The trousers I wore confidently, came apart in a party, nine years ago.

It ripped from the crotch

upwards, taking the trail on the back rise, almost reaching the belt loop.

I had just finished giving a wonderful speech and there's a roar of applause as I bowed.

I turned to take my second and last bow to the dignitaries seated behind me. As I placed my hand across
my chest and bent, I heard the slash of my trousers behind as it ripped from the middle and the
applause stopped dead and the room became like a graveyard.

Then a gentle breeze blew across the room, chilling the skin of my butt as if it's giving me two gentle
reminders, in case I didn't know: that I wore no underwear and the skin of my butt in public glare.

When I was told to prepare for the speech I simply told my mum to get me new clothes. Simple. I
thought we were rich.

She kept silent on me for some days but I didn't get the message, so I reminded her again. She told me
that I'd manage the ones I had, but she didn't tell me it's because she's poor, so I still didn't get the
message, so I pressed more.

Then, seeing that I may never get the idea, at least not now, she told me there's no more trousers in the
market (and I believed her). I didn't think there's a possibility of lack in the world. I wasn't aware of
poverty or responsibility.

You see, many things have changed since I moved. For example, toothpaste and bread no longer
appeared from nowhere like they use to do when I lived with mum. I had to buy both with real money. I
spend those rubbers everyday and I think they affect the flow of my blood, each time those notes leaves
my pocket. I didn't know this is how it'd be. Adulthood.

I started to appreciate food more. I became more frugal with the paste so it'd last longer, even a day. I
appreciated life and mum and provision and God. The weight of responsibility sat upon any gibber that'd
attempt to escape from my mouth. It slurred my gait and kept my right hand inside my pocket. Like a
gentle man.

Adulthood.

I was free as a child, with no sense of responsibility or inferiority to rich kids or anybody because I didn't
know we weren't like them, that there's anything like class, and we were below. I didn't know we were
poor. 

So, on the day, I wore my old trousers to the party, confidently. I didn't know the reason I wore it was
scarcity of money in our pocket, not cloth in the market. I thought mama could get me any dress if only
there were still clothes in the market.

My outfit that was tight and this affected my gait — those clothes had become undersized. They were
gotten for me three years before.

But the tightness didn't suffocate my confidence.

The seams were loose, so I took on a tentative gait. The bowtie was tied round my neck and I felt like a
goat, not like Messi or Ronaldo. The goat I mean here is the goat that you know before the world cup
messed things up for us. I mean Christmas goat.

Call me naive. I didn't know the basic things about many things, like the fact that a girl could love a guy,
and that a handful of them in my church and home already did to me. I thought they were just human
beings. 

I didn't care for an underwear. (Mama hid the need for that for the sake of economy). Or to be
consistent in licking my lower lip until it turned red so teenage girls would love me.
However, I remained consistent in breathing in and out. That's the easiest thing in life I knew how to do.
I focused on food and sleep and church. And I didn't know I appeared like a fool to the world. I lived
inside my head.