Tunde Asaju
It is Spring/Summer, your doctor tells you to exercise and that you don’t have to go to the gym to lift weights if that is too hard for you to do, but that a 30-minute walk five times a day would do just as well. So, you put on your jeans, drape a T-shirt, add a face cap to shield from the rays of the sun and off you go. Halfway through your walk, you feel an urgent need to pee. You are still 15 poles to get home and you know you can make it. However, and unusually, the pressure becomes too pressing and before you could say – where do I go to ease myself; you are all wet from your pants to your sneakers! Sango o!
No, the above narrative doesn’t happen to anyone except Salva Kiir Mayardit, the South Sudanese President who shamed himself and his young nation in 2023 with a trending video of him wetting himself – in public when he could have waited until he got home! Now, who does that?
Only these old men, who don’t know when to quit the stage. Kiir is still president and may remain so for life, that’s how we roll in Africa. But this is not about Africa and its sit-tight geriatric leaders.
Sorry to disappoint you, the narration in the first paragraph happened to respectable me.
Yes, Alhamdullilahi, there were no press cameras, and I took the rest of the walk like a robot, making sure not to make eye contact with anyone on the walkway. I don’t remember if anyone looked down as I walked past them and if they did, na their toro be dat.
Once home, I went to the basement where I dropped the offending pants, rushed through a shower to wash off the shame, then I called my children to let them know what has just happened to their daddy. You never know if any of their friends saw their daddy walking home with a wet pant, so let them know before others taunt them with it. My loving children listened with concern and offered their warm love and care – it was worth more than Mark Carney’s victory at the polls to have understanding children and not judgmental ones who wonder why Daddy is shaming them like this.
I have a chequered relationship with urine. You see, my mom told me that when I was born, a relative came to visit me at the dispensary in Mopa and after she left, I started running a fever and ended up with a swollen scrotum that took 14 days to heal. The witches wanted to destroy me, but Jah help I. That relative has since joined Dad and Mom where it is said that all hidden things are open. Maybe they have apologized to each other, one day I may find out.
You would wish it had ended there, but no. All through my childhood, I battled with enuresis – now that’s one big grammar used to hinder an embarrassing problem commonly called bedwetting. I’ll go to bed emptying my bladder as much as I could, sleep like a log and dream that I was urinating on the road side only to wake up and discover that I was swimming in my own pee. When I dream that I am rich, I never wake up to find money under my pillow. This silly witchcraft curse doesn’t discriminate. It could happen when I went visiting my grandma before I eventually moved in with her as a student.
Our loving but scrict disciplinarian parents tried everything to make it stop. Enuresis takes away every ounce of your confidence. My parents beat me, they threatened to expose me while looking for local remedies. They did not know better. I was made to drink that murky water used to cook yam, then cow urine, and every concoction out there including an attempt to tie a frog to my willie so that when the thing starts spilling, the poor animal would nip at it and wake me. That last option never happened, but the thought of it was overwhelming.
Not many people knew that all through my four-years in secondary school , I could probably count the number of days I escaped wetting my mat (we did not have beds). When I moved to Kano as a young adult, enuresis respected the ancient city and stopped.
You could then imagine the shock and dismay of my life when I woke up one night again, a couple of years ago, to discover that I had dropped more than a few shots on my bed. Doxology that my wife was away. Angry, confused, ashamed and disturbed, I took care of it before going to talk to my doctor. He sent me to the lab for tests and later for CT scan. The scan revealed an enlarged prostate – benign prostatic hyperplasia or BPH, which I learnt could be a precursor to cancer or may not. Looks like the chaps in heaven decide who gets it and who doesn’t.
The doctor put me on a pill I take once in a day and sent me to the urologist. The queue to the urologist is as long as the line to a polling station sharing N100,000 to vote APC. So, I had to wait.
When the day finally came, I drove in and met a young but shy lady in hijab. It was a bit odd for her, but not for me. You see, I resolved long ago to live with my nakedness. I have no shame when it comes to undressing before medical personnel – whether male or female. In the end, especially in these abroad, you are just a specimen on some gurney being poked and processed for the undertaker like a Sallah ram. This is why we ask you to be humble, eh, no matter how dainty you are, you won’t prepare yourself for burial!
Anyway, this is to highlight a very important problem that affects all men of certain age. It is to encourage young men above 40, to please, if you have the capacity, go and get your prostate checked. You don’t have to die in silence and there is nothing to be afraid of. Let me also say that you can’t run away from witches and wizards. If they are strong enough to eat in Naija and drink water in London, then, trying to hide your problems from them is futile. Besides, Jah has your side any day.
N.B. I know that young people raised on cow and goat milk have the avaricious libido of a he-goat. They want to enhance their performance in the aza room and would drink or eat anything to satisfy their cravings. Young women can’t stand two-minutes men. They want a man who will die on top or below or, however. Ask them how long a man should last and they’ll tell you – at least 30 minutes, as if sex is an Olympic marathon and not a sprint.
This is what they think marriage is all about – unlimited and uninhibited sex until they enter into relationships and find out. Well, I have bad news…as you mature in marriage, sex becomes just a very minute aspect of marriage. When you are hit with bills and the other sins that comes with adulting, believe me, you will see a spread leg and ignore it as you search for your car keys. Maybe I should keep the well-guarded secret.
I have cleared the concept of this post with my family and yes, as usual, I also promised Dr Adetola Motunrayo, who, though not officially my GP is a brother, friend and my unpaid special adviser on these matters and who encouraged me to share it whenever I am comfortable with it. Well doc, it looks like I woke up on comfort and table’s bed last night, so here it is.
Now, if you like keep buying supplements and drinking concoctions – nobody is a stud forever. I don’t need your sympathy o. I take my meds and I am fine, at least my girlfriends say so and your opinion doesn’t count. I don’t need anybody’s sympathy, I just want you to be aware, dazzol.
Ma Salam.