Eid 2025.

My Eids were always simple. No grand gatherings, no overflowing plates of assorted meats, no house packed full of people so tightly that stepping over legs became part of the celebration. We didn’t have one big, unified celebration under a single roof. Instead, we moved. From one relative’s house to another, visiting both sides of the family, collecting greetings, eating in different homes. Eid, for me, was a series of stops, a rotation of smiles and plates of food.

There were times we tried to bring everyone together at my grandmother’s house. Looking back, I think that was peak Eid for me. I must have been about nine when it began to change, but before that, Eid still had a thrill to it. The excitement of waking up before dawn, of new clothes waiting beside me like a quiet promise. The rushed morning routine, the hurried prayers, the long drives from one house to the next. And, of course, the crisp naira notes that uncles handed out with half-serious warnings to save it, don’t spend it all at once.

I remember the joy of counting my Eidi, the satisfaction of feeling like the richest child alive, even if my newfound wealth would disappear into snacks and soft drinks before the day was over. But then, one year, an uncle laughed when I stretched out my hand and said, “Ah, you? You are now the one to give others ai!” I laughed too, but something shifted.

Eid morning was still Eid morning, of course. The hurried bath, the scarf that never quite sat right. The drive to the Eid ground, the crisp morning air carrying the familiar rhythm of Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, La ilaha illallah. And after the prayer, after the final Eid Mubarak exchanged with distant faces, the day would slow down. A meal, a few calls, maybe a quiet outing if the mood was right. Nothing more.

I didn’t realize what I was missing until I saw how other people spoke about their Eids. The nostalgia in their voices, the way their eyes softened when they recalled the warmth of a house packed with family, the thrill of counting their Eidi, the mischief of sneaking extra meat when no one was looking. I envied that. Not bitterly, just in that quiet way of longing for something you never had but still somehow feel you have lost.

And now? Now, Eid feels even smaller.

Maybe it’s adulthood. Maybe it’s how life scatters people in different directions, how traditions that once seemed unshakable start slipping through the cracks when there aren’t enough hands to hold them up. Maybe it’s the tailors who promise your dress will be ready tomorrow until tomorrow turns into next week. Or maybe it’s that realization, the one that creeps up on you, that the magic of Eid was never really about the clothes, the food, or the money. It was about the people. And when the people are missing, Eid starts to fade too.

One day or someday, I will build a home where Eid is everything I imagined it to be. A home where my children will lay out their clothes the night before, too excited to sleep. Where the house will be filled with laughter, with the scent of fried meat and fresh henna, with voices calling out Eid Mubarak! before running outside to collect their Eidi. A home where everyone, family, friends, even neighbors, will gather, because to celebrate the occasion.

And not just Eid. I want to be the kind of woman, the kind of wife, the kind of mother, who finds reasons to celebrate. Birthdays, get-togethers, random Tuesdays. Because memories keep us going. And if I never had an Eid worth longing for, I will make sure my children do.