There are memories so richly layered, so full of color, aroma, laughter, and love, that even time dares not fade them. For me, Ileya was one of those magic-filled memories. Not just a Muslim holiday. Not just a day for slaughtered rams. It was homecoming and that home? It was my grandparents’ two-storey house in Iwo, Osun State.

“Ileya” is the Yoruba name for the Islamic celebration known in Arabic as Eid-el-Kabir. In Yoruba, “Ileya” is a shortened form of “Ileya Odun”, which loosely translates to: “Going home for the festival” or “Homecoming for the celebration.”

A House Held by Two Faiths

My mum’s dad, my grandpa was a devout Muslim, quiet, disciplined, devoted. My grandma, on the other hand, was a fierce and loving Christian who did not joke with her Bible or morning devotions. Together, they raised seven children who would go on to spread across various states in Nigeria: four Muslims and three Christians.

You would think such a family would struggle with division, but not us. Love was our foundation, and during Ileya (Eid-el-Kabir), that love found its loudest expression. Every year, we, the grandchildren with our parents, would flock to Iwo in droves. Iwo was the destination, the highlight, the festival within the festival.

On Our Way to Iwo

We would leave from Ibadan in my dad’s white Honda Civic car, its AC freezing us cold. That car was his special ride for traveling. For Ileya, it carried all five of us, Mum in the front seat beside him, and my sister, brother, and I at the back, the booth filled with our bags and the gifts we were taking along. The booth was always full.

The journey to Iwo felt like something out of a storybook. The road twisted through farmlands, with children waving as our cars zoomed by. Sometimes we would spot herds of cows crossing the road, or women balancing baskets of fruits on their heads. We usually traveled a day before Ileya and returned on the day of the celebration. It always pained me as I wanted us to stay longer. Some of our cousins got to remain for up to a week. I envied that a lot.

Arrival at Iwo

My Grandparents house stood tall like an elder, worn but dignified, wise with years and heavy with stories. A two-storey structure with an old architectural charm: tall wooden windows with iron protectors, brown-painted concrete walls faded from the sun, and a roof that sang when it rained. Inside the compound sat a car, and just beyond that was the well, where buckets scraped and water splashed.

There were two staircases leading into the house: one at the front, regal and wide, leading straight to the main door; the other, smaller and more hidden, took you to the kitchen entrance, right by the well. That kitchen staircase was our VIP route, used mostly by aunties and older cousins carrying pots, food trays, or firewood.

We were many, grandchildren, uncles, aunties, in-laws, visitors who felt like family and we all fit in somehow. There was always space, food, a new baby to carry or a new story to hear. Going for Ileya felt like a reunion. It was the kind of reunion that made the ground shake. Hugs were loud. Greetings were louder. Names were called out from balconies and verandas:

  • “Ah-ah! Victoria, see how tall you have grown!”
  • “Come and kneel down properly, you did not greet Uncle Sulaimon well!”
  • “Papa, prostrate again! That one is your Egbon.”

Everywhere you turned, someone was either greeting or being greeted. And not the quick “hi-hello” type, no o. The kind where you dropped everything, went on both knees (if you were a girl) or laid flat in full prostration (if you were a boy). During Ileya, greetings were an Olympic sport.

There were over 50 people in that house at once, cousins, aunties, uncles, neighbours who had become extended family, and church or mosque members stopping by to greet Grandpa and Grandma. If you were not careful, you would greet the same person three times in one hour.

The children and we grandchildren were the heartbeat of the home. We came from all corners of the country. We did not all practice the same faiths. But during Ileya, we belonged to one tribe: Family.

Unforgettable Memories

Every Ileya was special. It was the anco, the matching outfits Grandpa made sure every single grandchild had. It did not matter if there were ten of us or twenty, whether you lived in Iwo or were arriving from Ibadan, your outfit would be ready, ironed, folded neatly, and waiting like a warm embrace. It was the same fabric and same style.The excitement! Whooooooosh.

We would all come out one by one, dressed in our anco like princes and princesses. Now that I think of it, Grandpa, in his quiet, steady way, was teaching us unity without using words. That we were one, stitched together by more than blood, stitched by love, tradition, and the hands of a man who saw joy in togetherness.

I remember how proud he looked, sitting outside on his chair, watching all of us run around in matching outfits, our laughter echoing like praise. He did not need to say much. His smile said it all.

Some memories stay sharper than others. Like that one ride back from my grandparents’ shop. We went to their shop, a well-known provision shop in town, with about six of us grandchildren. I still remember the way the car bounced slightly as we rode back, our voices rising in unison, shouting, “Ashe, she de lati Eko ni o!” pretending we had just returned from Lagos, the land of swag and sophistication. I had not been there at the time, but it did not matter. We were kids, happy and proud, trying to enjoy and feel ourselves.

The joy, in that house, was abundant. It echoed through the stairwells and bounced off the painted walls.

We, the grandchildren, would squeeze into one room, a medium-sized upstairs bedroom with a flickering fan and four long mattresses not because space was limited, but because we wanted to be together. Most of us were still in primary or secondary school then, with a few older cousins already in university. That room was our sacred space. Sleep was the last thing on our minds. We would gist well into the night, lying on our backs, whispering secrets, talking about school, crushes, phone games, and how grown-up the university cousins seemed. They had phones with cameras and used words like “project” and “GPA” and seemed to float through the house like royalty. But we did not envy them too much. We were together and that was what mattered. Sometimes, we would plan games or try to stay awake till dawn, we never did. But we tried anyway.

