Where the Noise Ends and the Heart Remembers

A Lagos December story about joy, memory and the small ways the city holds us

Every December, Lagos reminds you that survival deserves celebration.

The lights, the noise, the reunions, all of it is proof that the year didn’t break you.

 

Lagos in December moves differently.

By the last week of November, the group chats start to come alive. Someone swears this year will be wild. Another insists they are staying indoors. By December 10, those same people are wearing sequins and greeting faces they’ve avoided all year. Even the funny “I say make I greet you” messages arrive from numbers you forgot you saved.

It happens every year.

 

The outside is bright and loud, but underneath it is a small longing, a quiet desire to end the year feeling a little more alive.

 

You always know when Detty December has truly begun.

Aso ebi arrives like an assignment.

The price humbles you gently.

They call it simple, even though nothing simple has ever cost that much. Yet somehow, you buy it. Lagos has a way of pulling everyone into whatever is happening.

Before you reach Eko Hotel, the city has already dressed up.

The roundabout shines like a small festival. Ajose Adeogun turns into a postcard under Zenith Bank’s Christmas lights. Providus Bank adds its soft gold, and the whole street feels like the city is smiling. Something in your chest softens. You remember that joy does not always need permission.

 

By morning, the magic turns gentle.

Seasonal hawkers return with new energy, selling toys and small decorations with honest cheer. The city feels lighter. People feel softer. You remember what December used to feel like.

The softness follows you into the office.

 

Colleagues bring their children in, little ones glowing with Christmas freedom because exams are over and their only job is joy. They wander the corridors with the kind of lightness adults only feel on public holidays. Their parents watch them with quiet pride, showing them the world they show up to every day. Even the strict security man greets them like VIPs.

For a moment, something simple becomes clear: every adult is just a stretched-out child trying to finish the year gently.

 

Then the IJGBs(I just got back) arrive.

Their confidence usually enters the room before they do. They greet you with accents that need subtitles and wear clothes the Lagos heat does not support, but the excitement is contagious. They come ready for enjoyment and turn the city into one long reunion. Their arrival is the true announcement that the season has begun.

And of course, there is Eko Hotel.

In December, it becomes the city’s living room because you will always run into someone you know. Men wear sunglasses at night like paparazzi are waiting. Women glide in heels meant for red carpets but still trek from the parking lot with full dignity. Someone will greet you with so much excitement that you quietly check your memory for what you owe them.

 

It is a reunion you never RSVP’d for, yet still showed up dressed.

Even the inconveniences join the rhythm.

Fuel queues turn into tiny neighbourhoods. People lean on their cars and share gist with strangers. Moments that once annoyed you soften into stories you now tell with fondness. Lagos does this often: it turns inconvenience into memory.

 

Adulthood has changed how we show up.

We no longer want to attend seven concerts in one night.

We carry flat slippers like insurance, proper backup, the emPLE Insurance kind everybody quietly respects in December.

We ask about parking before choosing an outfit.

Joy looks different at this age, but it is still joy.

Still, there is always one night.

That one December night when Lagos taps your shoulder and reminds you that you are still capable of joy. Maybe it is a rooftop event where the breeze feels familiar. Maybe a wedding where you hug someone you barely remember. Maybe crossover service where your eyes sting and you quietly blame the church fan. Or outside Eko Hotel, shoes in hand, makeup softening, insisting you are fine even though your feet disagree.

 

In that moment, something shifts.

A slight warmth rises in your chest.

A memory returns.

A sweetness.

A quiet ache you did not know you were holding.

And that ache has a source.

 

You remember childhood Christmas mornings, the excitement, the new clothes, the smell of rice drifting through the house. The simple joy of believing the whole day was made for you.

Maybe that is why we still chase Detty December.

Not for the noise or the parties.

We chase the feeling.

The belonging.

The reminder that light still knows how to find us.

That a city can glow.

That we can soften.

That we can begin again in small ways.

In the end, we are not chasing parties.

We are chasing the warmth that says: you made it, you are still here, and you are still becoming.

Maybe that is the real Luxury Silk.