As a child, I was always curious, always asking questions especially about gender. I could not understand why my brothers believed house chores were beneath them. Once, using my authority as the firstborn, I drew up a chores timetable and assigned them tasks. This caused arguments so heated that my father had to intervene. Although he supported me, my brothers still refused to do chores and instead ordered my younger sisters to do the work. What pained me most was that my sisters did not see it as a problem. I felt alone in my progressive ideas about gender equality, but the seed of questioning had already been planted in me.
Being a Salafi Muslim
Growing up in a Muslim household meant prayer, fasting, sadaqah (charity), and strict observance of the hijab. My father was unyielding about the hijab, and that made me dislike religion. I wore it at home because it was compulsory, but the moment I went to boarding school, I removed it. It felt forced, and I wanted no part of it.
When I got university admission, I was excited about the chance to finally live as I wanted. I took off the hijab and enjoyed life like other young women. But by the end of my first year, depression crept in and the emptiness I had always carried since childhood became overwhelming. During that holiday, I began studying Islam deeply. I enrolled in an online university run by Bilal Philips and filled my life with Islamic books on Aqidah (Islamic creed), tawhid (the oneness of God), salah (prayer), spirituality, you name it. I leaned into the works of Bilal Philips, Ibn Uthaymeen, Muhammad bin Abdul-Wahhab, Ibn Taymiyya, Ibn Qayyim al-Jawziyya, and Ibn Kathir. When the second year resumed, I went back to the hijab, and my friends were shocked at my transformation into a visibly Salafi Muslim.
I recall a Christian classmate once asking what I would do about my hijab since it wasn’t allowed during the call to the bar. Her question shook me. I told her if I got there, then I would think of what to do but deep down, I was scared. It felt like I would eventually be forced to choose between my hijab and the call to bar, my faith and my career. I never knew there was such a rule. That’s why I was overjoyed when Amasa Firdaus won the case in 2018 that allowed Muslim women to wear hijab during the call to the bar.
My parents raised me to believe Islam had no sects. We were a close-knit community in a Christian-majority environment, so I had never been exposed to Sufis, Shia, Ahmadiyya, or Tijaniyyah. But at university, I discovered these differences, and it confused me. I buried myself in learning, even to the point of breaking up with my ex-boyfriend after hearing a sermon on dating as haram. He begged me not to, even on the eve of his JAMB exam, but I stood firm. For me, it was about faith.
Questioning Islam
I subscribed to tajwid (correct pronunciation) and Arabic classes, joined the Muslim Students’ Society of Nigeria (MSSN), and soon became an active member. I even taught children Arabic and attended MSSN camps. Still, my innate fire for justice and equality never died. Preachers called me controversial because I constantly questioned their sexist and misogynistic statements. Many advised me to tame my curiosity, reminding me that once Allah and Muhammad had legislated on a matter, believers had no say. But that did not silence me.
I had doubts, but I suppressed them with mental gymnastics. Whenever I asked preachers questions, they ended with “Allah knows best.” I thought Islam encouraged inquiry, yet in reality, questioning was treated as arrogance. My frustration grew. Inside my head, I had constant debates, with one part questioning, another defending, as though a whole crowd was arguing within me. It was exhausting.
Because of my commitment, I became the dawah (proselytiser) chairperson of MSSN, but another depressive episode struck when I broke off a relationship with an imam I had planned to marry. My father refused the marriage, and I now thank him. Many women I knew married poor students out of religious loyalty, only to struggle endlessly. My depression delayed my graduation, and I had to spend an extra year. A doctor prescribed medications without ever telling me my diagnosis. The pills made me so drowsy and made me fall asleep during tarawih (prayers during Ramadan), annoying the Amirah, but I continued going because I loved the Qur’an’s recitation.
During one hostel sermon, a preacher described signs of jinn possession, and they matched my symptoms. I went from one raqi (exorcist) to another, hoping ruqya (exorcism) would cure me, but came away more broken each time.
