November walks in with the grace of an elder,
its feet brushing the dust of ancestral roads.
It does not shout—
it hums,
a low, steady rhythm beneath the noise of the year.
It is the month of quiet preparations,
of whispered calls across cities,
of mothers folding wrappers into travel bags,
of fathers checking tires and fuel,
of children counting down to the village moon.
The Igbo are stirring.
From Lagos to Kaduna, Port Harcourt to Abuja,
Houston to Enugu, Owerri, Nnewi,
they feel the pull—
not of obligation,
but of belonging.
December will shine with masquerades and music,
chieftaincy investitures,
with laughter echoing through compounds,
with the clink of glasses and
the clatter of mortar and pestle.
But November is the gathering drum,
the signal that the journey begins.
It is the month of phone calls to kindred,
of market lists and transport plans,
of remembering the graves to visit,
the elders to greet,
the gifts to bear,
the stories to hear again.
“I am the eve,” November says,
“of a homecoming wrapped in spirit.”
It carries the pride of a people
who never forget where the umbilical cord lies buried.
And so, on this first day,
let us honor the hush before the celebration,
the unity before the dance,
the identity that binds us
across highways, dialects, and time.
November is not just a month—
it is a movement,
a memory,
a map
leading us home.
_____
Copyright © 2025 Chris Chinwe Ulasi
♦ Chris Chinwe Ulasi, Professor of Media and Communication, is on the Editorial Board of the West African Pilot News.
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