Eid Al-Adha

It’s the first of September and once again we’re celebrating Eid Al-Adha. It is Islamic tradition to go to the Mosque in the morning before preparing for the feast later in the day and it is our tradition to ride with Grandfather on the way to the mosque while Grandmother drives in her own car. Every time we drive to the mosque, Grandpa would instruct the driver Mr Bello — who has been his driver for over twenty years — to play his Islamic CD, then we would all sing along chanting:

Subhanallah

Alhamdullilah

Walailahailallah

Alaahu Akbar

Alaahu Akbar

When we arrive at the Mosque, my Grandfather would find my mother and hand my sisters and I over to her. Then Mr. Bello would walk to the men’s section while Grandfather climbs the stage where he leads the prayer. It happens every year like clockwork and the only things that change are the colours of our Eid clothes and the colours of the rams we slaughter. I look forward to Eid because it’s always a few days to my birthday and as a result I either have a four-day birthday weekend or a week. I will be turning ten in a few days and my parents are planning a big party for me.

We arrive at the mosque and once again we find my mother among a group of older women. You always meet relatives you don’t know during Eid. All I remember from these encounters are the different scents of perfumes that dance around my nostrils and the different shades of lipstick that speak to me. My sisters and I find my mother and we position ourselves in the space she leaves for us right beside her. She uses her bag, scarf and notepad to hold three spaces for us. My favourite moment is the moment leading to prayer, where some people would carry out their Nafilah, while others sit on their mats awaiting the call to prayer. I spend that moment standing and admiring the different colours of Ankara, iro and bubas and agbadas. It’s as if I’m in a field of flowers, with each petal displaying the exquisite colours and patterns of the different attires. When the call to prayer is finally recited through the megaphone at the stage, everyone rises to their feet and in that moment it’s like staring at a painting of a sea of fabric. When I grow up and become a professional painter, I will paint this scene and sell it for millions of naira.

It’s fun when prayers are over, because Grandpa is the head of the Islamic society Ansarudeen, they always let him make the first cut on the jugular of the ram that belongs to the mosque. I don’t like to watch this part because of the way the ram writhes and bleets in pain. Every ram tries to wriggle away to freedom but is prevented from doing so by the numerous hands holding its horns in order to steady its neck for Grandpa. I don’t like the sight of the blood squirting out of the ram’s sliced vein as it continues to bleat in pain. I also don’t like the thought of the blood getting on Grandpa’s white agbada, the colour he wears every Eid. Every year, I think we’ve reached the year a drop of blood would splash against his clothes and every year it fails to be so. It’s customary to kill animals for Eid-Adha as a form of sacrifice. I don’t care about that though, I just look forward to eating the peppered ram and spicy jollof rice. I also look forward to how full Grandpa’s house gets with the number of visitors that troop in as well as distant relatives that help with the cooking and serving of food. Most times a group of imams would troop into the house and carry out prayers and good looking older cousins would visit, telling us tales of how they are trying to survive adult life.

I have two favourite aunties, Mama Ibeji who has two cute identical twin girls and Mama Joju who is lovely and gives me the sweetest hugs a little girl could ask for. I always look forward to seeing her because she has the kind of personality that makes you feel relaxed, like you can tell her your deepest secrets without worrying that she would tell a soul. She has two children, Joju and Dapo and her husband is one of those men that hasn’t let good cooking give him a pot belly, which I find very impressive.

As we walk to grandfather’s car, I can’t help but think how much I love Eid. It’s one of the holidays where our Nigerian culture is high on its colours and the pouring of prayers upon one another, with Yoruba and Hausa flying across the air like darts. Daddy said, if there was one thing Nigerians knew how to do, it was to pray. He said it was the reason we thought the solution to the problems of our country was prayer not the replacement of our corrupt politicians. I remember hearing him says this last Eid before I was distracted by the spiced meat I was eating.

