As a child growing up with fragile teeth, I hated harmattan seasons like I hate agbalumo.
Even till now, if you pour just a little quantity of cold water on my skin when the weather is cold, my lips will start shaking like a violent alarm clock with overcharged battery.
On unsupervised harmattan mornings, I didn’t like having my bath at all or going near a bathroom. The trick was to wash my arms, dust my legs, rinse my face and use the remaining cold water to wash the bathroom floor on behalf of Opera News plagiarist.
After five minutes, I will rush out of the bathroom like a champion. My mum would ask why there is no sign of water on my head and at the back of my neck but I will just cook up one tortoise and the lion excuse to free myself.
One day, I didn’t know that she had even hid my sponge and soap. I just rushed into the bathroom, performed my usual magic and ran out like an antelope.
When I got outside my mum asked if I used sponge… I said yes Ma.
She asked if I used soap… I said yes Ma.
She didn’t even argue with my half washed head but gave me my food flask with extra meat for lunch.
When I got to school, I met my sponge neatly folded inside my mathematics textbook.
After school, to enter my father’s house became a big headache for me because I recognised the type of cain that was awaiting me for lying.
Nobody preached to me because as I got home, I jejely carried two buckets of water, sponge and liquid soap to enter the bathroom and wash away the cain I was expecting.
Na advance bathing something!