You don’t realise how often you fart.
This is a real problem, I tell you. When you’re home alone, you can let it rip and bask in that rich cloud of toxic, foul-smelling fart.
Hey, you there that’s wrinkling your nose, don’t even pretend like you don’t deeply inhale the smell of that your hot, eye-watering fart.
Unfortunately, you may do it ten times in three minutes and not take any notice. Until someone comes to visit. Then you find yourself struggling to hold it in.
If you’re an expert, you may find yourself skilfully and surreptitiously releasing one, only for another to knock on the door of your behind, barely two minutes later.
Don’t bother checking yourself to see if you ate beans or banana that morning; it’s a consequence of living alone.
No one to hand you the remote.
This is something I struggle with nearly all the time. I mean, I collapse on the couch, arrange the pillows behind my head, recline and reach for the remote. But alas, my OCD self had neatly placed it in the remote-control holder on the table. I kick my feet and shout ‘ohhhhh oooh!’
Shebi if I was living with someone, I’d have said, “Please, can you throw me that remote control?”
Back-scratching is a myth, something your grandfather used to talk about.
For you people who collect bribes and kickbacks, this is a different kind of backscratching.
I mean, real backscratching. If you’ve never had another person use their reasonable short nails to rake your back upandan, you will not understand. You dunno nuh’un.
There’s no English term for the feeling that comes from having your back scratched. It’s….it’s….chai! The thing ase annemme tutu! As in, de ting will be sweeting you such that, your eye-boils wee just roll back in their sockets.
I think it’s high time I invite my godchildren over for a get-together with Aunty Eketi. *wink wink*
Olympic-class calisthenics is the only way to zip your dress.
If you’re a woman and you live alone and you have never had this issue, I need you to go to the nearest government hospital and check if your womanhood is the real one or abananya.
I cannot count the number of Sundays I’ve stood in front of my mirror, repeating the same routine. First, I bend to the left and then to the right. I reach my right hand to the middle of my back, but somehow, the zipper keeps slipping out between my forefinger and thumb. Then I bend over backwards, until my head in nearly touching the ground.
I reach back with my left hand—no show. I try with the right again. I catch the zip. Then something unholy in my head tells me that if I pull the zip and jump up at the same time, while sucking in my tummy and mentally reducing the size of my bust, then then the zip will slide up smoothly. That something lies, every time.
At the end of the day, I’m likely to give up and stand by my window, praying there’s a female neighbour like me, who hasn’t gone to church yet. Or a last resort, put on a VERY clean bra, zip it halfway, chop liver and ask a male neighbour to do it.
When you lose your house keys and the spares are in the wardrobe or at your parents’ house in Kafanchan.
Forget it. Break down the door. Sorry, spoil the lock.
No one to tell you you’ve got your dress on inside out or backwards, your hairnet is still on your head and your face is flaking.
Sigh. I have solved hall hof deez.
These ones usually happen when you’re in a mighty hurry. You pull on the dress and don’t notice that it’s backward or inside out. In this harmattan, you slap on some lip gloss, but forget to rub some coconut oil or moisturizer on your body and dash out without makeup. At the ATM queue, a helpful young lady tells you that your face is flaking and a patch behind your ear is peeling.
You say an embarrassed ‘thank you,’ and use style to clean off the lip gloss and rub it on the area as cream. Alas, your face is now oily and sticky in patches.
While you’re still trying to get over that, the gat