One of my mum’s sisters had a house nearby in Iwo too, so some cousins stayed there, but the central hub of all activity, noise, and fun was Grandpa and Grandma’s house.

Morning of Ileya: Food, Mosque, and Family

On the morning of the celebration, Grandpa was the anchor. He transformed into a royal host. He would wake early, bathe, pray, and dress in pristine white agbada, embroidered with gold, his cap sitting like a crown. He would walk with calm dignity, nodding at everyone, sometimes silent, sometimes humming softly under his breath. Then he would have selected the rams himself before we came, not just any rams, but the best: strong, fat, and majestic. We would follow him like curious chicks, our small hands waving at the animals, trying to pet them or name them. Sometimes, we would cry when they were slaughtered, but Grandpa would explain the meaning of sacrifice with such tenderness that even our childish minds understood.

He was not alone in making the day feel holy. My grandma stood firm as his equal and complement. She knew that not everyone in the house would eat ram. Some of her children, like my mum, had chosen a different path, one that did not involve animal sacrifice. But in that house, belief did not divide us. Grandma made sure that for every plate of spicy grilled ram, there was a pot of steaming chicken stew, lovingly made and served to anyone who preferred it.

When Grandpa was preparing for the mosque, he would ask if any grandchild wanted to follow him. But there was a rule:

“Go and ask your parents first,” he would say, especially to those of us who were not Muslims. It was always a respectful offer. Grandpa was a devout Muslim, deeply rooted in his faith, but also incredibly gracious but he never forced us to go with him. Most times, we the grandchildren who were not Muslims would look at each other, hesitant.

  • “Will you go?”
  • “I don’t know. My mummy may not agree.”
  • “My daddy won’t mind, but I don’t want to wear a scarf.”

I never followed him, not once. But I remember the pride on the faces of those who did, especially the Muslim cousins in their sparkling new kaftans, tiny caps perched on their heads, following Grandpa like royal guards on a pilgrimage. I always admired the way Grandpa dressed in his clean white agbada. Even in his old age, Grandpa carried himself with so much grace, he was distinguished. A truly fine man.

The Feast Begins

Back at home, preparations for the feast would be in full swing. The feast will then follow. Jollof that slapped with firewood smoke. Ram meat in so many styles: fried, grilled, peppered. Soft yam pounded with red oil. Chicken stew specially made by Grandma for those who did not eat ram, like my mum.

Speaking of the kitchen… those were the days of kerosene stoves, firewood, and balcony cooking. You could walk past the side of the house and see smoke rising like praise, pots bubbling with stew, oil sizzling with meat, and the heavenly smell of various soups teasing your stomach.

During Ileya, the compound overflowed not just with family, but with neighbors, friends, church members, and mosque members, strangers, even.. You could not take ten steps without running into someone you had to greet. Like I wrote earlier, in a Yoruba home, greeting is a full-body experience. We would kneel to greet aunties, uncles, grandma’s sisters, grandpa’s friends, older cousins, and even people whose names we did not know but who apparently knew our mother when she was small. The boys had it tougher. They had to go "Down flat!" prostrating with their full chest and dusty knees. But hidden in those greetings were blessings and crisp naira notes. ₦50 here. ₦100 there. ₦500 if you were lucky and greeted dramatically. You would collect the notes with your two hands, say “Ẹ ṣé sir” or “Ẹ ṣé ma,” (thank you sir/ma) and run off like you had won a lottery.

There was always more than enough to eat. I am not talking about just "everyone gets a plate" kind of enough. I mean "come back for seconds, thirds, and still have meat left over" kind of enough. The food did not run out. It never did. It was like the pot of stew had a covenant with abundance, and the jollof rice had no respect for portion control.

Cousins would wipe their plates clean, belch, pretend to be full, then sneak back into the kitchen hoping there was still moimoi wrapped in leaf or another batch of Amala and Efo. And Grandma, ah, sweet Grandma, she always knew.

“Ẹ fẹ̀ padà jẹun lẹ́ẹ̀kan síi? Go and take. There is more.”

Even when you thought you were full, someone would yell:

“They just brought fried plantain to the sitting room!”

And just like that, you’d be up and running, barefoot, plate in hand.

We were spoilt for choice. And let us not forget the snacks. There was always a room filled with chin-chin, puff-puff, cabin biscuits, kuli-kuli, sweets and lots more. We always had more than enough to eat and pack home too.

And Now?

Now, years later, we are older. Some of us have moved. Some of us have children of our own.

Grandpa is gone. And the house, though still standing, holds its breath differently. He passed away in May 2013. I still remember how my mum cried deeply, painfully. She adored her father. She still does. And she never stopped telling us stories about him, stories laced with love, admiration, and longing.

Yet the memories… they have refused to fade. Instead, they shimmer bold and bright like the sequins on the aso ebi we wore with pride. They remind me that home is not always a location. Sometimes, it is a sound, a scent, a feeling stitched into time.

And every Ileya, no matter where I find myself, I close my eyes and return to that car ride from Ibadan, to the cold AC, the bread and tea, Grandma’s laughter, the feast, the joy. I tease my mum, “If your dad were still here, we would be in Iwo now.” She smiles, soft and sad, and whispers, “Baba mi.”