In Lagos, church was not an event. It was a lifestyle. On my street alone, we had at least five churches: big ones, small ones, the one where the pastor’s wife sold chin-chin after service and everyone pretended not to notice. Sunday mornings had their own rhythm — the ironing of clothes the night before, the arguments about who was taking too long in the bathroom.
Then you move. And everything changes.
“God, if You followed me here, I need You to speak louder — because this apartment is very quiet.”
Fisayo was 32 when she landed in Canada. Back in Lagos, her church community was her second family. The women’s fellowship knew her problems before she did. The choir rehearsals were therapy.
The Silence of a New Country
In Canada, Fisayo found churches. But they did not find her. The worship was different — quieter, more measured. Nobody shouted. Nobody danced until their shoes came off. She sat in pews surrounded by people and felt more alone than she ever had in Yaba.
Rebuilding, Slowly
The rebuilding did not happen in a church. It happened in a kitchen. Fisayo started inviting two other Nigerian women over on Sunday evenings. They would cook, talk, and sometimes — not always — someone would pray.
“That is when faith became mine,” she says. “Not my mother’s faith. Not my pastor’s faith. Mine. Small and stubborn and real.”
“I stopped asking God to take me back home. I started asking Him to make this place feel like one.”
Every week, Gather shares a faith diary. Email stories@gathermedia.ca.