We enter the car and as usual grandfather beckons at a young man selling yoghurt and buys each of us Fanyogo, which we happily suck on as we drive back to the house with the air conditioner on and his CD singing:

Subhanallah

Alhamdullilah

As soon as we get to the house, we are greeted with the smell of flesh, the bleeting of rams yet to be killed and the sounds of aunties chatting as they carry out the preparation of different foods in big black pots over chunks of firewood. I always run towards the aunties shouting greetings and exchanging pleasantries over the pot. I love the warmth of the flames on my face because I’ve have an obsession with fire. The house is full of familiar faces and it’s exciting to run from aunty to uncle exchanging hugs and updating them on school and friends. I see Mama Joju and run over to her. I’ve always admired how she’s managed to stay trendy even though her children are about to begin secondary school. All the women in the house are in t-shirts, wrappers and head ties but Mama Joju prefers to wear a t-shirt and shorts to cook. When I come in contact with her, she wraps her arms around my small body and asks me how I’m doing. I smile and tell her that I’m doing extremely well and I’m excited to eat the ram. She smiles that smile that whispers, ‘I hope you know you can tell me anything’ and I smile back in response as if to say, ‘I know’.

I walk into the house and bump into Mama Ibeji’s twins running around the dining table. They are five years old but are so tiny that people still think they’re toddlers. I sit down to observe them play. Taiwo is the daring one with a mischievous face. She’s always up to something naughty and tries to drag Kehinde along. Kehinde is quiet with a sweet face that screams innocence. She can mostly be found in a corner playing by herself while Taiwo may be off climbing something she shouldn’t.

After observing them for a while, I walk into the living room and spot my grandmother in a bright yellow ankara blouse and skirt. Grandmother is very flamboyant and is usually adorned with jewelry. Today is no different as she has six gold bangles on each arm and gold earrings in the three holes on each ear. She smiles as I walk in.

‘My baby, I hope the food is almost ready?’

‘It is grandma. The rice is almost done and they’ve already begun to fry the ram.’

‘That’s good because I’m getting hungry.’

‘Me too,’ I smile as I sit on her lap. She hugs me when I do so and we both sigh as we enjoy a few minutes of the Yoruba movie showing on television. It’s our favourite thing to do together. Since none of grandfather’s guests have arrived, grandmother and I have a few minutes to indulge in the peace and quiet of the living room protected from the noise coming from the other parts of the house.

Grandfather comes out of the bathroom and smiles when he sees me on grandmother’s lap. He walks over to us and plants a kiss on both our foreheads. Grandma giggles in response as he winks before walking out of the living room, most likely to observe the men slaughtering rams. I see the way she looks at him. I can’t describe it but she looks at him like she really likes him.

The food is ready an hour later and I find myself on the dining table tucking into a hot plate of jollof rice and spicy meat making sure saliva doesn’t escape out of the corner of my lips and the juices of the meat don’t fall on my outfit. I resist the urge to shout ‘I love Eid!’ as I work on the remaining remnants of my food with my oily lips shining as if I applied lip-gloss.

***

It’s been eight years since Grandfather passed. His death was sudden. One night he was standing in the kitchen holding a cup of tea and the next thing Grandmother hears, is a crash in the kitchen. She opened the door and found him on the ground. She isn’t the same. She’s no longer bubbly and her smile no longer reaches her eyes. Everything about Eid changed when Grandfather passed away. The visitors stopped trooping in, the cheery laughter vanished into thin air, and there were no longer as many cousins and aunties helping out with preparations. The meat no longer leaves a sweet taste in my mouth no matter how hard I try. Despite his death, my immediate family still comes together to celebrate Eid, because that’s what Eid is all about. Luckily, his death doesn’t hang in the air like it does over Grandmother and we’re able to do what we’ve always done. As I walk into the compound, I smell the familiar air of flesh and blood and the smell of jollof rice cooking over firewood. These familiar sensations bring a wave of nostalgia that leaves me lightheaded. The scents are familiar but the lack of sound is foreign. If I could paint what the sound looked like, it’ll be the painting of a desert with nothing but red sand and a bundle of hay rolling past. Quiet. A quietness that is uneasy, considering the sounds the air used to hold in the past. It’s funny how things change from something you’ve been familiar with to something you cannot recognise.

