Even before I gained admission into the Nigerian Law School, I had always been an outspoken religious critic and secular humanist. I didn’t care what the predominantly Chrislamic Nigerians would say. I wasn’t afraid of losing friends because, when I began deconstructing religious dogma, I was emotionally prepared to deal with the backlash. But I didn’t speak up immediately when I first started doubting. My journey of deconstruction began at age 15 after I nearly ran mad from untreated malaria. I had refused medication, believing that God would heal me—just like Jesus allegedly healed in the Bible, and like Mbaka, Okun’erere, and others flaunted divine healing on TV and radio.
Fast forward to Nigerian Law School, I remained a committed freethinker and critic of religious dogma. Law School was more than tough. Our religious colleagues prayed without ceasing, as if everything depended on prayers. I mean no disrespect, but honestly, their ceaseless praying amused my critical thinking faculty. I told myself: if prayers were the solution, we could have just stayed home and prayed our way through Bar Finals. I even asked myself, rhetorically: if prayer works, why do some girls resort to hookup and some boys turn to shady means just to fund Law School?
I know how much I suffered to raise over 3 million Naira for Law School, receiving only about 800,000 Naira in support. So why should anyone tell me about prayer, which I consider an act of adults talking into empty space? Sure, it may serve as a placebo for the religious, but not for a realist like me.
What shocked me most was how even some lecturers encouraged this mindset. One at the Yenagoa Campus would always pray before classes and insist that reading alone was not enough—you had to pray because passing was “by God’s grace.” Another, highly respected, mocked atheism in a church service, referring to an atheist lawyer working in his firm. I wasn’t in church, of course. My roommates told me what he said. It was at Law School that I finally understood why prebendalism thrives in our society. The way smart, educated people defend unfounded religious dogmas with sugar-coated rationalizations shows how dangerous unchallenged belief can be.
Many Law School students, driven by fear of failure and desire for divine intervention, prayed more than they read or strategized. My methodical doubts and freethinking earned me both admiration and hatred. It was tough.
At Yenagoa Campus, I went through hell. But I remained outspoken, and in recognition of that, I received a unique award—the first in the history of the Nigerian Law School: Outspoken Humanist of the Year, awarded by the Student Representative Council.
Then came the dreaded Bar Finals. The first paper went well. Though students complained about a paradigm shift in questioning style, I adapted. But I gave up after the civil litigation exam, where I answered only two and a half questions instead of four. I was devastated. I completed the rest of the papers mechanically, convinced I had failed. The anxiety was real.
Weeks passed. Then came August 1, 2025—the result day. Fear gripped me. Not only because of civil litigation but because, had I failed, the religious critics would blame it on my irreligion. Religion has crafted a vindictive, impulsive deity. That’s why—even if science proved the existence of the Abrahamic God—I still wouldn’t worship him. I can’t bow to a deity who inflicts pain to prove superiority.
Apologists claim God is misrepresented. But if that’s the case, discard the current scriptures and start afresh. The ones we have are soaked in violence, vengeance, and contradiction. Many of us became freethinkers precisely because of how grotesquely vindictive the gods of religious texts are.
Imagine if I had failed—my failure would have been weaponized against all secularists and freethinkers. They would say God was punishing me and others like me. But the truth is simple: anyone can pass or fail. It’s life. Prayers don’t determine outcomes. Effort does. Still, people are free to believe whatever helps them cope. Just don’t impose it on others.
Congratulations to all who passed Bar Finals. Our efforts—and those of our families, friends, mentors, lecturers, externship principals—were not in vain. And to those who didn’t make it this time: it’s not over. You’ll rise again.
By Ikechukwu Obasi