Folks,

The following article  by Sue Arnold of The UK Independent newspaper makes
very interesting reading. The mere mention of the word LICE sent me down
memory lane to the days when it was very prevalent in The Gambia. Any way
enjoy it. I will give my own account of my numerous encounters and
experiences with these silly little buggers at the end of the article.

Have a good day, Gassa.


I'm reaping the profits of a life of grime

Head lice always go for clean hair, the teacher would say when another
itching epidemic broke out

Sue Arnold
29 June 2002


Housework, I keep reading, is the new sex. No wonder I'm so frustrated. But,
more to the point, what light does this shed on a new report claiming that
obsessive cleanliness can lead to an increase in asthma and eczema in
children. It's called the hygiene hypothesis and it works like this. Dirty
kids don't get ill because their systems are immune to bacteria whereas
squeaky clean kids who wear new clothes every morning and have baths every
night are more likely to pick up lurgi. Head lice always go for clean hair,
the headteacher of the children's primary school would say when another
itching epidemic broke out.

I remember a midwife in Argyle telling me about the night she was called out
to deliver a baby in the hippie commune whose assortment of broken-down
vehicles was parked in the local beauty spot known as Raspberry Lay-by. It
was a tip, she said, rubbish everywhere, dogs, filthy children running
around in bare feet although it was the middle of winter. The pregnant woman
was lying on a mattress in the back of a lorry and it took a while for the
midwife to get used to the all-pervading smell of wood smoke, sweat, wet dog
and spliff.

The baby was delivered, a strapping boy with lots of curly hair and all the
travellers and their children came in with presents and congratulations,
each dirtier than the last but all of them, recalled the midwife, rosy
cheeked and in the rudest of health.

I've never been averse to a bit of grime provided it isn't sticky and there
are no brown stains. I do not want to end up like my Auntie Vera, who would
follow you around the house with a dustpan and brush in case you dropped
crumbs.

Years ago when I picked up the kids from school, I had to walk pass a
terrace that was in the middle of being demolished. All that was left of the
houses were big Victorian doorways with crumbling pillars like a stage set.
Most of them were full of rubbish, but the one in the middle was also the
home of a bag lady called Big Bertha. She sat among the old boxes and broken
furniture, and sometimes she'd ask me for a light. What I remember chiefly
about Big Bertha was her peaches-and-cream complexion. She might have been
sitting on the terrace of a sanatorium in Switzerland breathing in pure
mountain air.

I'm sure the reason my older children were healthy when they were small
(only the two youngest had asthma and eczema) is that we never had an
official cleaner, apart from me, just a succession of 18-year-old live-in
mother's helps, some with babies of their own, whose rooms were even more
untidy than the rest of the house. It's so long ago I scarcely remember
their names, but Margaret from Yorkshire I shall never forget. She was a big
lass whose brief army career was cut short when she was impregnated by a
squaddie in the Welsh Fusiliers. She and baby Clare, whose feet at birth
were bigger than mine, were with us for 18 months, and though she was
meticulous about ironing shirts – they had to be in the army – she was
useless at housework. "If you have time Margaret," I'd say before leaving
for work, "I wonder if you could possibly wipe the sticky finger marks from
the bathroom door." "Wipe bloody door tha'self," Margaret would retort. "I'm
not tha' bloody slave." She reverted to her roots when roused.

But it was the mother's help whom we nicknamed Queen of Manners because she
taught the children to say "beg pardon" when they burped who started us on
the hygiene hype. She changed the children's clothes three times a day, the
discarded gear being thrust scarcely creased into the washing machine with
half a pound of assorted chemicals to enhance, retexture, whiten and soften.
No wonder the two smallest children ended up getting eczema. Their poor
little skins were also being retextured and enhanced.

I thought of the Queen of Manners last week when someone gave me a mail
order catalogue full of extraordinary cleaning gadgets. I wonder if it was a
hint. Bring a sparkle to your home it said. There were jumbo trays to soak
your greasy oven shelves and wire racks with fingers for storing rubber
gloves hygienically and miniature steam cleaners to burrow inside the sofa
cushions and tiny flexible brushes for getting right inside your bathroom
taps. I don't want to get inside my sofa cushions and bathroom taps thank
you.

Life's too short and besides, it's official: grime is good for you.

