I suck at housework, I really do. It’s just one of those things I admit early on. I was talking to this pal of mine – a PhD Professor. He also has a blonde ponytail, rides a bike, and has a double major in Theatre and History. He’s half Native American and moonlights as a model. Can you say hot?!

Anyway, we were talking about cultural differences and why I like green hair and pretty eyes. Or maybe it’s the other way round. I told him that I think white men are more accepting of a woman that can’t cook and clean. I went on to list all my unfeminine characteristics. We were talking online, so I’m sure he wasn’t looking at my chest. He laughed and said I don’t need a husband, I need a wife.

For some reason, his statement made me think of Mrs Kirubi, 8-4-4, and woman-to-woman marriage classes in G.H.C.R.E. Is that still in the syllabus?

My least favourite chore is laundry. In campus, it was fun. I could go to the laundry room with my boom box and yell along to rock and washing. I’d usually go early morning or late night when it was empty. That way, I wouldn’t have to fight with 50 other boom boxes all playing different music.

But now … well … let’s just say I’ll accept dowry in form of a washing machine. But until then, I amuse myself by soaking stuff for prolonged periods. It isn’t so much about cleanliness. It’s more of assumption. I assume that if I soak my laudry, I’ll notice it each time I take a shower, and that will prompt me to wash. My other option is to load the laundry basket till it’s overflowing or we have no clean clothes left – whichever comes first. The only thing that gets washed consistently is uniform.

Now, you would think soaking makes stuff easier to wash. And after turning a few of my white socks into red, blue, and pink … you would think I’d learn my lesson. But here’s another thing you might not know. Light soaking loosens stains. Long soaking sets more. So after a period of steeping, my laundry ends up less clean than it started. *groan*

A few weeks ago, princess was in the bathroom. She was washing her dolly’s hair or something like that. For some reason, she ran out of soap or shampoo and yelled for help. I told to use the water with detergent, the one that had clothes soaked in it. She went quiet for a while then let out a few squeals.


‘Mummy, I swear this water is rotten! Just smell it!!’

Now I don’t know if water can rot … but … when your stuff has been soaking for a few days weeks, it gets this characteristic … aroma … and nothing short of rinsing it in Harpic will get rid of the smell. Sigh.

That was two weeks ago. Four or five  days ago, I noticed the smell again, but this time, it was a different set of soaked laundry. I rinsed off the soap and put the clothes into an empty bucket. The idea was to rinse and hang them, but I got tired … or distracted … or bored. I left the semi-rinsed clothes there overnight … or maybe over two nights.

The next thing I remember is thinking they’d dry with soap and get brittle and rough, so I added clean water. I’m not sure how long they stayed in there, but I just came from the bathroom, and now the clean water is rotten. Groan. I did four or five rinses to get rid of the smell and hung them in the sunlight. I don’t know how much perfume we’ll need when wearing those clothes … but luckily, they were mostly pyjamas.

As a single mum, I sometimes worry about my baby. I wonder if she’ll know a good man when she sees one. After all, the purpose of a daddy is to model the ideal man, and I worry that she won’t know what that is. I wonder about girly stuff too. She has boutiques and hairdressers to teach her about make up, and the internet will handle accessories. At least I know a lot about ice cream and shoes. But given my laundry skills, she just might need a model for the ideal woman. Maybe I should build her a robot.

Bells of freedom Bon Jovi

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