100 and ₦200 donation challenges, sending out letters to potential donors, and using our social media platforms to spread the word.
We’ve raised ₦1.4 million, but we’re still pushing to meet our target before our Iftar gathering on March 22.
While we’ve done a cost analysis, we haven’t fully allocated our budget since there’s still time to raise funds. If we don’t meet our target, we may have to cut back on portions, remove some extras, or even reduce the number of people we can host.
Last year, our Iftar was the second-largest in the entire school. We plan to go even bigger this year if we hit our target.
“In 2023, I could feed 500 people with ₦400,000. Now, that amount barely covers 300 meals.” — Nurayn, 22, Student.
I’m a 500-level Law student at the University of Ilorin. I also run the Noor Foundation, a charity organisation focused on helping vulnerable people: women, children, and those in need. But during Ramadan, we shift gears to cater to all fasting Muslims, as encouraged by the Hadith:
“Whoever provides food for a fasting person to break their fast will have a reward like theirs, without diminishing their reward in the least.” (Sunan al-Tirmidhi, Hadith 807).
However, the rising cost of food has made hosting Iftar gatherings increasingly expensive. In 2023, I could feed 500 people with ₦400,000–₦450,000. Now, that same amount barely covers 300 meals.
On the third day of Ramadan, we hosted an Iftar dinner that cost ₦250,000 for just 150 people. We kept it simple: jollof rice, eggs, drinks and dates. But even that stretched our budget.
But despite these price hikes, we juggle our plans, make necessary changes, and work with whatever we have.
When I first started in 2023, I covered the costs myself, with support from family and friends. Over time, I began to have volunteers and occasional donors, but we still don’t have permanent sponsors.
We rely on crowdfunding, personal outreaches and social media campaigns to raise funds. As students, pooling resources is tough, but our primary motivation is the blessings that follow acts of kindness. It’s not easy, but we’ve made it work so far, Alhamdulillah (praise be to Allah).
If I had a bigger budget, I’d feed at least 500 people every single day of Ramadan. But we do what we can, and it’s fulfilling.
Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail
Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action
“This year, our goal is still ₦5 million, but we’ve only raised ₦2.4 million.” — Kabeerah, 23, Founder.
This is my third year running the Kaid Charity Foundation (pronounced K-AID). Our Iftar project started in 2023, and we fed 500 students and 50 widows. The total budget was 2.5 million, with ₦1 million for the Iftar project and ₦1.5 million for the widows drive, and we actually met our target.
But as food prices skyrocketed, so did our budget. In 2024, we aimed for ₦5 million but barely hit ₦3 million. This year, our goal is still ₦5 million, but we’ve only raised ₦2.4 million. We fund the Iftar project through individual donations, but raising funds is the hardest part. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wanted to give up. The economy is tough, and yearly donation requests are exhausting for people. We’ve tried reaching out to a few organisations this year, and only one has donated so far.
The Iftar project itself is straightforward. We feed 500 students over the last 10 days of Ramadan: 50 students per day. We have volunteers online and offline who help with publicity and logistics. Every evening around 5 p.m., after the Asr prayer, we gather at a meeting point, package rice, chicken, dates, and water, then head to different hostels to distribute them. We try to switch up the locations yearly, so it’s not the same hostels getting food all the time. We also distribute food packs to 50 widows on the 27th and 28th day of Ramadan. We buy three bags of rice, 50 litres of groundnut oil, and other essential cooking ingredients, then divide them into 50 equal portions for distribution.
For me, the Iftar project is more than just giving people food. I know what it’s like to struggle. That’s why Kaid Charity exists: to ensure students, widows, and orphans feel cared for.
Our reach is limited right now. I dream of a day when we can put up billboards and reach a wider audience.
But no matter how difficult it gets, the most rewarding part is knowing we’re making a difference in the Muslim community. Every act of kindness in Ramadan counts, and it’s fulfilling to know that our efforts are helping people and bringing us closer to Allah’s blessings.
“Usually, I set a target, fundraise, and my sponsor tops it at the last minute. But this year, he’s been quiet.”— Abdulrahman, 23, Business Owner.
I host Iftar gatherings because I want students to feel special. I call it “The Grand Iftar” because it’s more than just a shared meal; it’s a meaningful experience.
