Even as an adult today, I often think back to my secondary school days, the tales of how I washed my uniform very early in the morning, it wasn't that I couldn't do it the previous day, it had just become a habit I adopted more or less and felt comfortable with it. I can remember I did it more than a thousand times in secondary school. 

Washing my uniform late and looking for shortcuts to dry it before school. It was a routine, a risky game, but somehow, I always found a way to pull through until the day everything changed.

Back then, I had a system. We had a bakery in our compound, so I’d wash my uniform, then hang it by the oven door. While I washed plates and bathed, the heat would work its magic. By the time I was done, my uniform would be dry and crisp, no ironing needed. The only downside? I smelled like fresh bread every single day. 

My classmates would often joke that I belonged in a bakery instead of a classroom, but at least I never went to school in a wet uniform. On the days when the bakery method wasn’t an option, I had a backup plan our washing machine. I’d throw my uniform in at exactly 6 AM, and as soon as it was done, I’d toss it into the dryer while my mom was still dressing in her room. The plan was foolproof. Until the morning our transformer blew up.

That day, I stood there in shock as the power cut off just when I was about to start the dryer. My uniform was dripping wet. My mom found out, and before I could even think of an excuse, she beat the living daylight out of me. But the worst part wasn’t the beating it was having to wear that wet, dirty uniform to school. I walked into class looking like I had just escaped from a flood. That was a lesson I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Another time, I got impatient. My uniform wasn’t drying fast enough, so I had a bright idea iron it dry. Big mistake. I pressed the iron too long in one spot, and before I knew it, there was a huge burnt hole right in the middle. 

My heart dropped. That was my only uniform.

I tried to cover it up by tying a cardigan around my waist, but my teacher wasn’t having it. She made me remove it, and the whole class erupted in laughter. For an entire week, I was the school’s biggest joke. Secondary school students are wicked.

But for all my near disasters, none of them truly changed me until that Monday morning after mid-term break. That morning, I was back to my usual nonsense, searching for my uniform in a pile of dirty clothes. I searched everywhere, panic rising as the minutes ticked by.

For some strange reason, my dad hadn’t left for work early that day. He just sat there, watching me, saying nothing. I was trying my best to be discreet, but after an hour of aimless searching, he finally called me over.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t scold me. He simply asked me, in a way that made lying impossible. So I confessed.

Then, without a word, he walked over to his personal luggage, opened it, and brought out my uniform washed, starched, and ironed.

I didn’t know what to feel. Happiness, shame, gratitude all of it hit me at once. My dad had quietly done what I had failed to do for myself. That day, something changed in me. That was the last time I ever indulged in the habit.