Morning in New Abuja doesn’t begin with alarms. It begins with birds — dozens of them, all chirping like a secret they’re too excited to keep. Their song filters through the cracked windows, nudging people awake. Then comes the familiar sound of iron gates swinging open, one after the other, like a neighborhood breathing in unison.

Shops open waiting for costumers to buy  fresh bread. While pos operators wait anxiously for customers to make withdrawals of cash they would need for the day

By late morning, the street hums with life. Cars pull out in reverse. Children argue about who gets the front seat. Somewhere down the road, a mother is already shouting — not out of anger, but habit. It’s her version of “good morning.”

As the sun climbs, the noise dies down. Work has taken most people elsewhere. The street becomes a ghost town. But for those who remain, the silence is golden. Until the kids return.

School uniforms are half-off before they even reach the gate. Slippers fly. Backpacks drop. Their voices rise — gossip, games, giggles. But sometimes, the laughter turns sharp. A disagreement over a missing biscuit or a borrowed ball gone flat. Small fights break out. Nothing serious — until it is. A slap here, a shove there. Tears. Then silence. Then, like clockwork, forgiveness.

By 4 p.m., the football pitch is calling. You can hear the thud of the ball, the grunts of effort, the cheers when someone scores from midfield. Everyone’s a coach. Everyone’s a critic. Older kids who don't play, go to watch probably a new lady may be around for a chat. While some just need the fresh air and support their kids. Low key we know the basketball court is where “deals” happen. The newest updates and gossips you would find.  And the prettiest ladies always ended up their. 

But New Abuja changes when the sun disappears.

Night comes quickly — along with the stillness. Lights flicker back on. With night is quiet as no generators can be heard. The power holding company doing it's best. The smell of fried fish or some delicacy from a neighbors house. The smell of suya frying at the junction a typical Jos community. 

Champions league football is on so you can hear shouts of “goallllll” in the distance. Our little live score when you don't have data. 

But not Saturdays.

Saturday nights are noisy. Music from clubs just outside the estate walls booms like a heartbeat. Motorbikes scream down the highway. Someone’s celebrating too loud. Someone else is already angry about it. Then, sirens. A patrol van rolls through, lights spinning. The music fades. The party ends with doors slammed and threats muttered.

By midnight, the street is silent again. Only the occasional bark from a restless dog or the buzz of a transformer breaking the quiet.