Sallah is here again! This time, it’s the grand one—Eid el-Adha, the festival of sacrifice, also known as Eid Kabir, often beautifully aligned with the Hajj pilgrimage. It’s that special season when rams lose their lives, stomachs find fulfillment, and our social media timelines overflow with familiar greetings and blessings.
But here’s the curious part: the messages hardly ever change. Each celebration—be it Sallah, Christmas, birthdays, weddings, or naming ceremonies—comes wrapped in the same ribbons of prayer. We send and receive wishes about peace, health, prosperity, and national progress like they’re part of a ceremonial script written by tradition and bound by habit. This year, I penned:
“Eid Kabir Mubarak!
On this auspicious day, I pray to God to bless our sacrifices, efforts, desires, dreams, aspirations, and positive hopes with fitting outcomes—both individually and collectively.
May God’s protection and mercy be upon us, our loved ones, and our families.
May God guide our leaders and lead our beloved country towards peace, progress, prosperity, and the path of greatness.”
Sound familiar? Yes. Comforting? Perhaps. But effective? That’s where the doubt creeps in.
Why do we keep praying for Nigeria—its peace, its leaders, its transformation—year in, year out, with so little to show? Every festival is a fresh opportunity to utter ancient hopes, but insecurity deepens, hardship multiplies, and leadership continues to flirt with apathy. What, then, is the place of these annual supplications? Are they still relevant, or are we merely caught in the routine of wishful thinking?
The questions burn quietly under the surface of our well-meaning wishes. Could it be that these blessings have become ritualistic rather than reflective? We pray for success but forget the sleepless nights. We hope for change but neglect the price of transformation. We glorify miracles but abandon hard work, planning, sacrifice, and consistency—the gritty realities behind meaningful progress.
Some might argue that we are a deeply religious people, and prayer is our cultural heartbeat. But a growing number are beginning to question whether our devotion has become a convenient shortcut—a bypass around accountability, effort, and responsibility. If prayer alone could develop a nation, Nigeria should be the envy of the world—with our churches, mosques, anointed handkerchiefs, and overflowing vigils.
And yet, here we are. On this very Eid, I prayed sincerely for PHCN to return light to my area in Bida—after more than 48 hours of blackout. The skies gave us rain that night, but the cables gave us nothing. My wife tapped me with a reminder: the overhead tank had run dry, and without power, we couldn’t pump water. Neighbours were already knocking, desperate for even a few buckets—to clean the meat from their sacrificial rams.
Still, I don’t think prayer is uniquely African, or even particularly Nigerian. All over the world, people wish each other “good luck,” “blessings,” or “grace”—even those who believe fiercely in preparation, hard work, and structure. I’ve seen geniuses, scientists, and superstars pause to whisper a prayer before critical moments.
Take Mikki, for example—the Nigerian Idol star who clinched the Platinum Ticket twice in a row. During theatre week, when his future in the top 10 lay in the hands of just a few judges, he prayed. Not because he doubted his talent, but because even talent needs a little divine nudge when the stakes are high.
Prayer, or supplication, is deeply embedded in many spiritual traditions. In Islam, du’a is more than a plea; it’s an act of surrender and faith. It’s how Muslims express their hopes and fears, their dreams and shortcomings. The Qur’an gently reminds us: “Call upon Me; I will respond to you” and “Indeed, I am near.” The Hadith goes even further, calling du’a “the weapon of the believer” and warning that Allah is displeased with those who don’t ask of Him.
Christianity shares this same depth. Prayer is the lifeline between man and God—a sacred channel of communion. “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find,” Jesus says in Matthew. “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, present your requests to God with thanksgiving,” Paul urges in Philippians. These aren’t just verses; they are blueprints for spiritual resilience.
But even so, criticisms are valid. Too often, we pray while ignoring the parts of life that require deliberate action. We send pilgrims to Mecca and Jerusalem to pray for national security, while bandits roam freely and governance lies in disrepair. We fast for economic growth while our leaders budget billions—not for nationwide power—but for solar installations in Aso Rock alone.
What does it say when our leaders invest more in their personal comfort than in the solutions we desperately need—and we still keep praying for them?
Here’s the truth: prayer is powerful, but incomplete without effort. It is a balm for the spirit, a tonic for emotional strength, and a fuel for the journey—but it must be accompanied by commitment, planning, and work. Faith without action is like a ram without horns—present, but powerless.
Prayer is not a weakness. It is the emotional engine that helps Nigerians survive daily trauma. In a country where buildings collapse, floods displace entire communities, tankers explode, markets burn, roads kill, and bandits terrorize, how else can people keep going? The strength it takes to remain hopeful in such a harsh, unpredictable place is nothing short of miraculous.
In Mokwa, Niger State, over 200 lives were reportedly lost in a recent tragedy, with more than 500 missing and over 1,000 homes destroyed. In other places, such horror might collapse entire communities into depression. In Nigeria, people mourn, rebuild, and still say “Insha Allah” or “God dey.”
Religious belief may be our double-edged sword. It has numbed us to injustice but also strengthened us against collapse. It has helped us tolerate corruption but also taught us to endure pain. It has been misused to pacify, yet it has helped many cope. Our prayers may not fix the light, but they light the soul in ways nothing else can.
Research even backs this up. A 2004 study by Siang-Yang Tan and J.K. Ling found that people who regularly engage in prayer report higher levels of emotional intelligence, hope, and resilience. These aren’t empty gestures—they are psychological anchors in turbulent waters.
So yes, we may keep praying the same prayers every year. We may keep wishing peace upon a troubled land and blessings upon indifferent leaders. But beneath the repetition lies a longing that refuses to die. A stubborn hope that, someday, our prayers and our actions will finally meet—and dance.
Until then, we pray. And we press on.
Barka da Sallah!
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