Memoir from the last 5 days of Ramadan in 2005
Ramadan was coming to an end and like every other year, preparations for Eid were already on the way. Schools were on a long vacation, but our household still seemed quite peaceful. Partly because I and my older siblings occasionally joined in the dawn-to-sunset fast even if we weren’t obligated to. I was only 9, and Habeeb the eldest of us just turned 14 in July. After the 30 day fasting period, the most pious child gets some reward, which created some kind of open competition among us. Besides the last ten days is the most important third according to Sunnah.
Brother Taofeek, our family tailor, has come to take measurements for our “Aso Odun” as he does every salah. This time my mum picked a new style of traditional attire for the celebrations, “you will like it” I remember her trying to convince me. Didn’t care much for it because Chukwudi and Emmanuel (our neighbors’ children within my age bracket) always wore shirts and Pepe Jeans on their own celebrations. I was tired of arguing with my parents about their choice of attire for us.
On the 29th day of the fast, our clothes came back completed and we had to try them out. It was a Dashiki-styled outfit with woven patterns on the neck area, and Fila for the boys. Yewande, my only sister, got a flowing gown of ankle-length, embellished with stones and Gele to match.
I loved mine. Especially how regal I felt in the Dashiki and my Fila looked like the one Baami wore on his meeting days. I was so happy I fell asleep on the couch that night still wearing my Salah outfit two days early.
I couldn’t wait to wear my Dashiki. The only time I took my mind off it was when Baami brought home the ram to be slaughtered. All the kids were happy and teased the soon-to-be-murdered ram. I could only imagine what its taste would be like in the different pots of delicacies he was destined to garnish. Still anticipating the D-day, we went to bed after getting new haircuts.
That year, Eid al-Fitr was on a Friday, the traditional Islamic day of congregational worship. This meant a bigger congregation and two prayer sessions at the ‘Big Mosque’, one in the morning marking the end of Ramadan and another by afternoon for the regular Jumah prayers.
Habeeb took us to the bathroom and bathe us one after the other while Yewande helped my mum and the other women with the cooking chores. By 9:45 am, fully dressed, we proceeded on the 500m trek to the Big Mosque. I remember how flamboyant our entourage was. I felt eyes on me as I walked with my new Dashiki, shoulders high. Even Chukwudi seemed impressed too. I still relish that moment to this day.
After the prayers and sermons, we made the same walk back home. This time we had some Ice-cream with the money Baami gave us for Sadaqah at the mosque. Habeeb is notorious for things like this.
By the time we got home, food was ready. We ate and drank and danced. There were some guests too; extended family members and friends. It’s always a great time during salah celebrations, a lot better this time because I loved my outfit.
By 4 pm, I was still wearing my Dashiki when Habeeb asked that we go play football with the other kids. It was still bright outside and I couldn’t afford to cut my flex short, so I opted to join the game with my Dashiki. A few minutes in, I realized how impractical it was playing like that. In a hurry I took off the Dashiki retaining the Sokoto, I threw it at Yewande who was standing on the sidelines of our makeshift football pitch just behind the open drainage. Her ‘weak’ hands failed and my favorite Dashiki landed in the gutter spreading its wings like a pigeon about to take flight.
If it didn’t soak so quickly or disgust me so much, I would have tried to get it out immediately, but I could only stand and stare as the flowing drainage kept pushing it down the street. By now, I felt warm moisture building up around my eyeballs. Iya Sidi who had been watching through the house gates, further discouraged me when she said, “don’t worry you will get another one next year”. That was the last straw; I collapsed on the sandy ground and started crying uncontrollably. The new 500 Naira bill I got for my twelve days of fasting couldn’t mitigate the pain I felt.
My favorite Dashiki, the first in a very long time is now gone for good. The joy of having a perfectly suited traditional outfit once more eluded me. Habeeb would later recount this experience as a funny situation. Yet looking back, I only wish I didn’t wear my Dashiki to play football on that day.