********************************************************************

Folks,

When I read Sue Arnold's piece on grime and lice, I recalled a conversion I
had with my thirteen old daughter about a couple of weeks back. She was
agitated because someone had used her shampoo withou her permission and was
being, a bit, shall we say, human? When I intervened telling her not to make
a big issue of it as it was most probably used by one of her brothers. She
retorted that nobody had any right using her shampoo without her permission;
these days everyone needs someone's permission to do anything. Anyway, I
conceded that she had a point, but added "why are you so upset with
something as trivial as shampoo?". She replied that it was for her dandruft,
I didn't know anyone had dandruft in the house. Anyway I thought I should
tease her by saying that she probably had lice. To my utter horror, this
girl does not know what a louse is. "Lan moye taigne?", she asked. Meaning
what is lice? What has happened to our world, I thought. What thirteen-year
wouldn't know lice? Anyway I tried my best to explain what lice are, but she
still didn't have a clue. I later gave up.

A few days of reflection compelled me to ask around if we still had lice
around. This is too important to just ignore, I said to myself. For a few
days, I asked anyone who cared to listen, about their encounter with lice.
Apparently, there seems to be none around these days. With all the chemicals
we use to wash our hair and some taking bath three or more times a day, one
can see that the lice had an uphill battle not to be exterminated.

Anyway, I just had to find out if indeed lice infestation is still prevalent
as it was when I was growing up. Funny enough, whereas young men and women
in their twenties do no know much about it and found discussing lice as very
trivial and irrelevant, this was not so with folks in their late thirties
and forties. With folks in this age bracket, it brought back fond memories
of years gone by. Some men would explain moments of embarrassement they've
had in class, when the silly little buggers would just go walk-about,
leaving their usual habitat and strolling down shirt collars in class until
someone sees them and snuffs the life out of them. They would explain how
ashamed they felt especially when some taunted them for it infront of their
girl friends.

My own experience with the silly little buggers is perhaps not very
different from some on the list. I just thought I would share it with you
and see if it reminds you of the good old days when the louse reigned
supreme in the hairs of many a fine young man/woman.

When "Afro" was "in thing" in the early 70s, some of us dared not grow our
hair too long. Our folks would just not understand why we also needed long
sprouting hair, dangerous high-heeled shoes (The Prince Nico Mbargas) or
trousers, the bottom of which just had to be as big as your cloth would
allow. In those days a visit to barber was a nightmare. Our barbers would
bring you face to face with the empire of lice in our hair and their nits.
Very embarrassing, if you ask me.

Then came the time when you defied everyone and grew your hair as long as
possible, brushing it down and putting on a wollen hats (Sumbuya), just in
case your hair wants to go waving at people when it was not yet time to do
so. You will see lice dropping off your hair as you rigorously brush your it
and also when you start to comb it straight. Ah, those days. In those days
life was very simple and nobody rushed anything. Girls were then really
showed boys what tenderness and love meant. They would buy or beg for a
piece of cotton cloth, around the edges of which the would crochet beautiful
designs and then crown it with the symbol of a human heart to with words
like "Sasago rek XYZ" (meaning your wish is my command).

However, our encounter with lice in those days was not all emabarrassment
and no excitement. Our interaction with lice was not also all gloom, gloom,
gloow. There was another aspect of it which brings back fond memories too.
For example, you would see ladies, after eating their afternoon meals,
picking out the silly little buggers from each other's hairs and little
children with protuding bellies with nothing to worry about. Certainly not
whether they will die of HIV/AIDS or some other exotic disease.

It was a very beautiful sight seeing our women folk go about this very
serious business of nit picking with utmost attention and care that only
women know how. You would see them meticulously snuffing the life out of the
silly little buggers. Even the nit wasn't spared! In those days nit picking
was really a sight to see.

When I told a friend that we really need some lice around, he was
bewildered. You can't be serious, he said. I don't know, I replied. On the
one hand I wouldn't want to go through the embarrassement of people picking
lice from my shirt collars when I do not want them to show their ugly heads
out or go through the constant scratching of one's head. However, one must
also admit that it helped foster good neighbourliness among our women folk.
How can you quarrel with your neighbour when you would need her after lunch
for nit picking? No! Nit picking did help foster good neigbourliness. It
also allowed kids to be kids without any hinderance. When nit picking is in
full swing, mums just do not care whether you climb the tree you were asked
not to climb or whether you are engaged in other naughty things like
smoking, gambling (Peps) or stealing fruits from a neighbour. No! These were
the good old days!!!!!

Have a good day, Gassa


There is a time in the life of every problem when it is big enough to see,
yet small enough to solve.    -Mike- Levitt-


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