Another big day yet again… they say it is Eid Kabir. Odún Iléyá.

The homecoming festival.

The morning where the earth seems softer somehow,

Where dawn breaks differently.

Where even the wind carries remembrance.

Before the sun fully arises homes are already awake.

Water runs from tap earlier than usual.

Doors open and close in quick rythms.

Pressed cloth hanged patiently.

Perfumes fills the air.

And from quiet corner of home voices begins to whisper.

“Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar.”

The takbeer settles deeply into the morning sky like mercy searching for tired heart.

This is Eid.

The day we raise our hand to our lord, not because life has been perfect but because, but because despite everything he carries us here.

Through heartbreak 💔.

Through silent prayers.

Through burdens our smiles tried to hide.

And somehow…

Allah allowed us to witness another Eid…

Odun Ileya…

The season where roads become crowded with longing, and buses carry more than passengers, they carry memories back home.

Suddenly, every mother begins to sound softer on the phone. “Ṣé iwọ náà ń bọ̀?” “Are you coming home too?”

And no matter how old we become, there is something about that question that turns us into children again.

Odún Iléyá… the time when dusty gates are opened wide, when fathers stand outside waiting, pretending not to be excited, when younger ones run barefoot to welcome visitors, and neighbours become family for a few sweet days.

The aroma of ram meat travels through the streets like a familiar song. Pots dance on firewood. Women in beautiful attires move like poetry through the compound gele perfectly tied, wrappers flowing with pride, their laughter louder than the turning spoons in the kitchen.

And the men… agbadas freshly ironed, caps sitting perfectly on grateful heads, shaking hands with old friends they have not seen since the last Ileya. “Ẹ kú ọdún.” “Báwo ni ẹbí?”

Children become the happiest creatures on earth. Running from house to house, their tiny palms stained with oil and sweet stains from jollof rice, holding crumpled notes gifted by aunties and uncles.

And somehow… for one beautiful moment, life feels less wicked.

Families gather around the same tray again. Stories are retold for the hundredth time, yet everyone still laughs as though hearing them for the first time. Grandmothers pray between every sentence. Grandfathers smile quietly from corners where wisdom sits.

This is what Eid does. It reminds us that home is not always a place. Sometimes home is the sound of your mother calling your childhood name. Sometimes it is the warmth of cousins sleeping side by side in crowded rooms. Sometimes it is sitting on a mat outside at night, watching the moon while distant laughter fills the air.

But Eid is not always easy for everyone.

For some, there will be empty seats at the table this year. A mother no longer here to taste the stew. A father whose prayer voice now exists only in memory. A sibling far away trying to sound happy over the phone. A child pretending not to notice the silence in the house.

Yet even in the ache, Eid still arrives dressed in mercy.

Because somehow, Allah allows joy to visit tired hearts again. Even the broken ones. Even the lonely ones. Even the people who spent the entire year fighting silent battles nobody saw.

Odún Iléyá is more than celebration. It is reunion. It is sacrifice. It is forgiveness standing at the doorstep asking to be let in. It is remembering that no matter how far life scatters us, there are still people who call our names with love.

Tonight, many homes will stay awake longer than usual. Plates will remain on tables. Mats will be spread outside. Children will fall asleep in the middle of laughter. And prayers… soft beautiful prayers… will rise from tired lips into the night sky.

So if you are went home this Eid, hold your people tightly. Sit a little longer beside your parents. Laugh harder with your siblings. Listen carefully to the old stories. One day, they will become memories you would give anything to hear again.

Odún a yọ̀. Odún a wọlé.

May every home find peace. May every table know laughter. May every wandering heart find its way back home.

Eid Mubarak, Ink Souls😍🥹

A. Noor✍️