I schooled in the North, and I noticed that students struggle with access to food and spaces where the Ramadan experience feels special. That’s why I host Iftar gatherings, where Muslims come together to share meals and listen to Islamic lectures, reflect, and engage in mentorship discussions about faith and life in general.
I wanted an Iftar that felt intentional, not just another meal handout. I wanted a space where anyone, regardless of background or sect, could come together, share a meal, and feel a sense of belonging. And beyond all that, it’s also about the rewards that come with feeding people during Ramadan.
I started in 2021 with just ₦7,000, which got me about 80 wraps of moi moi and pap for family and friends. The next year, I bought ready-made food for about 100 people from a restaurant. At the time, a plate of rice and chicken cost ₦700. The following year, the price per portion jumped to ₦1,700. That wasn’t sustainable, so I reached out to my friends, and we started cooking the Iftar meals ourselves.
Last year, I spent about ₦180,000 to host Iftar. This year, I’m looking at ₦900,000 if I want to do it properly. I have three options: ₦250,000 to feed 200 students, ₦550,000 for 400 students and ₦900,000 to host 700 students, which is my actual target.
But fundraising has been slow. I graduated last year, so between running my business and trying to raise money, it’s been a struggle. So far, I’ve only raised ₦20,000 from one person.
Usually, my main sponsor steps in at the last minute to cover the shortfall. But this year, he’s been quiet. I contacted him when Ramadan started this year and told him I had gotten ₦30,000 in promises, and only ₦20,000 had come in. And for the first time, my sponsor didn’t say anything for a while. A few days later, he got back to me and asked about the latest possible sign that I could still make the Iftar happen, and I told him I could probably work towards the 15th of Ramadan.
It’s been a stretch of silence ever since.
So now, I’m just waiting for his next reply. If the money doesn’t come, I’ll have to scale down. Maybe round up the funds to ₦50,000 from my own pocket and host a small gathering to keep the tradition alive, especially because Allah loves little, consistent good deeds.
But I still have hope. If things work out, we’ll kill a ram or a cow the day before and cook more food. That’s still in the plan.
If I don’t hit my target, I’ll stick to rice and fish. To cut costs further, I’d switch to a Hausa-themed Iftar. We’d serve Masara (corn), soup, maybe Zobo, and there’d be a “mai suya stand” for self-serve suya. I haven’t done a proper cost analysis yet, but it seems cheaper than cooking full meals.
For now, I’m just hoping the money comes in.
Join 1,000+ Nigerians, finance experts and industry leaders at The Naira Life Conference by Zikoko for a day of real, raw conversations about money and financial freedom. Click here to buy a ticket and secure your spot at the money event of the year, where you’ll get the practical tools to 10x your income, network with the biggest players in your industry, and level up in your career and business.
Ramadan is a time for fasting, prayer, and deep spiritual connection. But do you know what else it is? A prime time for halal big spender moves. Everyone wants to give to charity, clear their sins, and receive extra blessings, which means your account balance doesn’t have to suffer. If you position yourself well, you can secure the bag in a respectful, spiritually compliant way. Here’s how:
1. Position yourself at mosques in highbrow areas
Let’s be honest, the level of sadaqah you’ll receive in Banana Island is not the same as in Okokomaiko. The richer the congregation, the bigger the blessings. Wealthy people are always looking for ways to make up for their year-long sins, and nothing clears the conscience like generous donations.
How to execute:
Find mosques in affluent areas like Ikoyi, Maitama, or Lekki.
Wear your cleanest jalabiya or hijab — appearance matters in these areas.
Arrive early, sit anywhere inside the mosque, and watch someone approach you with cash or provisions when it’s time for iftar.
2. Start a Ramadan wake-up call in rich estates
The wealthy love their sleep, but they also don’t want to miss suhoor. That’s where you come in. Be the kind soul who ensures they wake up in time to eat before Fajr, and trust that their gratitude will be expressed in cash and hampers.
How to execute:
Pick an estate with rich uncles and aunties (Banana Island, Victoria Garden City, Maitama, Asokoro — your choice).
Find the estate mosque and introduce yourself as the dedicated wake-up volunteer.
