Not long ago, it felt like young Nigerians were inching away from religion. The rise of internet culture brought global atheistic movements, spiritual skepticism, and self-help ideologies into sharper view. The disillusionment was clear. Gen Z, with their global outlook, began exploring secular ideologies, manifestations of a world shrinking through the internet. But somewhere along the way, the drift slowed and reversed. Now, it seems like more young people are embracing faith again. There is the general acknowledgement that the odds are stacked against them; hence, young Nigerians are finding new ways to turn to God, not because everything is fine, but precisely because nothing is. 

At first glance, it’s surprising. In a country where institutional trust is eroding, you’d expect people to abandon rigid structures, not return to them. But this resurgence of faith among young Nigerians feels more like an act of survival than tradition. After all, religion offers what the government has failed to provide: community, comfort, and a roadmap through chaos. What drives this shift is the sheer exhaustion of surviving in a country like Nigeria. 

Nigeria’s government has betrayed its young citizens repeatedly: with crumbling infrastructure, chronic unemployment, unending police brutality, and a progressively dwindling economy. According to Reuters, “data from the National Bureau of Statistics on Tuesday showed food inflation rose to 37.77% year on year in September from 37.52% the previous month. Economists expect the disinflation process to resume in the coming months, potentially allowing the central bank to switch from a hiking to an easing cycle early next year.” Nigeria’s currency has weakened from 1,200 to 1,600 to the dollar, and gasoline prices have soared from 620 to over 1,000 naira per liter. Data from the Manufacturers Association of Nigeria reports that at least 767 manufacturers shut down operations and 335 became distressed in 2023. Unsold inventories amounted to N350 billion during the same period. The #EndSARS protests in 2020 made it clear that youth activism could only go so far before being met with repression and death. Change through collective action seemed, for a brief moment, possible. Then, it was crushed. Now, what remains is an individualistic pursuit of hope.

Has anybody linked this phenomenon to the economic situation?

Because that’s exactly what happened to your parents and is happening to you.

Pele. https://t.co/VLBMScRmOW

— Zikora. (@zikorx) October 20, 2024

Currently, many young Nigerians are praying, not for grand miracles, but just to get through the week. They’re praying and trusting God for tangible things: jobs, rent, fuel, stable electricity, food, a good day; waiting on God for divine intervention for ordinary things that reflect how deep the cracks in the system have grown.

“Exercising faith” to be healthy, to get admission, to get a job, to get a visa, to buy a phone, to get married, etc.

It is very sad to watch. Our parents generation did this, seeing millennials and Gen Zs get into it is so sad and to some personal extent, embarrassing.

— Charles Njoku (@madebycharles) October 21, 2024

Religion now is less about believing God will provide and more about needing Him to, because the system certainly won’t. Churches — especially the charismatic ones targeted at youth — have stepped in to fill the gap, promising divine breakthroughs in the face of real-world failures. And just like old times, the times of our parents and their parents, faith has become a salve for the wounds inflicted by bad governance, a form of hope that can be carried even when there’s nothing tangible to grasp.

Anyway, congratulations to those of us trusting God for new laptops o.

— Ugo🦅 (@its_yugee) October 19, 2024

Of course, this new wave of religiosity isn’t without its complexities. Religion in Nigeria has always been tied to power, often in ways that uphold the very systems young people are trying to resist. Today, churches have rebranded to suit the times. The marketing is slick, the social media presence strong. For many young Nigerians, these new-generation churches feel like a refreshing alternative to the stiff traditions of their parents. But beneath the surface, the core teachings haven’t evolved all that much, it’s the same message wrapped in trendier packaging. It’s ironic, really. The same young people who once vowed they’d never be as judgmental as their parents are now in church every Sunday, parroting those same conservative values they grew up resenting. There’s still heavy policing of behavior — just with more tact. The moral posturing is still alive, but now they come disguised as “concern” for people’s spiritual well-being.

As buttressed, these churches have become parallel structures to the state. When the government can’t provide, the church steps in, forming informal safety nets through prayer groups. But this transactional faith carries weighty expectations. There’s an implicit expectation that blessings must be earned through obedience. If things don’t improve, if the rent still isn’t paid or the job never materializes, it’s easy to feel that the fault lies within. Maybe you missed a service. Maybe you weren’t devout enough. Then the weight of spiritual performance becomes just another burden, compounding the stress of daily life. And though these churches promote modernity in their style, they still demand a kind of obedience that discourages critical thought or rebellion. Patience and endurance are preached, subtly reinforcing the status quo that keeps young people tethered to broken systems.

It’s easier to believe that suffering has meaning, that blessings will follow, than to confront the harsh reality that nothing may change. Even if that hope is fragile, even if it asks them to accept too much, it still makes the unbearable feel bearable. And in the face of relentless uncertainty, that sliver of hope is sometimes the only thing standing between despair and survival.