Sad Easter Monday

Fifteen years ago, the village trip was a mandatory pilgrimage. Easter, Christmas, New Year, it did not matter. My parents would pack us into the back of the car like sardines. The moment the tires hit the red dirt of the compound, it was pure magic.

The courtyard was a chaotic stadium. My cousins Bolaji, Tunde, our little menace of a cousin Dapo, and I would immediately turn the compound into the Emirates Stadium. We used two old blocks as goalposts and played football until Uncle Kunle threatened to deflate the ball for hitting his parked Peugeot 504.

On the veranda, my older cousin Simi would sit with her legs crossed, rolling her eyes at our noise while aggressively pinging her boyfriends on her Blackberry Curve. Grandma would be sitting in her favorite wooden chair by the door, pretending to complain about the headache we were giving her, but smiling at the fact that her compound was full.

The kitchen was a war zone of pure culinary talent. My mother and Auntie Funke would take over, frying chicken and arguing loudly about whose stew had more flavor. Then there was Auntie Bose, the family prayer warrior, who would insist on pouring anointing oil on the firewood before they started cooking so as to avoid freak accidents.

Cousin Wale. He was the family rebel who married an Eastern girl named Nneka. We all absolutely loved her. She would sit right there with the uncles under the massive mango tree, holding her own in their intense political arguments while they drank cold Maltina.

And you could never forget Uncle Segun. He would always arrive two days late in a shiny Prado jeep, wearing a crisp white agbada, distributing fresh mint notes to us kids and loudly announcing that the main sponsor had arrived. It was loud, crowded, and perfectly complete. As children, we thought that compound would be our sanctuary forever.

But ten years is a brutal amount of time in the lifespan of a Nigerian family. The death of a tradition does not happen overnight. It happens in slow, painful installments.

First came the adult excuses. Bolaji got a demanding corporate job in Lagos and could not make the long drive. Simi got married to a man who absolutely hates traveling, so she stopped coming. Cousin Wale and Nneka relocated to the UK, turning into a quick WhatsApp video call holding a toddler with a British accent we had never even met in person. The circle just started shrinking.

Then the permanent absences arrived. Grandma passed away, and the spiritual glue of the entire family went with her. Uncle Kunle died a year later, and the compound lost its loudest, most protective voice. His beloved Peugeot just sat there gathering rust right in the middle of our old football pitch.

Then the ugly side of adulthood crept in. Uncle Segun and Auntie Funke entered a bitter dispute over a completely useless plot of ancestral land, turning into a full blown cold war. Auntie Bose said it was a spiritual attack. The vibrant family WhatsApp group deteriorated into a graveyard where people only drop forwarded monthly prayers and deafening silence.

Today is Easter Monday. There is no convoy of cars heading out of Lagos. There is no Uncle Segun sharing mint notes, no football, and no discourse under the mango tree.

It is just me sitting in my apartment scrolling through my gallery, realizing that one of the hardest part of growing up is watching the people who formed your entire childhood slowly turn into complete strangers, and knowing you can never go back to that dusty compound again.