Remember Abuja on a Monday morning, the endless traffic on the Airport Road, the impatient horns at Berger, the hurried footsteps around Area 1. Then the holidays arrive, and the city exhales.
During festive seasons, Abuja becomes a different place, as streets, once throbbed with civil servants, diplomats and hustling commuters suddenly feel oversized.
Car parks sit half-empty, traffic lights change for cars that never come, and the usual rush gives way to an unfamiliar calm, for a city built around routine, bureaucracy and deadlines, the silence feels almost theatrical.
With Christmas, Eid or long public holidays, residents retreat to their hometowns, chasing family, tradition and familiarity.
Flights are full going out, not coming in, motor parks buzz briefly, then go quiet. What remains are the few who couldn’t travel, security personnel, essential workers, expatriates and a capital city learning to live without its crowd.
Yet the emptiness isn’t entirely lonely, For some, it’s Abuja at its best, Roads are kinder, the air feels lighter, and time moves slowly.
Joggers reclaim major routes, photographers find beauty in quiet roundabouts, and cafés serve customers without the usual wait. The city reveals its design, wide roads, green spaces, symmetry details often hidden beneath congestion and urgency.
Still, the silence carries its own melancholy as Markets close early, nightlife thins out, and whole neighborhoods feel like paused conversations.
Abuja, a city defined more by function than culture, relies heavily on its people to feel alive. When they leave, the capital feels like a well-lit stage waiting for actors to return.
By the end of the holidays, the calm begins to crack, traffic creeps back, offices reopen, and the familiar impatience returns.
Abuja refills itself, step by step and just like that, the city stops whispering until the next holiday comes, and it breathes out once again.
