A Bucket And A Bowl... A Remembering

It’s fascinating the memories our body holds. Our skin, our lips, our tongues, our ears. Our hair, our scalp, our face. Love. Our joy, our pain. Trauma.

A bath taken in a Lagos bathroom after a long, hot day, with a bucket full of cool water and a bowl for scooping, awakened so many memories it made my skin tingle. With water pressure from the shower so low I could barely feel it, I opted for the bucket and the bowl. The filling of the pail with water from the tap, the anticipation of the whoosh and coolness of the first pour of water on my skin as I braced myself for the chill the water would bring that I so desired. The scooping and pouring and scooping and pouring of water over my body, habitual. Every time the water hit my body my skin buzzed with memories, an awakening no shower could bring.

6 years old, Ijebu Ode, Nigeria. I lived with my grandparents in Ijebu for a few months. Ijebu is a small Yoruba town in the southwest region of Nigeria. A tiny tin shack that made up the bathroom stood at the back of my Baba’s house. My grandmother, Iya Akin, would fill the bucket with water from the large water tank she filled earlier by making several trips to the community tap to “fetch water.” She would boil a small kettle of water on her kerosene stove to heat up the bathing water for me because she knew the cold water made my tiny body shiver in the cool temperatures of the morning. She’d tip the kettle of hot water, warming the bucket of cold water, swirling her hand in it to attain the right temperature. In that tiny shack she would scrub me down with a kan kan, a natural sponge made from coconut husks shaped like a bird’s nest, and native black soap. The woody smell of the kan kan mixing with the scent of native black soap would meet the dewy morning scent of last night’s rain on banana leaves. I remember that smell. As she scrubbed and lathered my body she would sing to me, scooping and pouring water from the bucket, her voice warm and soothing, wrapped me in an envelope of love, imprinting memories in my skin.

“Gbe owo e so ke.” Raise your arm she would say as she scrubbed one armpit. I needed no reminder to raise the other, a perfected routine. My back, my legs, and even my palms, scrubbed lovingly clean. Iya Akin would intentionally save a significant amount of water in the bucket for that final whoosh, the dumping of the remaining water on my head. She knew I loved it. She would look at me and smile, a non-verbal inquiry about my readiness for the whoosh. I’d smile back and close my eyes. Whooshhhh! The sound of gushing water pouring over my head as I closed my eyes tight and held my breath. My skin would tingle with happiness while I shivered from the cool outdoor air. A tiny moment of joy brought to you by a bucket filled with water and a bowl; a moment that would root itself in my memory bank to be replayed nearly 40 years later.

11 years old, in a hospital in Lagos. I sat in the tub of a hospital room shivering from an unrelenting fever. Iya Akin had traveled from Ijebu to stay with me after 2 weeks in the hospital as typhoid fever surged through my body and violent fits of vomiting wrecked my insides producing nothing but green bile. Iya Akin ordered for me to be carried into the bathroom where she lathered up a kan kan with the native black soap she brought from Ijebu. There was no hot water heated up on her kerosene stove that day; cool water was needed to bring my fever down. I shivered violently, my teeth rattling as she scooped and poured cool water over my thin, hot body. She scrubbed gently, carefully avoiding the 31 puncture marks on my arm where the nurses had pricked and prodded, often unsuccessfully, to find a viable vein for an IV or to draw blood. 31 times. I counted. She raised my arm, one after the other, scrubbing my armpit gently, softly singing our song, ending the bath with the whoosh.

13 years old, Ifako-Agege, Lagos. A long day trekking the markets of Lagos with my mom shopping for nothing yet haggling over everything. At least so it seemed. The roads were flooded and muddy after the rain, my sandals were caked with red clay, my body sweaty from the Lagos heat. I relished that bath, scrubbing my feet as my Iya Akin taught me, getting in between my toes, scrubbing my back as far as my growing limbs would allow, raising my arm to scrub one armpit, then the other. Finishing with the final whoosh.

30 years old, Odenton, Maryland. A bucket, a bowl, and a one-year-old baby boy. Awele. Kneeling beside the bathtub, I swirled my hand in the water gauging its temperature as the water gushed from the tap. I adjusted the knobs, water was perfectly warm. I squirted oatmeal baby body wash on a soft, fluffy loofah and lathered it up. I scooped and poured warm water over his restless body, his skin with its random eczema patches, scrubbing gently. “Raise your arm, baby,” I said scrubbing his armpit. He squirmed and giggled, ticklish, as he raised the other arm unprompted, a perfected routine. A rinse and it’s time for the grand finale. “You ready?” He nodded and closed his eyes tightly, bracing for the whoosh. “Whoossssh!!!” I gushed as he squealed in delight. The most joyous sound.

45 years old, I am back in Lagos after 23 years away. A bucket, a bowl, a re-awakening. As I scooped and poured and scooped and poured cool water on my body warm and sticky from being out and about in these Lagos streets, my skin whispered these memories. Every day that week, sometimes twice a day, a bucket filled with water, a bowl for scooping. Every day for a week, memories poured out, at times in trickles, at other times an avalanche, overwhelming me. Oh what memories our bodies hold! Trapped in our skin, waiting. And with every final whoosh, a remembering. And my skin would whisper… remember? Remember.