A Quiet Exit; Religion and Why I’ve Moved On From It.

Everyone I speak to says they have or had the same questions about Religion and God. We probably all did, but not all of us moved on. This article is about why I couldn’t move past these questions. I write this not to argue for or against anyone’s religious beliefs, but to document my journey toward being irreligious—especially significant for someone from a religious background and country. I acknowledge it’s complicated, but I enjoy confronting difficult topics; I believe unbridled growth stems from that.

I also write to clearly articulate these thoughts, hoping to help others who struggle to express similar feelings and thoughts because for a long while i struggled with fragments of these thoughts. Lastly, this is for my friends and others who have always asked me why—usually met by my response, “It's a long conversation.” I've written it down so I don't have to always say that.

If you're religious, I invite you to read this—not to change your beliefs, but to understand the perspective of someone who once religious, has now become agnostic. It might offer insight into what leads someone down that path.

Growing up in a devout Christian home, my dad was our priest. Every day, we had morning devotions and, when possible, evening ones too. In these sessions, we sang and prayed together. We attended church faithfully every Sunday and on holidays (Easter, Christmas, and New Year). Naturally, I defer often to Christianity here because it's the religion I know best. My dad’s favourite saying was, "God did everything for me and gave me everything I have." He was deeply devoted to God and Jesus. He was also one of the kindest people I knew; he didn’t just preach kindness, he lived it. His life exemplified how religion provided him purpose and served as a foundation for his actions. Throughout his life and business, he shared countless testimonies about God intervening, often at the last minute. Even on his deathbed, he continually affirmed that Jesus would care for him. It was genuinely beautiful.

Yet none of this quieted the persistent questions I had about religion. These questions grew in number and complexity as I learned more about world history, religious history, and my country's history. Briefly, in secondary school, I tried to ignore these questions—to avoid them entirely—but it didn’t work.

My relationship with religion through Christianity oscillated over the years—from leading fellowship prayers in secondary school and briefly in university, to atheism, and eventually settling on agnosticism in recent years. I’ve been through the motions.

One thing was clear: I couldn't ignore the pillars around why religion didn’t seem like a reasonable path for me, nor could I silence the questions in my head.

Growing older, religion becomes increasingly significant because it influences daily decisions, shapes how you hope, build resilience, and face challenges. Many times, it catches you out, particularly in relationships. As a single adult living in Lagos and London, I encountered various potential love interests for whom anything long-term or serious was off the table once they discovered I wasn't religious. This baffled some of my friends.

“Why not just go to church, man? You don’t even have to believe; just go.”

A part of me didn’t want to, and I didn’t. It felt like pandering—pretending to be something I wasn’t, just to be with someone unwilling to compromise the other way. My convictions mattered deeply. I knew it wasn’t just a ‘stage,’ as some friends might have thought. It seemed unimaginable to them that someone born into religion could abandon it without adopting another. Long story short, it’s been fourteen years since I last attended church for anything other than social reasons, and I don’t see myself returning.

Now, to the crux. Four main pillars form the foundation of my questions about religion. I'll begin from a broader perspective and gradually narrow it down to the personal.

First, the randomness of how your birthplace determines your religious path (read here) is something that frequently puzzles me. 84% of people globally inherit their religion from birth. I was born to Igbo parents who grew up in South-Eastern Nigeria in the 1980s; statistically speaking, there was about a 1 in 10,000 chance I wouldn’t be born Christian. Similarly, someone born at the same exact time to parents from Northeast Nigeria would most likely live their lives as Muslims. Both religions dominate Nigeria and claim to offer the absolute truths needed to navigate life and the afterlife. Yet simply because one of us was born into the “wrong” religion, we've started on a path considered incorrect by the other's beliefs—likely continuing that way for our entire lives. Both religions argue conversion is possible through teaching or a significant personal encounter (a Damascus moment).

