In Nigeria, faith is like oxygen. Everyone breathes it, often without question. So when *Caleb, 27, quietly stepped away from Christianity into atheism, it wasn’t just a personal shift. It stirred a storm in his family, strained friendships, and forced him to redefine meaning from the ground up.
In this interview with JD, Caleb opens up about growing up as a church boy, losing his belief bit by bit, how it shapes his dating life, and what he wants for the kids he might someday raise.
Let’s start from the top. What was religion like for you growing up?
Intense. I grew up in Akure in what people would call a “firebrand” Christian family. My dad is a deacon, and my mum leads the women’s prayer ministry. Sundays were a full day for project workers, with a meeting by 7am, the main service at 9, and after-service prayers at 12. Sometimes, we wouldn’t get home until 2pm.
It wasn’t just Sundays. Morning devotion was serious business. We prayed before eating, before travelling, before writing NECO, and even before going to greet our neighbours. Bible verses were everywhere. My earliest songs were church choruses. As kids, we’d mimic pastors preaching. I loved it genuinely then. It was my entire universe.
So, what changed?
Interestingly, it began with Bible study. I’ve always been that person who wants to know why. Even as a teenager, I’d read verses and ask my Sunday school teachers hard questions. Like, if God is love and perfect, why does he wipe out entire cities in the Old Testament? Why is eternal hell the punishment for finite mistakes?
They’d usually say things like, “Some mysteries are for God alone” or “Don’t lean on your understanding.” That never quite satisfied me.
Then university happened. I studied philosophy at the University of Ibadan. Imagine someone already wrestling with faith stumbling into existentialist philosophers, ancient scepticism, and comparative religion classes. It opened my mind, for better or worse. I started seeing religion, even mine, as cultural and geographical. Like, if I’d been born in Riyadh, I’d probably be Muslim. If in Bangkok, maybe Buddhist. That shook me.
It wasn’t overnight. I prayed hard, asking God to show up and help me overcome my unbelief. But slowly, it felt like I was talking into the void. Until one day, I realised I no longer believed. And that was both terrifying and strangely peaceful.
Did something personal happen, like a tragedy, that made you stop believing?
Not at all. That’s what people assume: that an atheist must have lost a loved one or faced a crushing heartbreak that turned them cold. My life has been mostly normal. If anything, it made it harder to explain. There was no sob story. Just a slow intellectual unravelling.
It felt like I was taking off glasses that had tinted everything for years, and suddenly I was seeing the world raw. Scary, but also oddly clearer.
How did your parents react?
Ah, that was tough. In a Nigerian family, telling them you don’t believe in God is like telling them you have a terminal disease. My mum cried for days. My dad quoted Hebrews and threatened to bring pastors to “speak sense” to me. My elder brother accused me of trying to act smarter than God. Even cousins I hadn’t spoken to in years were sending me WhatsApp prayers.
Now we’ve settled into a sort of cold truce. I still attend Christmas services, bow my head during prayers, but we never really discuss my beliefs. It’s their coping mechanism. And I don’t push it, out of respect.
Have you lost friendships because of it?
Some, yes. Especially with people who believe that theists are inherently bad or sad people. A few old friends started treating me like a contamination risk. Like, my doubt was infectious. Others always wanted debates. Or to “win me back to Christ.”
But I’ve also had surprising acceptance. Some friends just shrugged like, “Na your life, as long as you’re still kind and normal.” And that’s more than enough.
Let’s go personal. How do you navigate dating? Do you date only fellow atheists or open-minded believers?
(Laughs) That’s honestly one of the trickiest parts. I’m not rigid about dating only atheists. The truth is that in Nigeria, it would drastically shrink your dating pool. But I look for open-minded people, people whose faith isn’t tied to policing or converting me.
I once dated a very devoted Christian girl. It was sweet, but after some months it became a small, silent war. She’d slip “God will bring you back” into conversations, or ask if I’d reconsider raising kids in church. Meanwhile, I was trying hard not to roll my eyes during five-hour vigils.
Now I’m more upfront. I tell people early that I don’t believe that it’s a phase. If they’re cool, we move on. If not, it’s better to save us both time and heartbreak.
Speaking of kids, if you ever have them, how would you raise them?
I’ve thought a lot about that. I wouldn’t raise them as an atheist, because I don’t think children should inherit disbelief the same way we inherit belief. I’d raise them curious. Teach them about multiple religions, about ethics, about critical thinking. Let them decide for themselves when they’re old enough.
If they end up choosing Christianity or Islam, that’s fine by me. I just want them to be thoughtful about it, not follow blindly because that’s what everyone around them does. My only rule would be: don’t harm people or judge them because of your faith.
People often say that without God, there’s no moral compass. What’s your take on that?
That one ehn, I hear it all the time. But I think it’s lazy thinking. You don’t need God to know murder is wrong or that compassion is good. If your only reason for being decent is heaven points, that’s a transactional mindset, not morality.
My morality comes from empathy and reason. I don’t lie, cheat or steal because I know it causes harm, not because I fear hell. I think that’s even more meaningful, to choose good without cosmic threats.
Do you ever envy people who still have faith?
Yes, sometimes. Faith provides a beautiful structure. A way to wrap your pain in purpose. A belief that every heartbreak, every death, is part of a bigger plan. Sometimes when life hits hard, I miss that script. It was comforting to say, “God knows best.”
Now, it’s just me and reality. No guarantees, no divine safety net. It’s heavy sometimes.
What about death? Are you scared?
Very. Some nights I lie awake thinking, so one day I’ll just stop existing? Forever? It’s frightening. But over time, I’ve come to find meaning in it. Knowing this is all I have makes me cherish it more. Makes me love deeper, laugh louder, and be kinder. Because there’s no rehearsal, this is the whole show.
If you could say something to religious Nigerians reading this, what would it be?
That we’re not wicked or empty people. I didn’t stop believing because I wanted to “enjoy sin.” I just couldn’t force myself to accept what my mind rejected. And that doesn’t make me your enemy.
If your faith truly teaches love, extend it even to people who don’t share it. That’s all. We can still live together, work together, even love each other, whether we pray to God, Allah, multiple gods, or none at all.
If you enjoyed this, you might find our other conversations on faith with fellow readers interesting. Check out Self-control as a Christian; Can You Really Fry ‘Dodo’ Without Tasting? and subscribe here also to our newsletter to receive more goodies.
