Denied a Bath at Eton: When Culture, Power, and Cleanliness Collided

By Kio Amachree

 

I am African. I am Nigerian. And Nigerians bathe. We do not walk around unwashed and smelly. So when I arrived at Eton College in the 1970s, I immediately had a problem. They did not bathe regularly.

At Eton in those days, bathing was limited to a few times a week to cut down on electricity bills. Three times a week. Even after sports. I protested. I told my housemaster that this was against Nigerian culture, that we bathe every day. Sometimes twice a day. Cleanliness is not a luxury where I come from. It is a given.

His response was simple and arrogant.

“We are in England, not Nigeria. You will follow the rules.”

I refused.

I told him that special rules must be made for Kio Amachree.

He looked at me and said,

“And what are you going to do about it if I refuse?”

They always fall straight into the trap. The oh-so-clever English elite, who were soon to discover that you do not bully a natural-born bully. Look, they started it.

They were very pleased to have a Black student at Eton again after Dilibe and his book. So pleased, in fact, that they told the press. It was in the Daily Mail, the upper-class rag the elite love to read. At the time, Nigel Dempster was king of the society page, and he wrote an article about me. How I loved to play the trumpet.

I did not love to play the trumpet.

I was forced to play the damn thing by my Louis Armstrong-loving housemaster, Peter Hazel, who thought all Black people should be trumpet players. So he made me play the trumpet.

But what I really needed was my bath. My shower. I needed to feel African again. To look and feel Nigerian. So I warned him calmly that I would call the Daily Mail and give them another interview.

“Black boy at Eton denied baths.”

I never had to beg for a bath again.

After that threat, the rules quietly changed for me. I became famous at Eton for always smelling clean. Always freshly showered. Covered in eau de cologne. Looking good. Looking Nigerian. Clean.

Sometimes resistance is not about shouting.

Sometimes it is about knowing exactly where the pressure points are.

And pressing them.