The Thing I Did in the Ladies Washroom- Freedom Hall

Freedom Hall – Dekut

I was having exams in one of the rooms in the school of business when the liquid in my bladder decided that it wanted some fresh air. Meanwhile, some challenging questions I had never seen or heard of were heavily sitting on me.

So, I decided to negotiate with my bladder, promising to go pee as soon as the lecturer with wide-opened eyes and standing guard at the door like a Russian KGB could let me walk out of the door. Seated there, I could feel the angry liquid in the bladder boil furiously, burning the neighboring nerves with a hot sensation. As a result, my tiny feet were wobbling down the lonely locker, hitting the cemented floor like clattering teeth in winter.

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After staring at me like an FBI agent in Moscow, the firm, stern-looking, and chameleon-eyed lecturer at the door could not contain my fidget. Perhaps he was afraid that I had a tik-tok bomb between my legs about to explode. He walked towards me without blinking or turning to check where he was stepping. And true to his guess, the liquid in my bladder was already breaking out, forcing its way through my pressed tubes, leaving a mark on my tight pair of trousers.

Like a robot, he signaled me to walk out, nodding his head clumsily like it was fixed on the neck with Chinese screws. Before I could make a move, he whispered to me, the way demons whisper to a human being who have decided to go and find out the secrets of a cave in the abandoned Amazon do.

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“You have one minute; otherwise, you will have to calculate the flow rate of your pee to the head of the department.” Not loud, but the threat in that statement is enough to make you wish 2020 was full of zombies and ghosts and not a lethal virus.

 I jumped out of the lonely bench, thanks to social distancing rules, and ran helter-skelter to the washrooms situated in the freedom hall building. The staircases to the floor where the washrooms are located seemed as long as the way to heaven, I was just halfway, and my panting could confuse a village girl with an old Mersey Furggerson tractor.

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I was just about to jump through the door leading to the gents’ washroom when I collided with a man with a broom and a bucket. The man toppled over his soapy bucket before getting hold of my shoulder for support. You can imagine how his plastic gloves that were washing the toilets did to my shirt. The liquid in my bladder had already kept quite a little bit. Half a minute was already over, and here I was, exchanging looks with a scared or angry janitor.

Like the lecturer in my exam room, the janitor signaled me to the ladies’ washroom on the opposite side of the scene of the collision. I shouted a thank you and a sorry, confused like the guy seated a bench in front of me in the exam room. I guess he had been moonwalking on the night to the exams because his answer booklet as empty as my mind before a thermodynamics exam.

Anyway, I turned around, wondering whether the ladies’ washrooms had a separate place for the liquid pee and solid poo. On my way in, I met two big eyes on the hallway, with huge mascara and long but fake eyebrows staring at me like two electric torches in the dark. The eyes belonged to some lady who was finishing her make up when a person of Adam’s family decided to bother her self-admiration.

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Minding my own business, I smiled off and pushed the door to the first washroom as there was no separate place to pee. Hurriedly, I zipped out for the guy so he could let out whatever he had for the day. No sooner had I started to pee than the bowels in my intestines decided it was time for them to be dropped where they belonged. If you have never had to do it, ask me how hard it is to stop peeing midway so you can do something else, like drop-down your pants to poo. It is the hardest thing to coordinate, somehow painful.

I dropped my pants anyway, slightly peeing on myself. I turned around and sat on the white dishes, letting both my intestines and my bladder as free as a tired Nyekicha matatu on a steep slope.

It was already one-minute plus, and the lecturer must have been thinking of how much the bladder of a scared comrade can hold. I pulled out a don’t-care face, enjoying the relief that comes while helping yourself in the washrooms. It was a relief not only to my pressing systems but also to the damned questions back on my lonely bench.

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It took me approximately 240 seconds on the toilet seat. There was no way I was going to walk out unrelieved. So, I pulled up my pair of pants and belted them against my wait, zipping up. I braced myself, hoping that there would be no lady in the hallway, or I would be used to make memes about a confused freshman that I am not.

When I was sure I was about to go, I turned around to flush down the stuff in the toilet dish. I pressed the silver push-button on the wall so that the magical water systems could flood the toilet dish and wash away my sins. Usually, the silver push-button goes inside with some kind of resistance. Unlike this one that sunk into itself like one that is broken. I pushed again. It responded with a rough voice which meant two things:

  1. Buddy, I am broken; deal with it.
  2. Hey you, there is no water for me to offer, suit yourself.

That was the moment I realized that problems have a tendency to flow in numbers when one trouble sets foot in your home. I glanced at the ugly stuff down there and looked away. Suddenly, there was knocking at the door. I did what I had to do.

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When Walking Away is The Only Option

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Author Allan

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