There was something about Sundays I really cherished as a child. Although I would sometimes wake up with a jolt, momentarily convinced it was Monday, I was always soothed by the familiar sounds drifting through the house: the quiet shuffle of my mother’s bathroom slippers on the kitchen tiles, the low hum of the electric kettle, the gentle thud of the iron on the ironing table. These sounds told me that it was still Sunday. I’d sink back into my pillow, relieved that I had one more day before returning to school, which my mother always called “going back to the grindstone.”

 I would then step out to the mouthwatering sound of sizzling sausages or sometimes sardine. On the dining table, breakfast would be laid out: baked beans, fried eggs for my father, Milo for me, two sausages each, and a loaf of bread, which initially was either Butterfield or the paper-thin Uncle B’s. Our bread choices shifted with whatever was available. From Butterfield to Uncle B’s to Sunfresh, then the Feedwell buns that always tasted slightly raw to me.

Most times, I skipped the bread altogether, saving my sausages for my brother. The bread, usually retrieved from the car that morning, was guarded fiercely. We worried that my brother might have raided it in the night, leaving us with very little for breakfast.

In the sitting room, the television was always tuned to Supersport. The Blitz show would be on, looping the weekend’s best sporting moments. If my favorite athlete or team had won, I would watch eagerly, no matter how many times it replayed. If not, I lost interest quickly.

Not far off, my father was usually at the ironing table, taking his time with a shirt or pair of trousers. My brother waited nearby, clutching one of his own. I hated ironing and always chose outfits that didn’t need pressing. Sometimes, I would sit watching them iron in the room we called the playroom, although most of the toys that gave it that name were long gone. It had become more of a storeroom, filled with clothes and odd items we didn’t want cluttering the rest of the house. I would hover, hopeful, until someone offered to help with my clothes.

**

Church was only a five-minute drive from home. Still, our calm routine often gave way to frantic rushing. The perceived shame of arriving late while living so close spurred our panic. In particular, my mother, who I always followed, preferred arriving early. She would leave at least an hour before my father, who wouldn’t budge until he had finished his coffee. If I ‘dilly-dallied’ and got left behind, I would grudgingly go with him, which invariably meant slipping in at the tail end of Sunday School and attracting stares from my entire class.

After church, there was always Sunday Rice. Sometimes it was what my mother called ‘bare-faced’ – plain white rice without plantains or any side, only paired with her famous stew, which was christened ‘red stew’ due to its unmistakable red hue. Other times, we had Jollof. When we had fried rice, I would painstakingly handpick all the vegetables, eating only the pale grains. Sunday Rice was so constant that I can probably count on one hand the Sundays we didn’t have rice. It didn’t even matter if we had eaten rice the day before.

Sunday was also the only day we turned on the generator during the day, because my father never missed Arsenal’s Premier League matches. From the moment we returned from church until around 5 p.m., when the generator inevitably sputtered and died, we endured its constant hum for the sake of the fans that kept us cool. If NEPA didn’t intervene, we would stay in darkness until late in the evening, when the generator roared to life again.

If we skipped House Fellowship, that intermission and the ensuing darkness became an invitation to nap. Sometimes, after particularly deep naps, I would wake up disoriented, convinced it was Monday morning. My brother would play tricks on me, insisting it was time to get ready for school. Sometimes I obliged, still stuck in my half-asleep reverie, but upon going outside I would sense something was wrong and eventually figure it out.

**

Sundays are different now for me, and quieter.

My Sunday routine at school sees me skip breakfast and walk to the small Baptist Church five minutes from my hostel. Barth Road stretches empty, save for the occasional keke man. The hilly stretch feels endless, but the solitude is calming. At the tail-end of my walk and just opposite the church, I always look out for the oddly shaped tree that resembles a man.

After service, I return to my hostel and make lunch for one. It is rarely rice, but my version of Jollof spaghetti, dyed deep red-orange in an improvised tomato sauce, heavy with groundnut oil and generously seasoned with thyme. The tomato paste spits angrily as it fries, and the scent, sharp and smoky from the slightly burnt bottom, fills the kitchen. I stir it with a wooden spoon, watching the oily red sheen cling to the sides. Because the cleaners are off duty on Sundays, I cook my spaghetti while side-stepping soaked pots, an overflowing dustbin, and the distant chatter from other people cooking. Although the kitchen is cramped, there is something comforting in the routine. It feels like a quiet act of reclaiming Sundays as I once knew them.

Still, I can’t help but miss my Baptist Church back home. There is something warm about being known, about belonging. At my old church, basically everyone knows me. Some knew when I was born, others remember details about me that I’ve long forgotten. Here, in this new Baptist church, I slink away after service because I know no one would notice or be looking out for me. Sometimes, I feel bad and make a mental promise to socialize more, but there is always an assignment waiting, a deadline looming, or something else to be anxious about.

When I return home, I realise Sundays have changed there too. My brother has stopped going to our Baptist Church and now attends a youth-centric church. We no longer subscribe to DSTV, so the Blitz show is never on. But Sunday Rice remains. And my father still never leaves the house without his coffee. I guess some things never change.

About the Author:

Daniella Oluwatomisin Kolade is a law student at the University of Ibadan. When she isn’t buried in legal texts, she enjoys immersing herself in books and is fascinated by the worlds that good stories can bring to life. She also enjoys review writing and was the Second Runner-Up of the Afrocritik Review Prize in 2024 as well as a Top Ten Finalist in the National Review Essay Competition organized by Channels Television in 2020. You can find her on Instagram and X (formerly Twitter) @tomisinirl.

Feature image by Prayag Aghara on Unsplash