“My name is Musa Tawhid. This is my path.”

There are seasons in life when the road disappears. You look ahead and all you see are walls. No door. No sign. No direction.

For a long time, I believed a path meant movement – visible progress, clear destinations, steady steps forward. But Allah teaches differently.

Sometimes the path is not forward.
Sometimes the path is through.

When I began reflecting on the early life of the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ in Makkah, something started to make sense.

Before Madinah, there was struggle. Years of calling people to the truth. Not days. Not months. Many who knew his honesty still rejected his message. They mocked him. They pushed him away. Yet he never retreated.

Because Allah was teaching him something deeper than acceptance: patience, timing, and how a mission grows. Sometimes Allah closes a city so He can prepare another.

Makkah had walls.
But Madinah had doors.

And those doors were prepared quietly – through conversations, meetings, and hearts opening where the Quraysh never expected.

When I look at my own journey, I see a similar lesson.

In Nigeria, our Ummah is rich with passion, yet divided by many paths. Groups form. Schools differ. Interpretations multiply. Sometimes it feels like the unity of At-Tawheed is far from recognition.

At first, this felt like another wall. But walls have a purpose. They force you to ask deeper questions. They force you to search for the door Allah is preparing.

The Prophet ﷺ did not abandon the message when people rejected it.

He strengthened it.
He continued teaching.
He continued calling people back to the Qur’an.
He continued reminding them of the Sunnah – with consistency.

And perhaps that is the task for our generation. Not to create another group. But to remind people of what already exists:

The Qur’an.
The Sunnah.
The example of the Messenger ﷺ.

There was a night I will never forget. Lagos had already gone quiet. The city lights were fading into the stillness after Isha. I was thinking about the Ummah – the divisions, the labels, the arguments that make it seem like we are walking in different directions. It weighed heavily on my heart.

Then something small happened. Outside the mosque, a young boy – no older than fifteen – noticed an elderly man struggling to wear his sandals.

Without being called.
Without anyone watching.

He knelt down and helped him put them on. The old man smiled and made a quiet du’a for him. In that moment, something inside me shifted. We spend so much time noticing the problems of our generation that we forget to see the beauty Allah is already planting among us.

A generation that still wakes up for Fajr.
A generation that still gathers in the mosques.
Our generation is not broken. It is being prepared.

​My name is Musa Tawhid. This is what I found when I stopped running.

See you on the next one –  April 11th.

Episode Ten: The Test of Unity Begins

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