I Shit Myself & I Shit You Not

There’s an old saying that goes, “Tell God your plans and he will laugh.” I never quite got it—until September 2004. I had just turned 20, prime spring chicken age. I was as fresh as a dew drop on a spring morning, crispier than pringles and as sharp as a samurai’s blade. Life was a breeze, and I was slicing through it like a hot knife through butter. Side note: Who thought spelling “knife” with a K was a good idea, only to make the K silent? Is that why knives are used for silent killings? Okay, back to the story. I was brimming with vitality at 20 years old. My alter ego ever vigilant, waking up before dawn. Standing-up, erect and in perfect alignment, like a statement against Colin Kaepernick. My girlfriend then sure got her mouthful, I gave her a** regular donations like I was running a charity— “World Vision: African Edition.” It was never ending squirting season for both of us.

Then came September, and boy, was it a doozy. I’d just scored a visa to study in Canada. For a Nigerian in 2004, that was like winning the lottery, except without the confetti or the chance to appear on a game show. The internet was still young, toddlerisky (made-up word but eff it) stage and no smart phones neither, so you can’t just ask your girlfriend Siri about weather in Canada. Back then, I did not know “cold” meant temperatures that could double as a cryogenic chamber. To celebrate my grand voyage like a Viking who’d just conquered an Eastern foe, I had a send-off party planned the weekend before my departure. I needed to tie up loose ends, which will make more sense shortly.

I woke up late that morning in September, knowing I had to make it to the bank, which was a whole 30km away. Now, for you Western folks, that’s a quick stroll. You could leave at 5:00 PM, grab a burger, and still be back in time to catch the puck drop at the hockey game. To Nigerians, it’s like setting off for a moon landing. Traffic is a beast of its own, and securing transportation can be as chaotic as a wrestling match with the Tribal Chief (yes, I acknowledge him). If you don’t leave early, you’re stuck in gridlock, packed tighter than a clown car at a circus. Every passenger is crammed in like sardines in a tin can, and the air is thick with the delightful bouquet of armpit sweat and onion-pickle breath. It’s basically a traveling sensory assault.

I could’ve borrowed dad’s ’85 Mercedes, but that baby is as reliable as a politician’s promise. One minute it’s a purring kitten, the next it’s a rabid raccoon on meth. If I had to give it a name, I’d call it Kim Kardashian and its unpredictable nature would be Kanye West.

So, I hurried out of bed and decided to grab some breakfast. I poured cornflakes into a bowl, added water first (which is definitely not the way to do it), and went hunting for powdered milk. Of course, all my utensils were MIA, likely hiding under the mountain of mess that comes with living in a house that’s basically a boarding school without the supervision. I turned the milk container like I was attempting a magic trick with an 8-ball, accidentally emptying half the container into my cereal. Since the milk was now soggy and unreturnable to its container, I decided to roll with it. More milk equals more creaminess, right? I ate the soggy mess with my hands because, hey, it’s Africa and spoons are overrated. Finished up and used one of my sister’s scarves to wipe my hands—classy move. Besides, she pissed me off the night before.

My buddy, Akim, was waiting for me at the gate. The trip to the bank was a breeze—only three hours of smooth traffic. However, as we sat in the bank my stomach sounded like a prehistoric beast awakening from a long nap. I ignored it, figuring it was just a minor inconvenience. On the way back, disaster struck. We were stuck on a bridge—Africa’s second longest bridge, 12km of pure, unadulterated suspension over water. I was next to a young lady, Akim was seated right behind me, and my stomach started rumbling like a marching band of elephants. I clenched my cheeks, trying to keep things under control. The traffic was immovable, and sweat was pouring down my face. The young beautiful lady beside me politely inquired if everything was okay, and I managed to croak out that I was “severely allergic to traffic.” And the traffic light inside me is about to go green.

Akim leans in, his voice as soft as a whisper in a wind tunnel, ‘Dude, are you okay? Your stomach sounds like a dying whale in there.’ I could hear it in my sleep. I mean, the guy wasn’t wrong. It was a full-on volcanic eruption about to happen south of the border. Akim asked me what I’d had for breakfast, and I said, “Just a bowl of cereal and milk.” Then I added, “But I think it’s the lactose acting up.” Akim looked confused and asked, “You had lactose too? Where did you get it from?”  

