I'm not a Muslim, but every year I go to my hometown, Epe, to celebrate Eid Kabir with my dad's extended family.

For as long as I can remember, we have always gone to Epe to celebrate Eid with them.
I vividly remember the smell of animal shit. The gbim gbim from the speakers blasting Fuji and 'oldies.'

The raucous laughter from my tons of aunties and uncles, who I only get to meet once a year. The ritual of kneeling to greet my grand-uncle, his wife and my other older grandparents.
Even as a non-Muslim woman, I have never felt out of place. Not when I see my cousins fasting; or when I see them bring out the prayer mats to worship Allah; or even when I see them get all dressed up to go to moșalași (mosque).

On the contrary, it's fascinating. Seeing these customs and acts that seem foreign to me but are a way of life to others is quite eye-opening.
My brothers and I always anticipate Eid because we know that we are in for a treat. Unlimited soft drinks, no chores, and we get to get out of the house. Plus, we see the drive there as an adventure. So yeah. We are always excited. Pestering our dad. Talmabout "Daddy, when are we going?" "Daddy, will we see so-and-so there?" etc.

It's in Epe I first knew how to kill cow and ram. I remember my childhood of gripping on the slimy, mould covered railing of the balcony of our family house.
With my tiny legs, tiptoe-ing, trying to see over as the men were killing the cows and the rams. Pumping into it through the bum. Using the blade to scrap off the hair and slicing it open.

I even remember how they'd struggle to lead the cows to their death. Not in the sense that they suddenly felt sorry for it. But in the sense that the cows were stubborn and would not go down without a fight.
I remember that feeling of happiness and joy. It's one of the few times I've ever been genuinely happy.
This Eid was no different, except that I'm older now. I was just as excited, the rams were still killed and yes, they still struggled.

But as I write this, I suddenly remember some of the misgivings I've had about animal slaughter. I eat meat, but seeing the suffering these animals go through up until the day they die is jarring. Seeing them dead, with their eyes open always feels like they are damning my soul to hell.
I love all kinds of meat but seeing animals be slaughtered year in, year out almost made me a vegetarian. Maybe one day sha I'll grow the stomach to stop eating meat. But till then I must live with the guilt.

As I look back on yet another Eid celebration with my Muslim family in Epe, I’m filled with gratitude. Even as an outsider to their religious traditions, I’ve always felt embraced and included with open arms.

The familiar sights, sounds, and smells take me back to my childhood—raucous laughter with my aunties and uncles, kneeling before our elders, and watching with wide eyes as the animals were slaughtered. While the act of animal slaughter has given me ethical pause over the years, the love and sense of belonging I've felt at these gatherings has never wavered.

In a world that often erects boundaries over ideological differences, my family's Eid celebrations show how rituals can unite people across different beliefs. We may not share the same faith, but we find common ground in honouring our heritage, nurturing bonds, and creating joyous moments together as an extended family.

As I grow older, I no longer take these traditions for granted. I still grapple with the guilt I feel as a meat-eater who witnesses the brutality of slaughter. Maybe one day I’ll summon the resolve to give up meat. For now, I choose to focus on the happiness and love that comes from our Eid gatherings.

These yearly reunions in Epe remind me that differing viewpoints don’t have to divide us. They can co-exist and even enrich each other when approached with openness. I may be an outsider, but I’ve never felt like an outcast within the warm embrace of my Muslim family's sacred traditions. Our differences only make the bond we share more beautiful.