My Eid Story

Growing up, if Eid Mubarak or Salah (or Ileya, as we used to call it) fell on a Wednesday, as it did this year, by Sunday, my mom and elder sister would pack our clothes—mine and my younger sister's.

The anticipation leading up to Eid was palpable. On Sunday night, I would almost be unable to sleep, eagerly awaiting daybreak. I wasn't the only one; I soon discovered that my cousins shared the same anticipation. Their parents would often tell my parents how they did not eat or sleep the night before due to the sheer excitement. Considering we only reunited once a year, the level of joy was beyond words.

Early on Monday morning, before daybreak, we embarked on the journey to Ijebu, where my grandfather's house stood.

I remember the traffic egg rolls, gala, and drinks we used to buy and our voices of laughter while my dad drove.

As soon as we got to the family house, we would meet some others and have to anticipate others. Before nightfall, the house would usually be full.

I remember the house. It was a spacious bungalow with multiple rooms, each occupied by a different family. The last room was rented out to an Igbo family that resided there.

There were several trees around the house, even the tropical almond tree we used to call ‘fruit’. The soil was so fertile that if we poured seeds on the floor, The following year we would return to see a tree growing, so we did not have to buy fruits.

The kitchen and bathroom were detached from the main house, although they were within the compound. Opposite the house stood an old church with unpainted walls that allowed you to see how the blocks were laid.

A beautiful house, resembling my grandfather's, was situated a few meters away as well.

The big black gate was always open to welcome visitors, who would constantly be trooping in and out.

Every new day saw the slaughter of a new animal—a ram or a cow. The mothers in the house would do the cooking while we, the children, reveled in our freedom, running around with uncontainable energy.

The men would gather with the butchers opposite the house, engaging in lively conversations and monitoring the slaughter.

I remember one occasion when my elder sister and the other older cousins sat opposite the slaughter spot and started naming the visceral organs of the animal. It was something I would come to love doing years later but with poultry.

Every Christmas, I would stay with my mom while we dismantled the already-dead chicken, boring her with the names of each part and drawing comparisons to the human body or whatever I had learned from Anatomy that semester. Occasionally, she would chip in with some things.

From waking up to loud Fuji music blasting from the sound system in the living room to the early morning ritual of bread and tea to the hearty afternoon jollof rice and huge meats There was always a never-ending supply of meat, to the point that we would usually get tired of it. Followed by the evening enjoyment of semo and soup, or bread for those who preferred it.

In the afternoons, we roamed freely, engaging in water gun fights, playing games like "I call on," "catcher," or simply inventing new games that filled our days with endless joy.

At the first glimpse of sunset, the streets would be as empty as a graveyard.

On the day of Eid, my cousins would wake up early to go to the mosque to perform prayers. As soon as they returned, celebrations continued unabated.

At night, we would all gather in the living room to watch movies while our parents would regularly remind us of how late it was and that we needed to sleep.

Oh! I mustn't forget the stares and looks of awe and admiration from the children of the community as they watched us, city kids, whenever we passed by.

The days spent at my grandfather's house were filled with delight. We would stay there from Monday to Friday, joyfully missing a few days of schoolwork.

I liked the idea of missing a few days of school work. It was a great opportunity for my classmates to miss me.

A few years later, my grandma passed away, and our Eid trips were discontinued.

I recall the first year we didn't go; I cried a river as I mourned the loss of this special tradition. In contrast, my older siblings appeared unaffected, or at least concealed their emotions well.

However, as the years passed, I grew accustomed to the change until our destination shifted to my maternal grandfather's house.

Thirteen years later, I’m reminiscing about those magical times, struggling to recall the precise hue of the house's paint or where the Pawpaw trees were concentrated more.

The adjustment was seamless, as the goal was to have fun on that day, and we had that, so it was a win.

The only difference was that we only spent one day there, but all my maternal cousins were always present. My brother, the family DJ, would play loud music while visitors would troop in and out. Each cousin brought along their friends, and the air buzzed with excitement. Traditional drummers would grace us with their presence, entertaining the guests, who would in turn shower them with money.

The women in the family would sit downstairs with the caterers. I vividly recall one particular year when we had an effeminate caterer whose lively presence brought an extra dose of amusement to the festivities.

Meanwhile, the men sat with the butchers in the open space downstairs, engaged in animated conversations, forging connections, and immersing themselves in the spirit of the day.

Also, the big green gate would be open.

Every Eid, my grandfather's name, Onilewura, resonated through the air, reminding us of our ancestral lineage.

It was always fun, and on that day more than ever, I would always hear my grandfather's name, Onilewura.

12:47 PM, June 2023

Playing ‘Ijo Fuji’ by Adewale Ayuba

...Anijo Fuji l'arinrin Ele bere mole ke mara...

I saw Gilmore's skit about Eid, and it brought this memories.

Hi, my name is Sarah, a twenty-something-year-old, and this is my Eid story.

You may wonder why someone named Sarah has such a deep connection to this holiday, but I’ll have to leave you wondering.

It's 2023, and I'm at the university now. We had a two-day break to observe this holiday.

Yesterday was Eid, and I spent the entire day at home. Rest assured, I did indulge in the leftover jollof rice from Tuesday evening, and I love plantains so much that I used them to eat my jollof rice.

Allow me to clarify that my decision to eat what I ate was not due to financial constraints; rather, it was a conscious choice to save the 34 naira that was left in my account, which could have bought a cow a few years ago, maybe during Babaginda’s tenure.

Unfortunately, throughout this week, there has been no electricity supply, and it appears that all the generator owners in my hostel are either Muslims or chose to go home for the break. So only two others and I are left in the hostel.

For most of yesterday, I found myself grappling with a limited phone battery, only using my phone for important things and a sense of boredom that was difficult to articulate.

I couldn't even use social media to enjoy Eid through the eyes of others. I can't explain the boredom I felt.

My hostel, which used to be alive with the hum of generators, felt deserted.

My phone’s battery was at a mere 3% when I decided to leave the house at 4 p.m. to be able to charge it. I hastily consumed a bowl of cereal, hoping it would suffice until I could enjoy a proper meal later in the evening.

However, I had to stay where I was until 10 p.m. Fortunately, I managed to charge my phone, alleviating the anxiety that accompanies a dying battery.

As I made my way home, I noticed that all the food vendors had either closed early due to the rain or did not open for business in observance of Eid. Consequently, I retired to bed on an empty stomach.

Regrettably, there were no quick and easy meals in my kitchen. The last of the cereal had been consumed before I embarked on my evening excursion.

I can't help but imagine my grandmothers in heaven, marveling at how one of their granddaughters spent a festive day hungry. However, I bear no resentment; circumstances don't always align with our expectations.

You might assume that I would have awakened early today to relish a hearty breakfast, but the reality is that it's already 1 p.m. and I am writing instead.

How was Eid for you? I would be delighted to hear about your experiences, as it would allow me to partake in the festivities through your comments.

By the way, you can still email my meat to me.