Walk around at 3:45 a.m., gently knocking on doors or calling out, “Wake up, wake up, suhoor time!” Rich people hate being disturbed but love tipping people who “help” them. Expect cash, provisions, or even a full Ramadan food hamper by the end of the month.
Get More Zikoko Goodness in Your Mail
Subscribe to our newsletters and never miss any of the action
3. Hit the streets for free Iftar and Sahur
Why spend money on food when mosques, restaurants, and NGOs are giving it out for free? Ramadan is a 30-day feeding program, and if you plan well, you won’t have to cook once.
How to execute:
Find mosques and community centers that serve the best iftar — not all free food is created equal.
Rotate between locations to avoid see finish.
Carry a food flask and nylon bag for “takeaway” — you must plan for suhoor.
If questioned for taking an extra portion, say, “It’s for my little siblings at home.” Nobody will question a good deed.
This is the ultimate two-birds-one-stone strategy: You help distribute charity and position yourself to receive some too.
How to execute:
Volunteer for NGOs or friends in the abroad who want to distribute Ramadan relief packages.
Make sure you’re in the logistics department (where the food and money are sorted).
If anyone asks why you’re taking extra, say, “It’s for my neighbours, or better still, keep the rest of the packages after you’ve hit the beneficiary target.
[ad]
5. Position yourself for random Ramadan giveaways
Every year, influencers and rich uncles feel extra generous during Ramadan. You just need to be in the right place at the right time.
How to execute:
Follow all the “Ramadan Giveaway” hashtags and big brands on social media.
Stay active on Muslim Twitter spaces and randomly drop a “Ramadan Mubarak, may Allah bless you all” in comment sections, and wait for someone to randomly credit your account.
If an influencer tweets about donating, reply immediately with your account number.
6. Don’t miss the Ramadan special lectures
Ramadan is peak season for Islamic lectures, and trust me, these events come with cash rain. Everyone wants to donate, and some kind-hearted Alhajis and Alhajas will randomly pick strangers (yes, you) to bless with envelopes of money.
How to execute:
Show up early and find a good seat — preferably near the uncles and aunties wearing gold-trimmed jalabiyas and designer veils.
Actively participating in the right moments increases your chances of being noticed.
Once prayers are over, don’t rush out — networking is key. Someone might randomly say, “Young man, take this and use it for iftar.”
Accept graciously, say “thank you” and repeat next week.
7. Touch base at Sunday asalatus
Ramadan Sundays hit different because of Asalatu gatherings. It’s a mix of prayers, chanting, and — more importantly — community giving. The rich folks love flexing their generosity in these gatherings, and this is your opportunity to tap in.
How to execute:
Dress sharp; wear a crispy white jalabiya and a confident smile.
Sit close to the elders who look like they own oil wells. Engage in the chants, but don’t overdo it — you want to seem spiritual but still approachable.
Before the session ends, position yourself near the donation area. Someone will say, “Young man, come here, take this small something for yourself.”
Be humble, collect your blessings, and repeat the process next Sunday.
Ramadan is a sacred month for Muslims — a time of fasting, devotion, and stepping away from anything considered haram. But what happens when that includes a whole relationship?
In this story, *Teni, 27, shares what it’s like dating *Abdul, 30, a man who loves her fiercely for most of the year but disappears completely during Ramadan. For 30 days, she goes from being his partner to a stranger, waiting for the moment he returns like nothing ever happened.
As told to Adeyinka
I met *Abdul in my third year of university. It wasn’t some grand love story. We were in the same study group, and he was always the one explaining concepts better than the lecturers. Over time, we started hanging out outside of class, and soon, our friendship turned into something more.
Being with Abdul was easy. He was kind, funny, and always knew how to make me feel safe. I had dated other guys before, but this was the first time I felt truly understood. Our differences — especially our religious backgrounds — felt minor compared to everything we had in common.
At least, that’s what I thought.
The first Ramadan we spent together, I noticed he was withdrawing. He went from texting all day to one-word replies and eventually complete silence. I tried not to overthink it. Maybe he was just busy, overwhelmed with work and fasting. Then one morning, I sent him a voice note, and it didn’t deliver. I checked my messages; my last three hadn’t been read. I called, and it rang out. By evening, my concern turned into panic. Had something happened?
