by Eketi Edima Ette

Living alone is an awesome experience; I recommend it for anyone over the age of 18.

-You don’t have to share the bed.
-Things are exactly where you like them to be.
-No one is selfishly occupying the toilet at the moment when strong shit is catching you.
-Finally, the TV can be as loud as you like.

Alas, there are many disadvantages to living alone. I will mention seven.

1. 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.

2. 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?”

3. Back-scratching is a myth, something your grandfather used to make you do, but which you’ll never experience.

For you people who collect bribes and kickbacks, this is not your kind of backscratching o.
I’m talking about 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 with real nails, by someone else.
It’s….it’s….chai! The thing ase annemme tutu! As in, de ting will be sweeting you and sweeting you, until your eye-boils wee 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*

4. 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 darn 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 as a last resort, put on a VERY clean and fancy bra, zip it halfway, chop liver and ask a male neighbour to do it.

5. 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.

6. Forget and return.
This one, it can pain.
You leave the house. You’re halfway to Isreal. Then you remember a vital file or key or dress you’ve forgotten. You can’t call anyone to bring it to you or even meet you halfway in Sokoto. So, you have to go all the way home and get it yourself.
It. Can. Pain.

7. No one to give your look the final once-over, before you step out the door.
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 solvad 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. Or worse, that the back has folded in under the hem of your panties.
It’s when you’ve walked the entire length of your street, caught a cab, and are getting down, that a nice gentleman says, “My dear, arrange your gown.”

Last week, I thought people were admiring my fine face. Until one Uncle leaned close to me and whispered, “Your zip, my dear. Zip your trousers.”

OR,
Because it’s 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, at the gate, the gate man says, “Auntie, I like this your cap o.”

“What cap?” you asking, reaching a hand to your head. You feel your hairnet, hanging askew over your thick, uncombed unnatural hair.

Kuku let me die here.

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Op–ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija