Sinulog has always been known for its Mardi Gras. Tourists flock the city for the energy and vibe of festive colors, street dancing, and the full Sunday of party.
The loud cheers and festive dances attract around 1.5 million people every year.
But the essence of this entire celebration is felt and laid out for at least a week prior, with several customs and gatherings that are familiar to every Cebuano.
There are several rituals and prayers in preparation for the celebratory dance. One of them is the Novena Mass.
We went to the novena mass at Sto. Niño on the 4th night. Three of us on the motorcycle: Lora, Harry, and me. Traffic was heavy (no surprise there), but it gave me time to look around... the city buzzing with energy, people moving with the same purpose.
There’s something about moments like this that makes you feel part of something bigger, even as you’re just waiting for the light to change.
When we got there, the church was packed. Not just full, but overflowing. We couldn’t get inside, so we stood out on the street, shoulder to shoulder with strangers. The air was alive with voices… prayers mingling with the sound of the choir, children calling out, the shuffle of people trying to find a spot to settle.
People carrying their Sto Niños of all sizes. Some large, some could fit in one hand, while others have the living ones-- their babies in custom-designed costumes.
It was noisy, sure, but not in a way that felt chaotic. It was... vibrant. Like everyone there was carrying their own hopes, their own reasons for being present, and together it created this hum of something unspoken but shared.
My son stood beside me, quiet but watching everything. At 10 years old, he’s not exactly the hand-holding type anymore, but I could tell he was taking it all in.
He asked me who this Niño was, when all these started, why we're there.
For someone who's grown into this great, unexplainable love for a child I've never met, this was a moment I've been waiting for. To impart to my son the entire experience.
The candles glowing in the distance, the procession, the way the crowd moved as one when it was time to wave our hands or stand still. It hits you that this wasn’t just a tradition or routine. It was alive.
The mass ended at 8 PM, the last one of the day.
The crowd spilled out into the streets, and it felt like the energy shifted again... from solemn to celebratory. Food stalls lit up the sidewalks, selling everything from tepura, kwek-kwek to puto bongbong, the smell of freshly cooked meals mixing with the cool evening air.
It drizzled for a bit, and my mom used to tell me when I was younger that it's the Niño's blessing.
My son wanted to look around a bit more, and honestly, I was tempted too, but traffic was already building, and we still had the ride home ahead of us.
On the way back, the city felt quieter, though not entirely. My partner focused on driving while my son leaned against my knee with his elbow. I was complaining about it many times in the ride, and as we got nearer and farther from the prayerful experience, our voices got louder, bellies filled with laughter and the energy of teasing and sarcasm spilled the air as we drove home.
I found myself thinking about how packed the night had been… not just with people, but with meaning. It was noisy and crowded, yes, but also full of something that felt... sacred. Like somehow, even in the busy city traffic, there was peace.