I lay on the mat and closed my eyes. It was silent; everywhere was dark, except for the pinkish, tiny light from my power bank. It was about 11 p.m. and I was forcing myself to sleep. I detest speaking to anyone after 10 p.m. except M, but M travelled home and the network in their hometown was poor, so we couldn’t chat. It was the eve of Eid al-Adha, and, when everything was normal, I was not meant to be finding sleep at that hour. The area was not meant to be silent and I should be outside with my cousins and nephews and siblings talking and getting drowned in the noise from the kids. Everything seemed to happen in an instant; this wide space that once accommodated multiple noises suddenly became silent, empty.
My brother and I arrived home two days before the “big Sallah” festival. We wanted our mother to feel our presence. She complains a lot about our absence and Eid festivals are moments we bond with her. The night we arrived, our mother said sitting with me and my brother (with his family) was one of the best things to happen to her in recent times. As we grew older, everyone started to leave home to chase their dreams elsewhere, not because we were tired of home, but because we were aware of the possibilities of opportunities outside. And who doesn’t want to enjoy the glamour of a city? We – myself and my other 4 brothers – have sought homes in different cities and it has transformed seeing us into a luxury for my mother. One that was never meant to be.
But it was not my mother’s emotion or reaction that engulfed me. It was how I didn’t notice how people were becoming fewer people at home. When I was small, one of the reasons I looked forward to Eid was the process involved in slaughtering the sacrificial animal – mostly a cow. They would have brought the cow a day before Eid and throughout the night, it mooed. We would also be commanded to feed it leaves and water. Whenever it was time to slaughter it, other kids like me shared a special affection for the cow, as though they were taking one of our friends away from us. Feeding it the day before would have created a bond between us, and as it burned in the heavy fire, we would run upstairs, avoiding the sight of the fire. It wouldn’t stop us from eating it anyway.
At 11 p.m., kids like us would still be checking out our clothes; whose were finer, whose were bigger and whose were ugly. It would take a slap behind our necks and buttocks before we climbed the bed to sleep. We did not search for sleep by 11 p.m. We did not not have anyone to talk to. And our parents would be busy shouting at us, warning us to stop fighting, bringing out the materials to prepare the meals the next day. Now, none of those happened. Or they did happen, but briefly. Most of the family members refused to travel home for the festival so there were fewer kids around. And there was no cow, but a ram. A small ram whose worth would have bought a cow in the past. Inflation is deflating our joy.
Although the noise wasn’t there, at least my mother’s reaction to our presence was enough to feel the presence of the festival. And as we marched to the praying grounds in our new clothes, I remembered how one of my brothers used to hold my hand so my tiny body wouldn’t get lost in the massive crowd. My worry then shifted to the coming generation who might never get to experience this part of my kind of childhood; who might never eat and steal plenty of meat because the ram slaughtered was only enough for a day. I worry that even when they come home for celebration, they will be met with silence. And what memory does silence preserve if not empty thoughts? I fear it gets worse.
Someone asked if I enjoyed my Eid celebration and I responded that it was stressful. While it was stressful in terms of physical effort, the part of my body that was stressed in actuality was my brain as I kept thinking and thinking about the future. And I asked myself: how do I replicate my childhood to my children, if any? Apart from the fine fine clothes, what else would they look forward to?
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