"The Day of My Dirty Tego"
I t was fine and beautiful Monday morning. I curled under the blanket; I languidly looked around the room. My cupboard was open and I could see all the dishevelled clothes, at the bottom my shoes, on the top of one other like a pyramid. My roommate had neatly folded his blankets and left early. I had no first period so I’d slept a little longer. I got up and washed. The hostel was silent except for few echoes from the floors above. As it was the first day of a week, I looked for a clean gho , there was none. ‘God! I don’t have a single clean gho?’ I took one, which was better than the rest. With tego and stocking, it was the same story. ‘How could I forget to wash them?’ The previous day, supposedly laundry day, I’d gone for a picnic. ‘If only I’d washed them little by little.’ But that’s what the Centre of life is (I’if’e).’ With this frustration, I went to a friend’s room and, as luck would have it, the door was locked. There was no one else I could ask help f