Nigerians the moment a public holiday shows up on the calendar, transform. Whether it’s Christmas, Easter, Salah, Independence Day, or one of those mysterious “Federal Government has declared…” announcements that appear like manna from heaven, Nigerians know exactly what to do, we enjoy life like our lives depend on it.

Let’s start with the village:

December rolls around and suddenly flights are full, buses are packed, car boots are loaded with provisions, and Nigerians from Lagos to London start migrating back home like it’s the annual cultural pilgrimage. And for what?

For that Sunday service where everyone dresses like they’re attending Fashion Week, starched lace, freshly imported shoes, the kind of gele that blocks sunlight, and of course, the swaggy uncles who return with sudden accents nobody saw them leave with.

After church comes the real event:

the Christmas rice.

That chicken, the one that didn’t want to die peacefully, poor thing fried or grilled, with stew so red you can see your reflection. And the jollof? Listen, the joke is always the same:

“So after all the years abroad, this is the rice you’re fighting to eat?”

Yes na. Because somehow the village jollof tastes better than anything in diaspora kitchens. It’s the firewood. It’s the smoke. It’s the nostalgia.

And it’s the fact that you’re eating it surrounded by people who know your childhood nickname, the one you pray nobody mentions.

Then there’s Lagos:

By December, the city becomes a world of its own. The streets light up, the restaurants upgrade their menus, and the clubs start preparing for the great accent convergence.

Lagos December is an international airport of vibes.

Suddenly, Nigerians who have been in Manchester for only 8 months return with one kind of “Oh my God, I can’t believe this traffic!”

While the ones from Houston land with a fresh “Y’all ain’t serious in this country.”

And Lagosians?

They respond with their usual:

“Abeg shift jare.”

Clubs become cultural melting pots:

• The abroad Nigerians with their polished accents

• The Lagos big boys with their confident Yoruba or Igbo-laced English

• The girls in shimmery dresses

• The guys in crisp kaftans or designer tees

• DJs mixing amapiano with Afrobeat

• Everybody forming “I don’t know you” until the fourth shot

Then the ferry culture kicks in, boat cruises, waterside brunches, concerts, beach parties. Eko becomes a festive playground where money, fashion, sun, and ocean breeze meet. It’s loud, chaotic, yet perfect.

But Why Is This So Important to Us?

Public holidays give Nigerians something we rarely get from everyday life: breathing room.

A moment to:

• reconnect

• dress up

• eat without guilt

• laugh loudly

• see old friends

• visit family

• travel

• feel alive

Whether it’s village December or Lagos December, Nigerians don’t joke with rest because life doesn’t joke with us.

So when a holiday appears, we treat it like a gift, a license to enjoy, reset, and celebrate the people we love.

Why Nigerians Don’t Joke With Public Holidays

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