Later, during NYSC, I became an exco member in the Muslim Corps Association of Nigeria (MCAN). Afterwards, I went to law school, where I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder and began treatment. Around then, I met a man online who claimed to be both Muslim and feminist, but he turned out to be a benevolent sexist like many others.
Reading the Quran
Practising law in the South, I faced hijab discrimination. A Magistrate refused me audience until my boss intervened. I wrote to the Muslim Lawyers Association of Nigeria (MULAN) for help, and they resolved it. Ironically, not long after, I removed the hijab entirely. My boss was shocked, but for me it symbolised truth: once I saw clearly, I could not go back. People call me impulsive, but I see it as the neurodivergent strength of aligning quickly with one’s deepest values.
Ramadan 2020 was my breaking point. Reading the Qur’an with fresh eyes, I reached verses 4:34 and 4:128. I could not unsee the double standards. For a disobedient wife, the husband is allowed to warn her, abandon her in bed, and even strike her – though preachers tried to soften it with talk of miswaks (twig used to clean teeth) or clothes. For a disobedient husband, the wife is told to make peace. The word “nushuz” was used to describe the same behaviour but with different interpretations and mechanisms to rectify it. Even a friend of mine smiled and said her husband did this to her, and it was nothing. To me, it was infantilising women, justifying abuse. That was the camel’s back breaking. This was annoying to me because Nollywood, which is the product of the society, promotes this kind of double standard, trying to paint a woman as obnoxious and deserving of a beating by her husband, while a woman is supposed to keep the peace with her abusive husband.
During my deconstruction period, there were online arguments about whether religious women can be feminists, and I followed the interesting arguments for and against the stance. It opened a door for me to really question where I stand as a Muslim feminist woman. I recall that I asked a Facebook friend who is also an influencer to post on her wall anonymously that I needed a Muslim feminist to be my partner, and the comments I read shook me to the reality that it was ironic to get a partner who is a Muslim and a feminist as a Muslim feminist is an oxymoron.
I began openly cherry-picking. If a Qur’an verse or hadith contradicted my values, I rejected it. I refused to pray behind my younger brother simply because he was male. I even started referring to Allah as “She.” Once, in conversation, a Muslim man was horrified when I did this. He said it degraded Allah, while I countered that calling Allah “He” was sexist. He argued that “He” in Arabic was genderless, but I recalled how a preacher once said ascribing daughters to Allah was an insult while commenting on Surah 17:40 during tafsir (commentary on the Quran) in the month of Ramadan. The hypocrisy was clear and staggering.
After decades of mental gymnastics, I realised my values and Islam were irreconcilable. My values are progressive and human-centred; Islam is patriarchal and authoritarian. So I was at a crossroads to choose and this was perplexing. I chose my values. For the first time, the weight lifted off me.
Leaving religion
But leaving religion was not simple. My identity had been woven with Islam since birth. I lost Muslim friends, including a close one who questioned my sincerity as a believer and even told me to delete old hijab pictures from Facebook. The cost was not only personal but also professional. A lecturer I once held in high esteem, who had been the first to introduce me to social justice lawyering, flatly refused to write a recommendation letter for my Master’s scholarship application. His reason was blunt: he could not help an “enemy of Islam.” That betrayal cut deep because it revealed how religion is often weaponised to police loyalty and gatekeep opportunities. Respect, mentorship, and solidarity became conditional and granted only if I stayed within the boundaries of faith. It was a sobering reminder that in religious spaces, belonging is not about merit or shared values of justice, but about conformity. Though I felt free, I also entered an existential crisis. Rebuilding an identity from scratch is no easy feat, but I am taking it one step at a time.
This is my story of questioning, of doubt, of cherry-picking, of rebellion, and ultimately of choosing freedom. My journey is still open, still unfolding. I am no longer bound by cognitive dissonance, and I embrace the struggle of becoming myself.
By Ex-Hijabi