However, seeing an Igbo man who is Muslim is like seeing a fish swimming on land—very few ever convert to another religion. So why expect others to convert to ours? There are only about 35,000 Igbo Muslims among roughly 30 million Igbo people. Suppose Islam is the true path—virtually all my kinsmen would have missed heaven (Jannah). The vast majority, since colonization, would have missed salvation merely because we were culturally indoctrinated into the religion brought by our colonial masters.

Millions of Igbos would thus be born and die either with a religious advantage or disadvantage, depending entirely on which religion is actually true. That randomness through geographical disposition has always been too much for my “God-given” mind to reconcile as a just or fair criterion as a head-start over eternal damnation.

For context, we're essentially in a generational race against the Northern Nigerians, who've embraced Islam, to see which ethnic group forms the dominant number in heaven or Jannah. This randomness extends worldwide. Born into Hinduism in India or Judaism in Israel? You're likely to remain within that religion. It feels arbitrary—like playing roulette and believing you hold the winning hand. No group is inherently special; they're merely sides convinced their birthright beliefs must signify something.

My next issue with religion is how, culturally, in societies where it thrives, it often encourages individualism and creates barriers to collective action, particularly in developing nations. Zuckerman’s research found secular societies generally thrive more and experience greater contentment. Growing up, I always struggled with testimonies; some never resonated. There was always someone celebrating being the exception, having escaped an absurdity that shouldn't have existed in the first place—situations clearly demanding collective action. Every day, we pray for jobs, security, and basic necessities—things a functioning government should provide. We've been praying for these since 1960, yet collective indices have barely improved. It always seems like God is saving individuals daily, leaving thousands to suffer due to systemic failures.

One of the earliest Sunday school songs I learned was about the Wall of Jericho. I often imagined it from the perspective of Jericho’s residents: strangers arrived at their gates demanding passage, giving them no choice. Every living thing in Jericho paid the ultimate price. Did no one consider that innocent people might have lived there? Could an entire city genuinely be 100% bad?

In other societies—especially less religious ones—collective action has driven development and met societal needs. People in these societies rely more on faith in themselves and their collective abilities, rather than divine intervention, to improve their systems. Are we praying simply to escape dysfunction, and does this escapism prevent collective action? What would happen if, instead of hoping, we dedicated our full efforts into making systems work for us? What if we had nothing to hope for but ourselves?

Furthermore, China and England were once among the strongest proponents of religion between the 17th and 18th centuries, yet they have since become some of the most irreligious nations.

What changed? Why did Britain leave the path to eternal life for the Commonwealth countries they colonized? Did they suddenly conclude eternal life wasn't that important? Did their societies collectively decide not to prioritize the afterlife? As their communities became more stable and their futures more secure, did religion become unnecessary? Why did they abandon something they brought to us?

My view is that culturally, religion was a tool for colonization and control. The British needed order and stability to curtail ethnic conflicts among native peoples. The Ten Commandments provided a structured starting point. Our forefathers' carvings became classified as idols. Warriors fortified by their gods fell quickly to gunpowder; seeing became believing. It was a form of domination—you wore your victor's garment to avoid persecution.

Religion worked effectively to impose law, order, and societal structure among warring neighbors. Now, a century later, Britain has largely abandoned religion for a secular way of life, embedding moral codes within parliamentary and judicial systems. Africa, meanwhile, hasn't fully moved on.

Another debate centers around religion’s compatibility with innovation—specifically, how certain doctrines limit human creativity and exploration. A pastor, for instance, would likely never invent something like the condom, as his teachings prioritize abstinence or fidelity rather than solutions accommodating human nature.

Consider a woman wearing a burqa, concealing everything except her eyes. Such attire, rooted in religious custom, symbolizes restrictions placed on her interactions with both people and her environment. How can innovation, experimentation, and meaningful change emerge from someone who remains merely a visitor in their surroundings? In this way, religion often constructs barriers around the mind’s potential, limiting what people feel encouraged or allowed to question and achieve. It encourages hope for a better tomorrow instead of active questioning and shaping of that future.

