BEFORE setting off on the bus to Accra, Ghana’s capital, from the coastal town of Elmina, passengers are regaled with a twenty-minute sermon from a fellow-commuter. Pacing up and down the galley, slapping his bible passionately into his fist, fervent spittle anointing all on board, he calls for the “Lord God Almighty” to look over us and to bless our journey. Baobab begins to wonder how bad the road actually is. The passengers declare a resounding “amen” and the bus departs, negotiating pot-holes and inept drivers for the next three hours.

Ghana, according to a recent poll by WIN-Gallup International, is the most devout country in the world: 96% of the population professes to being religious. Nigeria, where the survey found that 93% of people identify themselves as believers, comes a close second.

But in Nigeria, religious observance can be a dangerous business. A recent spate of attacks on the country’s churches and mosques has spurred fears of a sectarian war. This year, Boko Haram, an extreme Islamist group, has targeted six churches in northern and central Nigeria, the mainly Muslim parts of the country; but an attack in August in Kogi state was much further into the mostly-Christian south than the group’s usual targets.

Despite the fear of more bombs, millions of people still attend church. “Isn’t is better you die in church rather than in your own home?” argues Adeola, a worshipper at the Redeemed Christian Church of God in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital, where thousands of people pray every week. “We have religious security,” says Pastor JK Oluode, “the Almighty God will protect.”

Not exactly. Worshippers wishing to enter the Redeemed Church must first undergo two thorough checks with hand-held metal detectors. A small box with something resembling a television aerial attached to it, noses through bags. Major roads where churches sit are blockaded with hired taxis and tree branches. Gun-toting police stalk the perimeter during Sunday services. This week, St. Theresa’s Catholic Cathedral in Enugu state in southern Nigeria declared a ban on women carrying oversized handbags and wearing “big headgears”. The elaborate headwraps (gele) that women often showcase at church have now been deemed a potential security risk. Many churches have already banned handbags.

The pastor tells Baobab that people here believe in God so vehemently because it gives them hope for tomorrow. If something bad happens, heaven awaits. Asked whether Nigerians are more god-fearing than god-loving, the pastor prays for Baobab’s soul. The service is for thanksgiving, which coincides with the first Sunday after payday. In what sounds like an economic report, the congregation is told to not worry about the first, second and third quarter of the year and that in the fourth quarter, there is still a chance to be blessed financially and materially. Congregants give testimonials describing long ambitions to land a job within government, to acquire a bigger house or a car and detailing how after fasting, praying, giving to the church, they are at last reaping the rewards. A leather-lined bin lands at Baobab’s feet. Give what you can, and you will be blessed.

The number of self-declared atheists in the world may be rising, but in Nigeria religion remains inescapable. Meetings and conferences open with prayers. Mobile phones blare out spiritual ringtones; a recorded religious citation is played before calls are connected; every hope and intention is punctuated with “God willing”.

In Nigeria, where decades of governments have stolen hundreds of billions of dollars of oil money but most people live on less than $2 a day, many turn to religion, believing that only God can protect them and pull them out of poverty.