Faith runs deep in Nigeria. For many, religion isn’t just belief, rather, it shapes every part of life. From childhood, mornings begin with devotions and prayers at 5 a.m.
In the same way, Sundays mean wearing our best lace to church, and nights often end with crusades or vigils that stretch into the early hours. Pastors shout at crusades, mosque sermons run long, and prayer becomes routine.
In the end, that’s what we know, and that’s what we are taught to trust. For the longest time, the idea of questioning it doesn’t even enter the mind.
However, what happens when the questions finally come and refuse to leave? What happens when you begin to wonder if everything you were taught since childhood really makes sense?
This week on Tell Eve Your Story, we sat with someone who grew up religious in Nigeria but eventually walked away from faith.
Eve: Can you tell me a bit about what it was like growing up with religion?
Jo: Like most Nigerian kids, I grew up fully inside it. For instance, Sundays meant church, long services, and our best clothes.
At home, we had morning devotions before the sun even rose. Likewise, nights often held crusades or vigils that stretched for hours. In short, religion wasn’t separate from life; it was life. No one questioned it.
Eve: When did things start to change?
Jo: Around 2020. That’s when doubts began to creep in. At first, it was small things, like a verse that felt off or rules that seemed unfair.
Soon after, however, I started reading more: first about religion, then about evolution, and eventually about history. Gradually, the more I learned, the more I saw that things didn’t add up, and that was in 2022.
Eve: What do you mean by “didn’t add up”?
Jo: I studied the three major religions. The deeper I went, the clearer it became: they couldn’t all be right. If only one was true, then what about the billions of people who were simply born into the “wrong” one?
Did that make them doomed? Not because of choices they made, but simply because of where they were born. To me, that didn’t feel fair. Moreover, it didn’t look like justice.
Eve: So how did you make sense of that?
Jo: Eventually, the explanation that made sense was this: men wrote those books. And once you strip away bias, it becomes obvious.
Heaven and hell served as tools for control. Women were pushed down. Rules seemed to benefit men, not God. Overall, to me, it looked like a system of power, built by men for men.
Eve: Did you share this with your family?
Jo: No. Only my brothers know. My parents don’t, and I don’t think I’ll ever tell them. After all, in Nigeria, religion isn’t just belief; it’s family, community, and identity. So, saying you don’t believe can tear everything apart.
Eve: What about your friends?
Jo: With friends, it has been okay. Thankfully, I’ve been lucky. Whenever I meet new ones, I tell them where I stand. So far, they’ve been supportive and not judgmental.
Eve: And romantic relationships?
Jo: That’s where it gets hard. I’ve met amazing women, but the “God factor” remains an obstacle. Many women, as it turns out, want a “God-fearing man.”
Unfortunately, that’s not me, and I can’t fake it. So yes, it has affected me.
Eve: Where do you stand now, personally?
Jo: I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in any deity, and I won’t. To me, it feels like believing in Santa Claus. In other words, it simply doesn’t make sense anymore.
Eve: And how do you feel about that?
Jo: I feel good, free even. This is my truth. It’s not easy, especially in Nigeria, but it’s who I am now.
Eve: Thank you for sharing this with me
Jo: You’re welcome, Eve.
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