Akim was the undisputed king of the rhetorical questions. He could make you question your own sanity with a single query. Was he a genius, a troll, or just really high? We never figured it out. It was easier to just nod and smile.

Then it happened. A sound escaped from my rear end, and it wasn’t just a whisper—it was a full-blown trumpet solo. I believe everyone on the bus heard it, especially the lady next to me.

Luckily, the traffic is moving now, and we’re almost at my bus stop, just a 10-minute walk to my house. The party was supposed to start at 6 PM, and it was already 8 PM. Since it’s an overnight party, no one was leaving until morning. I dashed to a public washroom nearby, desperate for relief. When I arrived, one stall was occupied, and the other was like a scene from a horror movie—poop had taken over the floor like it was auditioning for a role in a sludge-themed horror film. The African heat turned it into a full-blown olfactory assault, making it feel like I was standing inside a giant, stinky, steaming bowl of questionable stew. I quickly decided that maybe holding it wasn’t such a bad option after all! I contemplated hanging on the wall like Spiderman while doing my business because I refused to let any part of my body touch that toilet porcelain. Realizing it wasn’t an option, I quickly left and started walking home.

Upon arriving, I was surprised to see the place packed with people who seemed eager to see me leave the country. Everyone cheered when they saw me, and someone handed me a beer. The crowd encouraged me to chug it down, and succumbing to peer pressure, I did.

God laughed. It was then that something miraculous happened – the sudden urge to poop vanished completely. It felt as if my entire digestive system had been reset. Feeling amazing, I thought, “Wow, this is music to my Soul, and I feel good-er than James Brown! Give me another beer.”

After an hour of dancing, mingling with women, and flirting. I was aware I had a girlfriend, but once I secured a visa to Canada, our relationship was essentially over. We both understood that. Suddenly, my stomach bloated like a tsunami was imminent, and I knew it would be extremely difficult to contain. It felt as though Moses had miraculously created a path in my digestive system, like He did with the Red Sea to let things through. while I channeled my inner Gandalf, declaring, “you shall not pass.”

I sprinted to the main washroom, only to find it occupied with a line snaking out the door. In a last-ditch effort, I bolted to my sister’s washroom, which she locks up tighter than Alcatraz because she knows we’re the serial bathroom offenders. I begged, “Please, can I use your washroom? I’m about to explode!” She shot me a look that could curdle milk (milk? not again) and snarled, “Fuck off! And by the way, thanks for using my scarf as a paper towel this morning. I hope you shit yourself, and I shit you not!”

So, I made a beeline for the backyard, knowing my options were running out fast. It was like a high-stakes game of “Will He or Won’t He?” except the stakes were my dignity and my pants. I felt the impending disaster and my pants grew damp. My farts were firing off like they were being launched from an artillery cannon—endless rounds with no ceasefire.

In a desperate maneuver, I fumbled with my belt and tried to unzip my pants. Of course, that’s when it happened: my skin and pubic hair got caught in the zipper, adding a fresh layer of agony to my predicament. And then, with the grandest of finales, the avalanche of feces came crashing down.

I felt embarrassed, standing there with soiled pants, my junk hanging out from my unzipped pants, like a hashbrown from Timmies peeking out of its bag.

Despite my attempts to hide from everyone at the party, I was eventually discovered and became the BUTT of jokes for the entire week. My friends came to the rescue, cleaning me up with a water hose and sneaking me back to my room without anyone noticing.

I had no idea I was lactose intolerant until that fateful day. Sure, I’d had milk before, but only in modest amounts. My stomach would grumble occasionally, but I figured everyone’s did. Plus, with the spicy food we devour in Africa, I never thought lactose intolerance was the culprit.

I guess my voyage was not celebrated like a true Viking if I pooped to conquer. Ha! Right there is a Twist that only true book readers will get. Hint! Think Oliver Twist.

Bye Folks-Till Next Time