They say, “you
always remember your first”.
This has been proved true times without number. I have encountered firsts, both good and bad, that I remember to this day that make some
other firsts seem like child’s play.
However, there
are firsts and there are firsts!
This was a
first! This colorful first, was soaked into the neurons responsible for long
term memory and will stay with me for a long time to come.
If I remember correctly,
I was about twelve or thirteen at the time and actively crushing on Ugo’s younger
brother. I had memorized his routine (think Marinette from Miraculous)
and would run to either the window in my room, the swings on the front lawn or,
if available attempt to strike a nonchalant but elegant pose on my parent’s car
(imagine attempting to do this after running down a flight of stairs? The struggle
was real mehn) to gaze upon him in all his light complexioned, hungry looking,
gangly teen glory.
This was also the
season I discovered mixed berry jam.
I could not
seem to get enough of that oh so delicious nectar. It wasn’t like I had never
had jam before, weird. As a matter of fact, back in Degema some parent or older
kid was always organizing an activity or exercise among which was jam making.
There was the
time we learned to make various items with annoyingly tiny beads and finger
poking wires, used elephant grass to weave baskets and bags, there was the
butterscotch/coconut candy making and buying (mostly buying in my case), the
kuli-kuli phase, the licking nnzu (native chalk) addiction (I think I was
the only one I knew that was into this) and the waiting for agbalumor/udara
from Nnamdi their village (it counts as an activity). There was also practicing
for assorted performances with CRAB people/some education student group/a church
and nursey people coming ever so often to give some vaccine or the other, ask
us to close one eyes and read aloud then proceed to place a ruler over our
heads to see how much we had grown (this made me think of the witch in
Hansel and Gretel – they had to be fattening us up for something).
Then, there
was jam making! Of all the fruits we turned to jam, guava, mango and pineapple
were my top favorites.
So yes, I was familiar
with jam. Yet, the way I went through jars of this one in particular was
alarming. Like instead of me to go to the window and wait for Ugo’s brother to
walk by, I would sneak into the pantry to look for an unopened container of mixed
berry jam to replace the jar I had finished on my own then scurry up to catch a
glimpse of his receding shadow.
Mum usually went
shopping once a month, twice if it was a full house. She brought items in bulk
which normally lasted until the next shopping day. She was quite alarmed when
she found out I had gone through about five medium jars of mixed berry jam in
less than two weeks.
She removed
the remaining jars from the pantry and warned that if I did not slow down with
the jam consumption, the stuff was going to come out of my ears sooner than
later.
Did it listen?
Nope!
Soon after she
gave this warning, I waited for her to leave for work and for my sister to go
do whatever it was older sisters did when they are not watching their little
sisters as they are supposed to be doing and dove into the jar of jam. This time,
I was on an exploratory mission.
I was trying
the jam with different things to see which it paired best with. I had tried it
with cabin, homemade cookies, bread, yellow garri (not a good match), coaster biscuit
(a no for me), left over pancake and was moving to try it with popcorn when my
tummy started to ache.
My mum was
still out, it was just me and my sister at home. Not wanting to admit I had
been eating jam since morning and have her act all older, condescending and
tell me how wrong I was, I went to the toilet with the idea that if I was able
to evacuate my bowels, I would feel better.
This worked.
I pulled my
pants on and washed my fingers (no, I was not washing my hands and singing “the
birthday song at the time” - curse you CoVID!!). I had taken only a few steps towards where I hid
my stash of “jam experiments” when I felt wetness in my underwear.
I stopped and
thought to myself. Did I forget to wipe my bum? Was that poo? Why did it
feel gooey? Rather than waste time wondering, I decided to go check it out.
It was possible I sat on some jam and missed it. So, I turned around, went back
to the toilet pulled down my panties and screamed!
I heard voices
coming from outside, it sounded like it was coming from around my bedroom window.
It was probably Ugo’s younger brother talking to my sister about basketball. He
played basketball, she played basketball. It seemed everyone but me played
basketball.
I. Did. Not. Care.
I was dying!
Right there on
my panties, looking like karma in a shade of I told-you-so maroon were clumps
of mixed berry jam. My mum had warned me this would happen, but did I listen? No.
Now here I was leaking jam.
I was prepared
for mixed berry jam to come out of my ears, just like I was prepared for the bubble
gum that was going to glue my intestines together and the orange seed my uncle
promised would take root in my tummy and grow out of my head.
This? This was
different. My hands felt cold, I was shivering in fear. I was going to die, and
I would not know what popcorn and jam tasted like.
I tried to plug
the leak with a wad of tissue and clean the horrid jam from my panties, but it in
the time it took to get a clean pair of underwear and return to the bathroom to
wash the soiled one, the one I wore would be jam filled again.
It was
relentless and continued to drip on.
I was running
out of clean underwear and numb with fear. Not caring for the consequence anymore,
I called for my sister, the sound that left my throat was a feeble whimper.
So, this was
how I was going to die? As a last resort, right there in the bathroom, I got on
my knees and began to bargain with God. If the jam would stop leaking out of my
bum, I would never again eat, lick, taste or even be in the same room as mixed
berry jam.
Although it
seemed like forever, I was in the bathroom for only about twenty minutes. My sister
had noticed I was not at the usual “brother watching spots” and came to check in.
as soon as she opened the door, I lunged into her, wrapped my arms around her
waist and started proper bawling.
Through hiccups
and ugly crying, I confessed I had been eating jam and narrated how mum had
said it was going to come out through my ears, how it refused to come out of my
ears and how it would not stop coming out of my bum.
Till today, I do
not know how she was able to refrain from laughing out loud when she realized
what had happened.
My first
period.
To spare my young
child from going through a similar experience, the day she noticed and asked
about the crimson stain that spotted my clothes when I had an accident, I told
her it was from my body trashing the special decorations it had put up to protect
and feed a new baby. Although her brother
heard this and warned me to keep the waste from my expired decorations from his
clothes and property, we all agreed that if decorations were there to protect and
feed a possible baby in the tummy, then it was important to get rid of the bad decorations
and have the body put up new decorations every month.
Do you
remember your first period?
