The Nigerian God is not unemployed. He is overworked. Everyone is dealing with an emergency, the majority of which are spiritual. The woman at the bus stop mutters "God abeg" as a bus “tuketuke” drives past her toes; the taxi driver drapes a rosary from the rearview mirror and speeds through Lagos traffic, fully confident that Jesus' blood is more reliable than the brakes. The final-year student prays as if their GPA is dependent on an angel moderating the exam hall. Someone somewhere is fasting for a landlord's death rather than for peace of mind. Meanwhile, the Nigerian God is awake, always awake, overburdened and overwhelmed, silently attending to 200 million prayer requests, the majority of which are deeply urgent and stem from the simple truth that systems have failed, prompting people to turn to the divine to perform the basic tasks of a functioning country. Fix NEPA. Find work. Remove enemies. Give husband. Strike Politician. Prevent heartbreak. Approve alert.

He is not worshipped, but rather outsourced. The Nigerian God is everything and everyone: a financial advisor for those who want their cryptocurrency to multiply, a midwife for those who cannot afford fertility clinics, and a legal consultant for those who cannot afford lawyers. He is heavily relied on for everyday logistics and long-term planning. And this isn't the God of serene cathedrals and soft sermons. This is a working-class God, formed from generator fumes and marital turmoil. This God is summoned by WhatsApp broadcasts and panic-induced night vigils. There is no space for hazy spirituality here; he is expected to deliver sharp-sharp results, with pepper and fire. Not because Nigerians are transactional, but because they are exhausted. They're tired of asking men who don't respond, of institutions that punish patience, and of elections that recycle the same wickedness with better tailoring. The only entity left to plead with is God, so Nigerians go to Him with a long list and an empty stomach.

The politicians pray too, perhaps the hardest. They go into prayer camps with agbada and sin. They do thanksgiving with public funds, inviting gospel musicians to dance on broken roads. They kneel before prophets who praise them with divinely inspired sycophancy. They ask God to blind their enemies — as if they themselves are not the enemy of progress. They commission buildings they will never use and anoint them in the name of God, as if corruption can be baptized. And the Nigerian God, He listens. Not because He supports their greed, but because He has become too polite to say no. Or perhaps He no longer knows who deserves what. The petitions are too many, the contradictions too heavy. In a nation where the thief prays louder than the victim, how does a God choose sides?

In this part of the world, God is also a career consultant. The unemployed graduate asks Him for favor during interviews; the japa candidate sends up thunderous prayers for visa slots to open. Embassy queues turn into prayer chains. Pastors begin to specialize in prophetic travels. Churches post testimonies of people who got UK Tier 2 jobs without applying. The Nigerian God becomes the visa officer — and when approval finally comes, Nigerians say, “It was God o!” and not “It was the immigration system functioning as it should.” And why should they? The system has always needed divine CPR. For every job not gotten, there is a spiritual explanation. For every delay, there is an enemy at work. So God is forced into a full-time role of explaining reality to people who were never given working institutions.

Even in love, He is not spared. Nigerians pray for spouses in greater detail than the census collects. He must provide a husband with six figures, six feet, and six-pack abs, but also prayerful, and without mother-in-law issues. Women are asked to fast in order to "move from girlfriend to wife." Men are told to sow seeds to obtain favour. Somewhere in this hormonal uncertainty, the Nigerian God transforms into a matchmaker, dating app, and family planning adviser. And when love fails, as it often does, He must also become a therapist, a comforter, and a divine rebound. Churches hold deliverance services for heartbreak, and pastors perform exorcisms for emotional trauma. The Nigerian God is expected to not just heal wounds but prevent the foolishness that caused them in the first place. And the people ask, “Why didn’t You warn me?” as if the signs weren’t clear and loud like Lagos traffic.

Let’s not forget about warfare. The Nigerian God is militarized. He is the spiritual army' commander-in-chief. He is called to "arise and scatter" enemies, burn altars, kill witches, and undo curses. Some homes teach children that God is love, while others teach them that He is vengeance in a white robe. Prayer points sound like battle cries. Psalms have been weaponized. This is more than simply religion; it's trauma. In a country where violence is common and justice is sometimes delayed indefinitely, people turn to spiritual retribution when physical justice is absent. The Nigerian God becomes a hitman, a fixer, a supernatural mercenary. The poor have no access to lawyers, so they pray for fire to consume their landlord. The cheated pray for madness to befall the thief. And God listens, not because He agrees, but because He understands the language of desperation.

Sometimes, He is simply exhausted. The Nigerian God has heard too many requests that sound like cries for help — but beneath them, they are just cries for sanity. Someone prays for NEPA to bring light during surgery. Another prays for their child not to die because there are no ambulances. A young man prays to survive the night because SARS is in the area. These are not prayers — these are policy failures. But the Nigerian God is the last civil servant who shows up for work. So He listens, absorbs, blesses, and burns out. And yet, the people come back, every day, to ask again. Because what else do they have?

Still, in all this chaos, there is tenderness. The Nigerian God is not only petitioned — He is praised. Sometimes it’s the street preacher with a megaphone and cracked sandals. Sometimes it’s the mother who says “thank You” before she sleeps, even with no dinner. Sometimes it’s the child who calls out to God without knowing who He is, but just needing to be held. In these moments, God is not a fixer or a fighter — He is a friend. Not every prayer is shouted. Some are whispered between sobs, some sung in Yoruba choruses, some spoken in silence while washing rice. And the Nigerian God, tired as He is, listens again.

In the end, the Nigerian God is not Nigerian. He is not a citizen of dysfunction, nor a partisan in politics. But He is called Nigerian because the people have branded Him with their pain. They have placed all their expectations — institutional, emotional, spiritual — into His lap, because no one else is listening. So He becomes Nigerian not by choice, but by demand. And as the night falls and the country prays again — for light, for bread, for peace, for hope — the Nigerian God does what He always does: He stays awake. Because someone, somewhere, is saying, “God abeg.” And that has never been a small request.