“My name is Musa. This is my path.”

1960 was more than Nigeria’s independence. It was the year my family chose a different kind of freedom. Not the freedom of flags, but the freedom of faith. Not the voice of politicians, but the voice of the Qur’an echoing in a young man’s heart.

That young man?
My grandfather.

While the nation fought for sovereignty, he was fighting for something deeper, peace in the heart, roots in the soul. That same year, he met his wife, and together they welcomed the birth of their only son, my father. But this wasn’t just the start of a family tree. It was the planting of something far more sacred: Islam as identity.

I imagine my grandfather, holding his newborn in his arms, hearing the Adhan in his heart louder than any anthem outside.

He didn’t just name his son.
He prayed over him.
He recited the Qur’an into his ear before he ever said his first word.

The world was changing fast, colonial boots were lifting, new flags were flying, but inside our home, the change was spiritual. While others learned how to sing a new national anthem, my family was learning how to live under divine guidance.

And then came the Walimah. A simple ceremony. A Qur’an. A baby.

A declaration—not just of celebration, but of surrender to Allah.

That Walimah wasn’t about food. It was about foundation.

It said: “This child belongs to something higher than the land he stands on.”

That was my father’s beginning.
And whether he knew it or not, he carried the echo of that faith forward through hardship, marriage, mistakes, and mercy until it reached me.

Here’s the thing nobody tells you:
Faith isn’t passed on through lectures.
It’s passed on through lives.

Through the way my grandfather held prayer beads more than he held grudges.
Through how he made sure the Qur’an was in our home, not just on our shelf.
Through how the beauty of Islam didn’t just show up on Fridays, but in how he loved, how he led, how he listened.

So when I say Islam took root in 1960, I don’t mean it came with a wave.
I mean it grew quietly in one home, one heart, one child.

That seed was planted in 1960. And decades later, I am still harvesting its fruit.

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

See you at the next one — September 11th.

Episode 3: Born with the Storm – A Moses-Like Beginning

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