If you grew up in a Nigerian home, you already know , Saturday mornings are not for the weak. There’s no “weekend rest” in sight. In fact, Saturday morning is when your parents activate full house general mode.
It starts with a loud gospel song.
Usually at 6:30am. Either it’s Tope Alabi, Frank Edwards, or one of those deep Yoruba choruses that sounds like spiritual warfare. That’s your alarm. Not your iPhone, not your dreams just pure surround-sound from the living room.
The “subtle” call to duty.
If your parents are feeling merciful, you’ll hear:
“Come and help me wash plate o.”
If not, it’s:
“This house will not clean itself!”
“You people just want to eat and sleep!”
“You think you’re in holiday resort?”
NEPA disappoints. As expected.
Just when you’re about to iron your school uniform for the week or charge your phone, NEPA strikes. And of course, your mum starts muttering about how Nigeria is just “somehow.”
Everyone is cleaning. Loudly.
Buckets are moving. Brooms are flying. You’re forced to mop like your life depends on it. If you’re the last born, you’re washing the car or scrubbing the verandah like punishment.
There’s always that one aunty screaming: “Sweep under the chair, not around it!”
Breakfast? Don’t count on it coming early.
Even after the whole house is squeaky clean, you still have to peel beans for the akara. No blender o, manual peeling. Your fingers will prune, your back will ache, and the beans will still form small sand
By the time the akara is finally entering hot oil, everybody is already tired, hungry and slightly angry. But once that aroma hits the air, the whole house gathers like it’s communion service.
The neighborhood comes alive.
Generators humming. Children running around with no shirts. Someone blasting Fuji or Kwam 1. The guy selling buns or puff puff walks past yelling like a town crier.
Saturday in a Nigerian compound is like a mini carnival.
By noon, peace returns… kind of.
Everyone is tired. The house is clean. The TV comes on Africa Magic Yoruba or football. Dad is dozing off with one eye open, and your mum finally sits down to “rest small.” You? You’re just grateful it’s over.
In a Nigerian home, Saturday morning is not for flexing, it’s for sweating. And if you didn’t wash something, peel something, or nearly cry while cleaning, did your Saturday even start?
Does this article bring nostalgia? Or when were you even born?