Historically, religious institutions have resisted innovation whenever it seemed to challenge the natural order or divine will. Many groundbreaking ideas—from the heliocentric solar system to Earth's spherical shape—initially faced fierce opposition from religious bodies. These tensions highlight how strict adherence to religious teachings can stifle curiosity and slow human progress. Today, the most religious nations often have the highest rates of armed conflict; the advantages, for me, seem bleak.

Another religious tenet that deeply troubles me is the idea of equal punishment for all sins—a policy even the most primitive civilizations never practiced. Punishment should fit the crime, yet religion offers only one punishment for all sins: eternal damnation. From someone responsible for millions of deaths to another who simply fornicates—surely there should be levels of eternal consequence.

Lastly, I've noticed many people conflate religion with identity, creating a profound fear of stepping outside that framework. The existential question—“If I am not Christian, Muslim, or any other faith, what am I?”—is something many avoid confronting. This fear isn’t merely about abandoning belief but about losing a sense of self, community, and belonging deeply intertwined with that religion. The roots of this conflation are cultural and societal. From birth, people often inherit identities based on their family's and community's norms. Religion becomes a defining feature, shaping values, relationships, and worldviews. However, uncritically inheriting such an identity can prevent people from understanding if they genuinely align with its principles.

It's essential to periodically question and review these inherited identities—not as an act of disrespect or rebellion but as one of self-awareness and authenticity. Examining religious norms and ways of life helps determine whether individuals truly resonate with teachings or simply follow them out of habit, fear, or societal pressure.

Many argue that religion is true because it "works" for them—they pray, and something happens. God listens and acts for them. Yet someone far away who isn’t religious might experience the exact same outcomes without prayer. Religion doesn’t necessarily make you luckier. Life unfolds unpredictably: sometimes unfairly harsh, other times disproportionately kind. If you assume irreligious people constantly suffer or miss out on blessings, prosperity, or happiness, perhaps you haven't looked closely enough. Just as religious people sometimes thrive, others thrive without religion. Fortune and misfortune are unevenly spread among everyone.

There's also a simpler reason I stepped away from religion: people. Growing up observing pastors, priests, and other religious figures—even modern ones—I often wondered if these were people I'd want to spend eternity with.

Instead of Chinua Achebe, Socrates, Barack Obama, Chimamanda Adichie, David Hume, Friedrich Nietzsche, Fela, or Robert De Niro? These individuals excite me. By contrast, spending eternity with people solely focused on prayer, worship, avoiding doubt, and refraining from questions about religion doesn't seem compelling.

Finally, conscience has always been humanity’s moral compass—we inherently know right from wrong, guiding our actions and choices. Religion can reinforce this, but we’re naturally wired to understand morality independently.

History and anthropology confirm that cultures without formalized religion or with diverse spiritual practices developed robust moral frameworks based on empathy, social cohesion, and shared experiences.

Understanding good and evil, fairness and unfairness, transcends religious affiliation. These moral concepts are embedded in our human nature, enabling societies to flourish regardless of spiritual beliefs. While religion can enhance moral clarity, it is our universal conscience—our innate capacity for compassion, fairness, and justice—that truly underpins human morality.

Finally, to end this piece, it feels important to say: I do believe there is a God. But what I’m certain of is that his process for the world doesn’t involve intervening in human actions or favouring one person over another because they pray more or follow the “right” religion. Like Einstein, I don’t believe in life after death. He famously said—and I agree—that “one life is enough for me.” I have no desire to spend eternity praising anyone or singing praise and worship all day in heaven. I’d rather not.

I fully subscribe to Einstein’s view on the question of God. He called it “the most difficult in the world”—a question too vast for our limited minds, one that couldn't be answered simply with yes or no. I stand with that. It is my conviction.