Nigerian Muslims and Christians Unite Through Ramadan and Lent

In 1992, a Muslim youth serving in Nigeria's predominantly Christian Delta State could openly share the Quran in villages where locals called it the "Hausa Bible" with genuine curiosity. Today, journalist Yushau Shuaib wonders where that spirit of coexistence disappeared to.

Shuaib recalls his National Youth Service Corps days in Asaba with remarkable clarity. He and fellow Muslim volunteers, including future politicians and media leaders, traveled village to village during Ramadan sharing their faith through conversation, not coercion.

One memory stands out vividly. On Sallah day, the late Asagba of Asaba hosted a feast for Muslim youth corps members, complete with wines the young Muslims politely declined. There was no tension, no viral outrage, just mutual respect between a Christian leader and his Muslim guests.

"In that era, devoid of smartphones and social media toxicity, life was defined by civility and coexistence," Shuaib writes. Inter-ethnic marriages among corps members were common and celebrated.

Fast forward three decades. Invisible walls now separate communities in cities like Kaduna and Jos that once lived as neighbors. A harmless opinion online can provoke hostility so predictable you can guess the critic's background from their name alone.

Yet right now, something remarkable is happening. Muslims observing Ramadan and Christians observing Lent are simultaneously engaged in prayer, fasting, and repentance worldwide. More than three billion people are participating in sacred seasons that mirror each other in profound ways.

Muslims fast daily from dawn to sunset, abstaining from food, drink, and negative conduct while seeking Taqwa, or God-consciousness. Christians observe fasting, almsgiving, and abstinence during their 40-day preparation for Easter, seeking Metanoia, a transformative turning back to God.

The Ripple Effect

The parallels run deeper than scheduling coincidence. Abraham fasted. Moses fasted. Jesus fasted. Muhammad fasted. Across centuries and prophets, the message stays consistent: voluntary restraint strengthens the soul and awakens compassion for the vulnerable.

For both traditions, hunger isn't punishment but purification. It strips away distractions and creates space for what matters most.

"Ramadan and Lent are not rivals; they are companions," Shuaib writes. "Two rivers flowing along different paths toward the same vast ocean of Divine Mercy."

The Quran teaches that God created diverse peoples and tribes "so that you may know one another." The Bible commands believers to "love one another as I have loved you." Both texts point toward connection, not division.

Shuaib sees these overlapping holy seasons as an invitation. If worshippers can carry the humility of fasting, the empathy born of hunger, and the discipline of prayer beyond their places of worship, perhaps Nigeria can rediscover what it once knew: that faith builds bridges rather than barriers.

The possibility remains as real as it was in 1992.