653289528350

One afternoon, when I was around five years old, my gran left me at home for a few
hours to go run errands. I was lying on the floor in the bedroom, reading. I needed to go, but
it was pouring down rain. I was dreading going outside to use the toilet, getting drenched
running out there, water dripping on me from the leaky ceiling, wet newspaper, the flies
attacking me from below. Then I had an idea. Why bother with the outhouse at all? Why not
put some newspaper on the floor and do my business like a puppy? That seemed like a
fantastic idea. So that’s what I did. I took the newspaper, laid it out on the kitchen floor,
pulled down my pants, and squatted and got to it.
When you shit, as you first sit down, you’re not fully in the experience yet. You are not
yet a shitting person. You’re transitioning from a person about to shit to a person who is
shitting. You don’t whip out your smartphone or a newspaper right away. It takes a minute to
get the first shit out of the way and get in the zone and get comfortable. Once you reach that
moment, that’s when it gets really nice.
It’s a powerful experience, shitting. There’s something magical about it, profound even. I
think God made humans shit in the way we do because it brings us back down to earth and
gives us humility. I don’t care who you are, we all shit the same. Beyoncé shits. The pope
shits. The Queen of England shits. When we shit we forget our airs and our graces, we forget
how famous or how rich we are. All of that goes away.
You are never more yourself than when you’re taking a shit. You have that moment
where you realize, This is me. This is who I am. You can pee without giving it a second
thought, but not so with shitting. Have you ever looked in a baby’s eyes when it’s shitting?
It’s having a moment of pure self-awareness. The outhouse ruins that for you. The rain, the
flies, you are robbed of your moment, and nobody should be robbed of that. Squatting and
shitting on the kitchen floor that day, I was like, Wow. There are no flies. There’s no stress.
This is really great. I’m really enjoying this. I knew I’d made an excellent choice, and I was
very proud of myself for making it. I’d reached that moment where I could relax and be with
myself. Then I casually looked around the room and I glanced to my left and there, just a few
feet away, right next to the coal stove, was Koko.
It was like the scene in Jurassic Park when the children turn and the T. rex is right there.
Her eyes were wide open, cloudy white and darting around the room. I knew she couldn’t see
me, but her nose was starting to crinkle—she could sense that something was wrong.
I panicked. I was mid-shit. All you can do when you’re mid-shit is finish shitting. My
only option was to finish as quietly and as slowly as I could, so that’s what I decided to do.
Then: the softest plop of a little-boy turd on the newspaper. Koko’s head snapped toward the
sound.
“Who’s there? Hallo? Hallo?!”
I froze. I held my breath and waited.
“Who’s there?! Hallo?!”
I kept quiet, waited, then started again.
“Is somebody there?! Trevor, is that you?! Frances? Hallo? Hallo?”
She started calling out the whole family. “Nombuyiselo? Sibongile? Mlungisi? Bulelwa?
Who’s there? What’s happening?”
It was like a game, like I was trying to hide and a blind woman was trying to find me