This is my first Eid-Adha in six years. Grandfather died shortly after my thirteenth birthday and I attended two more Eid celebrations before I was shipped to boarding school in England because my father thought it would be best. If I had known the last one I attended would be my last maybe I’d have savoured it more. To add to the change, we moved houses. Therefore, we moved from being fifteen minutes away from grandfather’s house, to an hour away and as a result, were unable to pray with the family today.

As I walk into the compound, I glance over at the women to see if I can recognise any of them. I only recognise Mama Ibeji and I run over to her in excitement, curtseying to greet her when I’m in close proximity. She exclaims that it’s been a long time since she’s seen me.

O to ojo meta.

Yes, it’s been a long time, but she doesn’t look any different. I express that and she blushes before I ask about the twins.

They’re sixteen now.

Sixteen! I cannot imagine how the little girls running in my mind would look today. I try to imagine what today would have been like if grandfather was still alive. Would everything have stayed the same? Would the twins have been telling their secrets to Mama Joju because of her kind, you-can-tell-me-anything face? Would they have felt free enough to talk to me about boys and the rest of the drama that comes with being a teenager? I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that if everything had stayed the same, that there would have been a stronger family bond so that when grandfather eventually died, we’d mourn him but carry on like we’d always done. I’d have preferred that to the lack of visitors and distant family members that I don’t think I’d ever see in my life again. The only constant thing in life is change and in order to continue living, one must embrace it with open arms and befriend it so they are never caught unaware by life changing events.

I leave Mama Ibeji and walk into the house, five of my immediate cousins rush to hug me in the kitchen and I chat with them before heading to the living room. In order to walk into the living room, one has to pass the dining room first. In the dining room, my parents, uncles and aunts are huddled around the table discussing their lives. I greet them all and my ears are flooded with a variety of comments.

She’s so big now

You know she drove here by herself.

I hope you have a boyfriend.

I smile through it all, walk past them and into the living room. I see my grandmother sitting in her favourite chair watching a Yoruba movie.

‘Grandma,’ I say as I walk towards her and curtsey.

‘My baby,’ she says as she embraces me. ‘O to ojo meta.’

Like clockwork, she leans back and I sit on her lap and rest my head on her chest. Her soft breathing sings songs of sadness and the sound is deafening.

Grandma it’s time to move on, I think to myself.

‘I know,’ I hear it even though she didn’t say anything.

I sit up and look at her.

‘I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life but I believe you can enjoy it much better than this. Please,’ I say.

She avoids my eyes and mutters that she knows.

‘It’s very difficult. You won’t understsnd.’

‘I understand, it just makes me sad to see you crumble. He’s been at peace for eight years and you haven’t.’

I see the wheels gradually begin to turn at the dawning of this realisation. Maybe there’s a small awakening in her mind because there is life in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time.

‘You are right. Eight years is a long time. A change would be nice,’ she says softly.

She’s getting there. I trust that she’ll get there eventually.

‘Changes need to be made,’ she says to herself as tears fall from her eyes. She’s inhaling and exhaling out of her mouth softly to calm herself down. Tears are falling down my face and I’m also breathing the same way. We cry the same.

There are no more words to be uttered so I resume resting my head on her chest while she puts her arms around me and we sit there pretending to watch the movie as we inhale and exhale in unison. If this scene was a painting, it would be that of a twenty something year old in her grandmother’s embrace with both figures exhaling loss out of their mouths. I would title it ‘Letting go’.

I close my eyes and reminisce of a happier time. A time when we longed for peace and quiet in a house full of heart warming noise, distant relatives and my smiling Grandfather singing along to his Islamic CD. With tears streaming down my face, I sing to myself:

Subhanallah

Alhamdulillah

Walailahailallah.