27/04/2024
I bought my first set of panties with my own money when I was thirteen. I did so because a girl whom I admired so much then, jokingly told me that every man must get himself a pair in order to hold his âhouseholdâ together. The word HOUSEHOLD clicked immediately. I didnât need anyone to tell me what she meant by that.
There was some money I got from my kerosene business. I quickly rushed to the market the next day and got myself three pairs. I felt somewhat relaxed when I wore one of it, the black one. It fitted so well that I wished I could walk along the street in it so as to enjoy the winks and nods from admirers.
Two days later, I visited a friend of mine and his elder brother who was around, washed his panties and hung them on a line. I counted them. They were thirty-four! He had thirty-one more than I had.
âWhy thirty-four?â I asked my friend. âDoes your brother sell panties?â
My friend chuckled and said a man should at least have seven panties; each for every day of the week. That sank deeply. It would then be quite appropriate for me to get four pairs more. I already had three pairs; a black one, a blue and the third, a grey pair.
The next market day saw me getting four more but something happened when I got home in the afternoon and found only the black pair waiting for me. I had worn the grey one that day and left the black and the blue behind. Who could have stolen the blue pair?
I searched everywhere but it was gone; disappeared like smoke into the clouds. It pained so much that I rained curses on the supposed thief. There were some people I suspected but confronting them was going to be a herculean task. How would I stop people and ask them if they saw my underwear?
That evening, my mother returned from the market with a giant lizard sheâd bought from a hunter. I had initially thought it was a baby crocodile. It was the first time I would see such an animal in flesh. I was told that it was very delicious when cooked.
My siblings who had grown in the village knew what an alligator was. They were so excited to see it. Mother made melon soup with it. The soup was very rich with lots of mushrooms. Although we were very poor and food was most times considered as luxury, my mother still managed to make tasty and sumptuous meals most often. She was one of the best cooks in my village and is still praised to this day as having great culinary skills.
âI bought the meat because of you?â she told me that evening. âI know you have never tasted it before so when the hunter brought it, I did not hesitate to buy it so you could have the taste of it for the very first time.â
I thanked her exceedingly. My mother still remains the most caring and loving person Iâve ever known. I could still smell the aroma of that delicious pounded yam with melon soup of that night. I could still remember how we all relished it and licked our oily fingers.
That moment is forever etched like a leach to my memory cells.
It was the next morning that I told my mother about my missing underwear. Two of her friends had come to visit her.
âI still donât know why anyone would come to steal my underwear,â I whined indignantly.
My mother laughed rather cynically. âWhy would anyone do that? Donât worry, I will help you look for it later.â
It was when the women were gone that she came to knock on my door.
âMy son, about your missing underwear; I was the one that wore it to the market yesterday. It was not stollen.â
Those words from her dug deep into my heart.
I canât still tell why I failed to control my emotions that day. Could it be the manner with which sheâd come to tell me herself as if she owed me a huge debt that could not be paid or the innocent look in her eyes as she revealed it to me? I just could not tell why the tears began to flow in rivulets. An alien grief enveloped me as I wept profusely.
My mother was apparently flummoxed. Her voice pierced further as she echoed; âAre you angry that I wore your underwear? I, your own mother?â
In spades, the tears continued to flow. I knew deep inside of me that I was not angry with her for wearing my clothes. No, far from it. I was crying for other reasons. I felt terrible that she could not buy her own underwear or my father didnât think it was necessary buying a pair for his wife. Again, how could we be that poor to the extent that my mother would pick up my underwear to wear; mine, a male not my sisterâs?
I cried the more because I understood that she was making so much sacrifices for us to the extent that sheâd completely abandoned herself. Just the previous night, sheâd brought home an alligator. The price of that animal could fill up her boxes with panties of various kinds. Yet she chose to put smiles on our faces instead of making herself happy.
She held my hand as I cried and soothingly promised she was going to buy me a new pair the next market day. I knew for sure that sheâd buy me a new pair if that was what I wanted but I didnât want that because that was going to take additional toll on her. The entire breadwinning experience, a sole responsibility of hers over the years was not entirely pleasant.
âDonât cry again,â she assured me.
That was when I managed to tell her why I was crying. Sniffling, I said; âMama, I am not crying because you wore my underwear. No, I am only angry at our situation. I feel sad that for our sake, youâve completely abandoned yourself. How much is a pair of panties Mama?â
âMy son,â she looked at me straight in the eyes. âPeople who care so much about others are usually very selfless to a fault. They give their umbrella to those who need it and dare the weather believing that they are strong enough to surmount it. But this isnât usually so because strong people are usually very weak and helpless when they deal with their own issues. They show their strength to the world and keep their weakness to themselves. But they also need to be loved and cared for even more. But because they are erroneously thought to be stronger and to have more, no one usually cares about them.â
Years later when she died, I wrote down most of the things that she shared with me and this particular experience has replicated many times in my life. I remember I had visited one of my benefactors at the office one day and was shocked to see the secretary trying to boil water for his tea with a damaged boiling ring.
This was a very rich fellow. How could he not buy an electric kettle instead? I was going to question why when I startled abruptly as the words of my mother floated into my head.
On my way out of his office that day, the man gave me the sum of twenty thousand naira.
âThank you very much Sir,â I said as I made my way out of the office. I went to Wuse Market that day and found a very beautiful electric jug for four thousand naira.
You can only imagine how my benefactor felt when I brought it to his office the next day. He thanked me so passionately you would think I just offered him my kidney.
We must understand that most of the people who make sacrifices for us, who ensured that our happiness and smiles are guaranteed, sometimes go the extra mile to do so. They often deny themselves the little things that we expect them to have just so they could take care of the HUGE things we donât have. We must understand that it is not those who are wealthy that are capable of giving but those who have the hearts to do so. Everyone should be everyone elseâs keeper
My mother taught me this long ago and that experience was the reason I bought so many pairs of panties for my wife in our early days of marriage. Whenever I had the slightest opportunity, I bought them in dozens for her because I often cringe with worry over my experience and pray that none of my boys should go through the type of emotional pain that I went through that day.
To some, this probably might mean nothing. But to me, it left a scar and a didactic injury.
This is a piece from Japheth Prosper