I reached out to his best friend, who casually told me, “Oh, Abdul doesn’t really talk to people during Ramadan.”
I didn’t know how to process that. Didn’t talk to people? Did I suddenly fall into the same category as his classmates, neighbours, and acquaintances? I was his girlfriend.
When Ramadan ended, he called me like nothing had happened. I wanted to be angry, to demand answers, but before I could get too deep into my feelings, he was already saying he missed me.
“It’s just something I do every year,” he explained. “I try to stay away from anything that could void my fast, and that includes our relationship.”
The following year, I convinced myself it would be different. Maybe now that we had more history, he wouldn’t completely disappear. Maybe I’d get a text here and there. But when Ramadan began, he shut me out again — no calls, no messages, nothing. I remember sitting with my phone, debating whether I should reach out. Would I be disturbing his spiritual journey? Would he think I was selfish for wanting to hear from him?
I stayed quiet, hoping he would be the one to reach out first. He never did.
The worst Ramadan was last year. I had long accepted that he would disappear for the month, but I didn’t expect to run into him at the mall. I was with my cousin when I spotted him. My heart leapt. Here was my boyfriend, the man I loved, after weeks of silence.
I smiled and started walking towards him, ready to ask him about his fast, his family, or anything else. But right before my eyes, he turned and walked in the opposite direction.
I felt like I had been slapped.
That night, I sent him a messagesaying, “I saw you today.” He didn’t respond.
[ad]
When Ramadan ended, he came back with the same old excuse. He said it’s because of how much he cares about me, and the sexual thoughts that consume him whenever we were together.
I wanted to understand. I really did. I knew he was committed to his faith, and I never wanted to be the person who made him compromise. But I also couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being erased, reduced to something haram that had to be put away like alcohol or worldly pleasures.
Every year, I tell myself I’ll get used to it. And every year, I don’t.
Last Friday, we had our last proper time together before Ramadan started. He told me he loved me, and I told him I’d miss him. But as I write this, I know that for the next 30 days, I won’t exist to him. No good morning texts. No phone calls. I’ll have to pretend I don’t know him if I see him somewhere.
And in April, when he calls again and slides back into my life like nothing happened, I don’t know if I’ll still have the strength to pick up.
Like it or not, japa has become part and parcel of the Nigerian reality. In most families, at least one person has left the country to start afresh (in saner climes).
But starting afresh for the japa-ee also often means loneliness, a feeling that’s emphasised during festive periods. I asked 6 Nigerian Muslims living abroad what celebrating Eid-Al-Fitr was like in a strange land without family.
I’ve only been here for about four months, and getting into Ramadan this year was difficult. I always missed Sahur, and Iftar required serious calculation to be sure I was breaking my fast at the right time because the sun here has a mind of its own. I never had to worry about this back home because it was a family thing; we all looked out for each other. I couldn’t really celebrate Eid because I didn’t think I did my best during Ramadan, and I felt guilty. Plus, there’s no public holiday here, so I just had a cup of ramen noodles after classes and cried myself to sleep.
Banji*, 30, UK
For the first time this year, I spent Eid with my mum’s former student’s family. It was great; there was food, and I got to play with her kids.
When I first arrived in the UK in 2022, I spent Eid alone, and it was so depressing. My mum suggested I connect with her ex-student, and I thought it’d be weird. Like, how do I just appear at your door to eat rice? But when loneliness wanted to finish me again in 2023, no one told me before I found myself at her house.
Hamid, 29, Canada
Eid always reminds me that I’m all alone in a no-mans-land. Back home, every Eid was a big deal. We’d kill rams — even for Eid-al-Fitr when it’s not compulsory — and everyone would gather at our olori-ebi’s house.
I’ve been in Canada for about a year, and there’s a stark difference. I spent this year’s Eid at work and returned home alone to my cold apartment. In all, we thank Allah.
Jola, 24, US
I spent Eid cooking up several pots of rice and soups. I had to store most of it in the freezer to eat for the rest of the month, but cooking that much helps me feel connected to my family. We always cook up a storm for holidays in Nigeria, so, in a way, I’m still holding on to family traditions.
Bolajoko, 29, UAE
Maybe it’s because I live in a Muslim country, but I hardly feel alone in Dubai even though I have no family here. I spent this year’s celebration with friends (some of whom relocated from Nigeria, too), and we ate together in someone’s house after Eid prayers.
Ranti, 23, Ireland
I celebrated Eid by dressing up just to sit down in my apartment. I took pictures, so I guess that’s better than nothing. It’s my first Eid alone, away from home. I hope to have connected with more Muslims around my area before Sallah later in the year, so it’s not so lonely.
Indomie Instant Noodles is spreading love and joy this Ramadan Season with a nationwide campaign that is aimed at celebrating all the good things that are associated with the period. The campaign is aimed at enriching the experiences of Muslim faithful by spreading joy, unity, and generosity as we mark this sacred month of fasting.
All over the country, the brand’s famous Indomie Mobile Kitchen can be seen at various mosques, offering free meals to all who care, while also encouraging the faithful to imbibe the culture of sharing.
The campaign which was kicked off in Kaduna and Kano, also features the brand’s sponsorship of a popular radio show, Ramadan with Indomie (Ramadan tare da Indomie) which airs on Freedom FM and Capital FM. Indomie’s sponsorship 15-minute live radio show which started on March 18 and runs until April 8, 2024, just a day before the end of Ramadan, airs daily on Freedom FM and Capital FM stations with each episode capturing captivating Islamic stories and teachings, providing moments of reflection and inspiration for listeners.
The programme promises to provide listeners with an amazing experience like they’ve never witnessed on the show, with each getting a chance to win exciting prizes as they participate in interactive fun quizzes to test their knowledge of both Islamic teachings and Indomie. Responses to the quizzes are submitted via WhatsApp or SMS to the radios’ dedicated numbers.
As part of the sponsorship, Indomie will continue to spread joy during this Ramadan, by rewarding three lucky winners every day. The first-place winner will have the honour of hosting a beautiful Iftar meal for their family and friends, with Indomie graciously providing the feast. Second and third-place winners will receive a carton of everyone’s beloved Indomie noodles, perfect for sharing with loved ones.
In addition, Indomie’s Mobile Kitchen is still on streets and ready to delight faithfuls with delicious free meals of Indomie Instant Noodles, drinks and branded bags at various mosques.
What a gesture! What a unique way to strengthen togetherness among family and friends, especially during these hard times.
Every Muslim knows that fasting during Ramadan is a different ball game. From messed up sleeping and eating patterns to keeping a clean spiritual slate, the month will test you.
It’s officially day 9 of Ramadan and every fasting Muslim should have experienced one or all of these moments.
The struggle to wake up
If you live alone, you’ll keep snoozing the alarm until your consciousness jerks you off the bed. Then, you realise it’s too late to eat. So you just drink water. God, abeg.
The Sahur existential confusion
You know how you wake up in the morning and don’t know WTF is going on? Let’s just say the confusion is ten times worse during Ramadan.
Trying to finish a gallon of water before fajr
OG Muslims know there’s no point overeating or over drinking during Sahur, but the JJCs try to drink as much water as they possibly can seconds before Fajr — the morning prayer.
The biggest women-only festival in Lagos is BACK. Get your tickets here for a day of fun, networking and partayyyyy
And still waking up thirsty
After the struggle to wake up for sahoor, the second test of Ramadan is waking up thirsty in the morning. Then when you’re about to help yourself, you’ll remember you can’t drink or eat until later in the day.
When people keep asking “even water”
Ramadan has been around for as long as ever, but trust non-fasting folks to always act like it’s brand new every year. But then again, it’s not Ramadan if this question hasn’t come your way.
The concert in your tummy
This happens seven to nine hours into the fasting day. The hunger growls get louder, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Hoping the Imam speeds things up
Whether it’s the regular day prayers or the evening taraweeh, there’s a teeny-weeny angry thought that creeps into your mind when the imam goes for lengthy verses. Does he not know that folks are weak and hungry?
Missing your shoes at the mosque
Is it really Ramadan if you don’t lose your slippers at the mosque during taraweeh? Nothing concerns the slippers thieves with abstaining from sins during the holy month.
When the period shows up
Some ladies can act like they’ll miss the few days of fasting but deep down they’re happy AF they finally get to rekindle their love for food.
