I wonder what life would be like if you don't bed wet as a teenager!

Your mum won't ask you to urinate on some ashes and red coals just before going to bed like I did yesterday night. And, you'd have all the freedom of visiting friends and relatives without fear of soaking anyone's bed in your urine. That is my wildest dream right now!

My dad, who also went through the same thing as a kid even when he was older than I am right now, thinks it is quite normal for that to happen, as opposed to mum who makes mornings after every crisis seemingly unbearable.

There is not much to blame her for, matter of fact is, I also despise the odour that comes from my bed once it is dried in the sun later in the day. My room stinks, which is why I fear my friends visiting and checking it out. Dad once said it smells like lafun, (a cassava flour used for making Amala, common Yoruba swallow) and in all honesty, dad is right! This is the reason I hate eating Amala to bed at night.

But, not eating the innocent swallow hasn't stopped it either. At some point, I began to think that these constant bed wetting is an attack from the devil, and because of that, I always have just one more prayer to make before going to bed.

Yesterday night, we were standing before the fireplace where we cooked large meals since the hike in kerosene prices got higher.

Whoever told my mum that urinating on the ashes would keep me safe that night didn't think about me. As a girl would, I bent before the ashes and sparkling red coals, forcing out the damn urine I knew wasn't anywhere near just to satisfy my mama.

For the 'one thousandth' time, I wished I don't bed wet and won't have to go through this. Nonetheless the urine had to come out, even if it was just some few dramatic drops. It must give my mum an impression that I would stop bet wetting for good.

At night, I slept like a baby, free of worries and thoughts of waking up in a pool of my own lafun-smelling urine. After all, I had done the needful, even if it was just superstitious.

I was still enjoying sleep, the feeling of swimming in a pool enveloped me and then it felt as if a shark had just bitten me.

I jerked back to life, panting as I looked for the shark in my pool. Mum's voice distracted me. Suddenly, she landed another hot slap on my buttocks, and kept shouting about my wetting the bed again, how she didn't know what to do about me anymore, how I wasn't even ready to change, and I was a dirty, smelly, and immature girl.

Looking down at my bed sheets, I couldn't hide the tears that kept flowing. It had happened again. I felt like the worse thing that ever walked the earth. I couldn't quantify my uselessness in figures, let alone qualify it in words.

Mum watched for a while. She had it all on her face that she was fed up of it. Some few seconds passed and she concluded on the best punishment for me. She thought I wasn't intentional about not bed wetting anymore. I wanted to scream and tell her that I was more fed up than anyone. If there was a way I could stop it, I'd do it. I promise.

She asked me to carry my bed out and pack the sheets alongside. I guessed the odour came to her as I passed by, she ordered me to remove my clothes and go out like that. Did my mum just say go out naked?!

My mama said a 13 year old girl still bed wetting didn't deserve the privacy of being clothed in the morning when the street was buzzing with people who wanted to finish their chores before going out!

With another hot slap on my urine-washed-and-smelly body, she led me outside, into the hands of Leke, one guy I've always had my eyes on in the street. Damnit!

Now, it was not the urine that pained me anymore. It was how I acted as if I'd never seen him in my entire life. Later, when I told my big brother that Leke told his friends of the horrible sight and made jest of me, my brother said such a guy didn't deserve my attention!

Hating on Leke seemed the best thing I could do at the moment. Although, that didn't stop my heart from beating fast when his name was mentioned. My sister would say, 'life no hard, Deola, na you wan form bigger girl, after all, you're just 13'.

But, at this age, I already know the difference between putting in your best and certainly not knowing what to expect. I've been faced with this multiple times, when giving your contribution becomes a sin under the law of perfection because you are not near being perfect.

That moment when you fear the society discovering whom you really are, therefore, shutting everyone out of your life, away from the shame and guilts you don't owe anyone, but for some reasons unknown, you have to go through it all. At 13, I already know how deep the voice of condemnation hits, eating into your bones like a terminal disease.

'It is not your fault', I have said that to myself countless times, nonetheless, if wishes were horses, and perhaps I, Deola, were a beggar, as I probably am right now in the familiar faces of night and urine, I'd ride.

However, if I ever stopped bed wetting, I am certain that my life will be better.

Not Your Fault.