ConfessionsBoltMerlin

15 Aug 4 min read

I Survived the Kaduna Sharia Riot, But It Changed How I See Marriage

I have always been the person my extended family turns to whenever there is a serious family matter. Not because I am the oldest, but because both my parents are late, and over the years, my younger siblings and cousins have come to see me as someone who should provide guidance when difficult decisions have to be made. But there is one family decision I may have handled badly. And today, it has cost me my relationship with my cousin. Years ago, during the Sharia-related riots in Kaduna, I experienced something that changed me permanently. I still remember that day. What started as tension in the city quickly became terrifying. People were running everywhere. Shops were being hurriedly closed. Cars were abandoned on the roads, and everyone was looking for somewhere safe to hide. I was caught in the middle of it. At one point, I genuinely believed I was going to die. I remember hiding in a place I never imagined I would have to hide in, listening to people shouting outside. I could hear footsteps, screams and the sound of things being destroyed. I was shaking uncontrollably. That experience taught me something I have never forgotten: when people are divided by religion, ethnicity or politics, ordinary people can become victims of things they did not start. Thankfully, I survived. But psychologically, I never completely returned to the person I was before that day. I became extremely cautious. I started questioning things more deeply. Whenever I heard about religious conflicts, I became uncomfortable. Whenever someone made a major decision involving religion, marriage or family, I found myself thinking about the worst possible outcome. Perhaps that is where I made my biggest mistake. My cousin eventually told me she wanted to marry a Muslim man. She was deeply in love with him. According to her, he was respectful, hardworking, responsible and genuinely loved her. She had known him for a while and believed they could build a peaceful home together. But when she came to me for my opinion, I immediately became afraid. I told her I did not support the marriage. She asked me why. I told her about what I experienced in Kaduna. I told her that I had seen firsthand how quickly religious differences could become dangerous. I told her that marriage was not only about two people loving each other. There would be children, families, traditions, religious expectations and difficult decisions. She listened quietly. Then she said something that hurt me. She said, "You survived a riot, but you didn't survive the fear it left inside you." I became angry. I told her she was being naive and that love could make people ignore serious warning signs. She accused me of judging her fiancé simply because he was Muslim. I denied it. But deep down, I knew there was some truth in what she was saying. I wasn't judging the man based on anything he had personally done to me. I was judging the possibility of what could go wrong based on something that had happened to me years ago. The disagreement became bigger. She stopped coming to me for advice. Other family members started taking sides. Some said I was only trying to protect her because our parents were gone and I felt responsible for her. Others said I was allowing one traumatic experience to control my judgment. Eventually, my cousin told me that she had made her decision and would marry the man whether I supported her or not. I told her I couldn't bless a decision I believed could put her future at risk. That was the beginning of the end. Today, we barely speak. The woman who once called me whenever she had a problem now avoids me at family gatherings. When important family matters come up, she communicates through other relatives. Sometimes I wonder if I protected my cousin or pushed her away. I still believe my fears came from somewhere real. I survived something terrifying, and I cannot pretend that experience didn't shape me. But I am also beginning to understand that surviving something can sometimes teach you wisdom, while trauma can also teach you fear—and the two are not always the same thing. My cousin has never personally harmed me. Her fiancé has never personally harmed me. Maybe I should have judged the man by his character, his values, his treatment of her and his willingness to build a family with her—not simply by the religion he belongs to. I don't know if I was right or wrong. All I know is that I wanted to protect someone I considered my responsibility. Instead, I may have lost her. And perhaps the hardest lesson from everything that happened is this: Sometimes, the things we survive can become the very things we allow to control us long after the danger is gone.