[ad]
The urge to drink ablution water
Many things will test you during Ramadan and one of them is fighting the urge to nick a drop of water for your patched throat every time you do an ablution.
The chaotic meals mid Ramadan
Forget the food bloggers or the recipes you saved on IG. By the nighttime, you’ll probably be too tired to do anything. Water for sahoor might seem aiit and noodles for iftar settles it for you.
The soft guilt on eid-morning
You’re supposed to have breakfast before you go to the mosque on Eid but that soft guilt always comes through before you remember “Oh, I can eat. Ramadan is done with”.
The holy month of Ramadan comes with great spiritual discipline which may prove tough for young Muslims. It’s said that during this time, the devil has been put on a leash and you’re solely responsible for whatever wrongdoings you commit.
While it might seem like most people have their shit together and lead a pristine month, there are others who find it hard to keep up with the demands of the holy month. You might learn a thing or seven from the stories of these young Muslims.
Ibrahim*, 30
Waking up for Sahoor is the hardest part of Ramadan for me. I’m such a heavy sleeper and even my alarm has the toughest job trying to wake me up. Left to me, I’ll go on without waking up to eat sahoor. Unfortunately, the waking and eating bit also makes your fasting valid so you can’t decide to skip it. Thank God my younger brother is around. He’s been the one waking me up since we started.
Balikis*, 25
This might sound weird but the only thing I struggle with during Ramadan is this awful taste in my mouth. I can’t describe it. It’s sort of this bitter-ish taste you get when you’re about to come down with malaria. You should see my brushing after sahuur. I do everything—floss, tongue scrape, gargle with mouthwash—yet it never leaves. I once spoke to a doctor about it and he said something about acid reflux. A friend suggested using chewing sticks to clean my mouth after every ablution, so that’s something I’m trying this month.
Kehinde*, 27
I don’t look forward to Ramadan because of the midnight cooking. It’s the hardest part for me. Growing up, my mum used to handle it and she’d only come to wake us up when food was ready. But now that we’ve grown older, the baton has been handed down to me and my sisters. We’ve devised a roaster to make it easier but I don’t think that does much. I still get to cook four times a week. My consolation is the reward from Allah and the prayers that follow when I serve my parents.
Mariam*, 27
Ramadan is the only month when it feels like I’m in a long-distance relationship. I cut down on visits to my boyfriend and even our communication isn’t all that. Islam doesn’t quite agree with the concept of dating, so it’s just one of those “sinful” acts I tone down on during Ramadan. Does it take a toll on me? Yes. Because I don’t get to see the one person who babies me. But thankfully, he’s also a Muslim so he also understands. I can’t wait for when we’re married and spend Ramadan together as a proper couple.
[ad]
Ahmed*, 24
Outside of Ramadan, it’s easier to form unlooking when you miss your salat or hear the call to prayer. It’s hard to do that during Ramadan. It’s constantly ringing in your head that your fast is void and unaccepted if you don’t complete your five daily prayers. As someone who struggles with five daily prayers, I like that this Ramadan makes me more intentional. Is it difficult? Yes. Would I rather skip prayers? Probably. But, deep down I know I’m getting my rewards for doing one of the most basic things expected.
Jamiu*, 28
Ramadan as a bachelor isn’t easy. I can’t even tell you the number of times I’ve considered moving back home just to spend the month with my parents. It’s not just about the waking and cooking bit, there’s also the loneliness that makes the entire process hard on you. Back at home, Sahur is always a vibe. There’s the fun bit of seeing who wakes up first, we get to eat as a family and watch some of the Muslim shows that air around that time. But here, it’s just me, myself and I doing it all alone. Although I try to channel that feeling of loneliness into reading the Quran, listening to sermons and other things that can earn my rewards in the holy month.
Jumoke*, 30
There’s something different about Ramadan in the UK compared to Nigeria. Back home, there’s this sense of “Ramadan is in the air” you get. You don’t feel lonely in all of that experience of waking up to cook at midnight, going for tarawee and attending tafsir because there are so many people doing it around. It’s not like that here. This is my third Ramadan and I’ve been slightly agitated since we started because I don’t know what this one will bring. I struggled during my last two—No friends, away from my family, missed so many fasting days and cried a lot. Now, I’m part of a Muslim community and it helps. But it’s still not like fasting at home.
