Decades abroad will make you forget a lot of things, but it took one viral video of the Ilorin Durbar to remind me that winter is a scam and home is where the real premium content is._
Decades ago, I packed my bags, left Nigeria, and joined what we now fondly call the “Japa Brigade.” I swapped the beautiful, unpredictable heat of home for structured western highways, credit scores, winter and weather apps that constantly disrespect you with negative numbers. I became thoroughly institutionalized. I learned to smile politely at neighbors I don’t know and mastered the art of eating dinner at 5:30 PM. But let me tell you, no matter how many decades you spend matching your scarf to your winter coat, a true Nigerian soul cannot be completely westernized. My entire multi-decade facade of being a calm, assimilated diaspora gentleman came crashing down last week, all because my phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.
It started when a video clip of the 2026 Ilorin Durbar Festival popped up on one of my WhatsApp groups. I clicked play, and my screen immediately exploded with pure, unadulterated energy. The compressed audio of traditional musketeers blast-firing their Dane guns was so loud and sudden that my iPad looked intimidated. The pixels were working overtime as plumes of ceremonial smoke filled the screen. Then came the royal cavalry, their decorated stallions pounding the ground with so much majestic attitude that I looked down at my office chair and felt deeply ashamed of my lifestyle choices. Before I knew it, the piercing cry of the traditional trumpets was blasting through my apartment, demanding to know why I was eating pizza alone when my people were living in full-color cinematic glory.
The pure swagger on display was unmatched. Our cultural heritage was showing off its ultimate flex: an elite, historical marriage of Northern Islamic royalty and Southwestern Yoruba showmanship. I watched royal horsemen draped in magnificent, heavy turbans guiding their steeds past the historic Emir Sulu Gambari Gate and out of the palace with the kind of confidence wealth cannot buy. Then the camera panned to the stadium stands, which had been overtaken by an absolute ocean of coordinated Aso Oke. Women’s societies were parading in giant, sweeping blocks of pink, royal blue, and deep purple, waving stylized fans in perfect rhythm. Honestly, the coordination was so precise it made the local traffic grid system look like a joke.
Now I know what some of you are thinking because I see the conversations in the group chats. The anxiety about security is real and none of us are trying to visit home just to become an evening news headline. But with the right street smarts and local connection we can protect our joy.
Look, let us address the elephant in the room. When we talk about returning, those late-night homeland security fears tend to creep into our minds. We love the culture, but we also love our peace of mind. The trick isn’t staying away forever; it is traveling with extreme wisdom. When we land next year, we are not doing the solo, solo, cowboy movement. We move with trusted local drivers, check in with family connections before choosing our highway routes, and let the heavy presence of the local Durbar security committees do their job. Ilorin takes immense pride in its hospitality, and by coordinating our arrivals, booking established hotels or family compounds, and keeping a low, unassuming profile, we can experience the grandest celebration without the unnecessary drama.
As I watched committee leaders like Alhaji Suleiman Yahaya Alapansanpa and scholars like Sheikh Ahmad Labeeb Ajadi explain the festival’s deep motto of “Heritage, Unity, and Perpetuity,” severe FOMO set in. Fear Of Missing Out is real, but Nigerian Cultural FOMO will make you want to question your entire immigration history. I looked at the thousands of cheering faces in the stadium, holding up their phones to capture the Emir’s vintage black car, and realized that those of us abroad are missing out on the premier content of life. We are over here arguing with automated customer service bots while our cousins at home are watching a live horse execute a perfect royal salute before a monarch. Who is really living the dream?
Let us stop living our best lives exclusively through the WhatsApp status updates of our family members who stayed behind. We cannot raise children whose only connection to their roots is a weekly plate of jollof rice and listening to us yell at the TV during football matches. They need to smell the festival smoke. They need to hear the real, uncompressed rattle of the talking drums vibrating in their collarbones. They need to realize that their lineage did not begin at an airport immigration desk; it comes from an empire of strength, rhythm, and unparalleled style.
I am serving notice to my boss, my credit card provider, and my winter coat right now: next year, I will not be a spectator from afar. I am officially retiring from the league of digital double-tappers. For the 2027 Grand Festival, I will be physically present on the plains of Ilorin. I will wear the fabric, I will eat the food, I will choke on the smoke of the musketeers, and I will cheer until my voice leaves me.
Consider this your official invitation. Pack your bags, book your flights, plan your movements wisely with the home team, and let us turn next year’s festival into the safest, grandest diaspora family reunion Nigeria has ever seen.
Let us close the distance and claim what is ours. Next year, we swap the glass screen for the real world. We will stand together under the sun, dance to the praise-singers on the main stage, and remind everyone that no matter how far we run, the rhythm of home always knows exactly how to track us down. See you on the plains next year, and please, remember to bring an extra pair of dancing shoes because we have decades of catching up to do.
With Love and Longing.
Garbs,
June 2026