Saturday Chore Madness in a Nigerian Home
Saturday mornings in a typical Nigerian home?
Forget about sleeping in or having breakfast in bed. No, no, no. Saturday is officially Work and house cleaning day, and in my house, it’s a full-blown military operation. If you’ve ever been jolted awake by an early Saturday morning knock on your door, you already know what I’m talking about.
It all starts with my mother. She transforms into a drill sergeant overnight. The kind that doesn’t need a whistle or a megaphone—her voice alone will do the trick. “Are you still sleeping at this time?” she’ll shout, as if the world is ending and only chores can save it.
She doesn’t even bother knocking. She just flings the door open like someone with rent overdue. “Get up! Housework is waiting oooh, I am not traini ng lazy human being oooh!”
And so begins the Saturday Wahala.
First task? Sweeping. Now, sweeping on a normal day is fine, but on Saturdays? Forget it. Every nook and cranny must feel the wrath of the broom. And heaven help you if you sweep “like someone that doesn’t know what they’re doing.” There’s this special way Nigerian mums can tell you skipped a spot, even if they weren’t in the room. It’s like they have X-ray vision for dirt.
While I’m busy pretending not to hate sweeping, my younger sister is stationed in the kitchen, tackling the dishes and that dreaded pot that never seems to get clean. You know the one—the pot that’s been blackened by years of cooking on a kerosene stove. No matter how hard you scrub, it’s like the soot is part of the pot’s DNA. She’ll be there, muttering under her breath, “What exactly did we cook in this pot? Lava?”
Once the sweeping is done, it’s time to mop. Mopping is not just pushing water around the floor, oh no. It’s an art form. My mum slides her foot across the tiles, testing for any rough spots. If she feels even the tiniest bump, you’ll hear, “Is this how you mop? Do you think I’m blind, eh, you think I cannot notice the dirt there eh?”
By now, it’s around 10 a.m., and I’ve swept, mopped, taken out the trash, and I’m beginning to question my life choices. Why was I born into this family? Surely I was switched at birth with some rich kid who doesn’t have to mop?
Then comes laundry. Ah, Saturday laundry. It’s not just a pile of clothes, it’s a mountain. Everyone dumps their clothes into the same bucket, and suddenly, I’m standing in front of a hill of shirts, trousers, and that one pair of socks that’s been fermenting in someone’s shoes all week. Arggghh!!! The stench alone could send me to early retirement.
“Use enough soap o! Scrub well!” Mum yells from the kitchen, still battling her immortal pot.
Meanwhile, my dad is outside, acting like the overseer of all things compound-related. He’s washing the car, sweeping the compound, and trimming the plants as if we live in a palace. I’ll never understand why sand on the ground bothers him so much. “If you don’t sweep the sand, how will people know we’re clean?” he says with so much seriousness, you’d think the President was coming to inspect the house.
And then there’s my little brother, Tunde. He’s perfected the art of disappearing during chore time. He’ll vanish for hours, only to reappear just when the hard work is done, with an innocent face. “Ah, you people are working? I didn’t even know! What can I help with?” That Yeye boy, do not mind him.
At this point, we’re all too tired to fight. “Oya, come and wash the last bucket of clothes,” I say, knowing full well he’ll find a way to make the water dirtier than the clothes. Very lazy Gen Alpha, Mtcheeewwwww.
By noon, the whole house smells like soap, disinfectant, and hard work. My legs are aching, my hands are pruny from washing clothes, and I’m starting to see mops in my dreams. But there’s one silver lining in this storm of chores: the reward. FOOD
Around 1 p.m., the smell of akara frying fills the air. Ah, akara! Those golden, crispy bean cakes are the light at the end of the tunnel. Mum starts mixing the batter, and soon, the kitchen is filled with the sound of sizzling oil. Then, she adds hot pap to the mix, and I swear, all my stress melts away. Nothing beats biting into fresh akara while sipping thick, steaming hot pap after a long morning of backbreaking chores.
But just as I sit down to enjoy my well-earned meal, my mum comes out of nowhere. “Who left that window like that? Didn’t you see the dust? Go and clean it before you eat. Or you think I will not see it eh”
I look at her with the most exhausted eyes I can muster, wondering how one person can have so much energy for spotting dirt. But I know better than to argue. I stand up, clean the window, and finally sit down to enjoy my akara and pap.
By 3 p.m., the house is spotless, we’re all fed, and for the first time that day, there’s peace. We sit around, laughing at Tunde’s escape tactics, talking about the week, and pretending that next Saturday won’t be just as chaotic.
But we all know deep down—it will be.
The End
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