I was looking to speak with people who reconnected with their IJGB family members during the Christmas and New Year holidays when I found Banji*.
He shares how his cousin, back in Nigeria for the first time in 16 years, has turned what should’ve been a sweet reunion into a series of exhausting Detty December escapades.
As told to Adeyinka
Growing up, Gbolahan* and I were more than cousins; we were practically twins. Born just a year apart, we were inseparable. Our parents lived in the same neighbourhood, so we did almost everything together—attending the same schools, church, and even having the same home lesson teachers. But in 2009, everything changed. Gbolahan moved to the US right after secondary school, and I stayed back in Lagos.
To his credit, he didn’t let the distance ruin our relationship. Despite the time zones, Gbolahan made an effort to keep in touch. We’d spend hours chatting on WhatsApp. He’d tell me about snowstorms, weird American food, and the pressure of making it abroad. I’d fill him in on life in Lagos, family drama, and daily hustles. It was almost like he never left.
However, last December, I realised that distance might’ve done more damage than I thought. For years, Gbolahan raved about wanting to experience a proper Detty December. He’d call me and complain about how Christmas in the US was just snow, family dinners, and Netflix. I always argued that the Nigerian dream was missing Nigeria from abroad. But he wasn’t having it. “Tunde, you don’t understand. I wish we could exchange places,” he’d say. Well, last December, he finally got his wish.
I was excited when he told me he was coming home for the holidays. I planned to go to a few concerts, hit a nightclub, and spend the rest of the time catching up. I mean, how wild could he really be? The answer: very.
From the moment he landed at Murtala Muhammed Airport, Gbolahan hit the ground running. He barely spent 24 hours resting before calling me: “Guy, get ready. We’re going to a house party tonight!” I was confused because I assumed I’d be his guide to Lagos nightlife. What did he know about house parties after 16 years abroad? He and some IJGB friends had booked the apartment and planned the party weeks in advance. I didn’t want to ruin his vibe, so I went.
The party wasn’t bad—loud music, food in disposable plates, and overly excited IJGBs. I managed to keep up, even when Gbolahan insisted on taking shots like he was held hostage. But that was just the beginning.
The next day, my cousin had us hopping from one event to the next. He had an itinerary so packed it felt like he was competing in the Detty December Olympics. Every major concert, popular lounge, and random after-party were on his list. For every suggestion I made, he had five better ones. And honestly, they were better. I won’t even lie—he knew all the spots. But I had a budget in mind. Gbolahan, on the other hand, didn’t care. The naira can’t compete with his dollar-powered spending.
The breaking point came at one of those beach raves. You know, the ones where they charge a million naira for a private beach house, and you leave questioning your life choices. Gbolahan was in his element. He had other friends join us, screaming lyrics, openly flirting, and bribing the DJ to let them spin tracks. Meanwhile, I was nursing an overpriced cocktail, battling a migraine, and wondering why I even left my house.
At some point, he found me and said, “Tunde, how far? Can you order a ride? We’re heading to the club.” My guy, it was 2 a.m., and I had work in the morning. I ordered the ride for him and his friends but stayed at the beach house until morning before heading home.
Since that night, I’ve been actively dodging Gbolahan. Don’t get me wrong—I love him. He’s still my cousin and childhood partner-in-crime. But I can’t handle his wildness. It’s like he’s been saving all his party energy since 2009, and now Lagos is paying the price.
When he calls to hang out, I make excuses: “Oh, I have an early meeting,” or “I’m feeling under the weather.” The truth? I just want to sleep.
Gbolahan’s still here till the last week of January, and I’m counting down the days. I’ve promised myself I’ll join him for one or two more outings to avoid being labelled the boring cousin. But deep down, I know I’ve had enough.
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