The Bedwetter and his Books

As a boy, I was a proficient bedwetter. Four out of seven days in the week I went on myself. This lasted for about four years until I was thirteen.  To tell you the truth I don’t know how or why I stopped, but the reason it started I strongly suspect began as a cry for help, since my mother and father were fighting all the time. They call it childhood trauma today. But in those days, a boy wetting his bed was no cause for real concern. People on the hill disliked doctors and hospitals to the point of death, preferring instead local remedies.   Take this one time:Meh partner Curt was showing off with the father cutlass and was chopping a coconut and by mistake nearly take off one of the fingers clean.  So, Curt run home to the mother bawling down the place and she wrap he cut finger with aloes and white bandage. And after two weeks past, Curt let he dog lick he cut and he went and take sea bath and wash the cut. And after a few weeks Curt finger fix for itself and he never went to the hospital.  Thankfully, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and so both Curt and I were promoted in the school of life, which is the purpose of this tale I am about to share. Early Saturday mornings, my mother would sort the family clothes as well as bedding on her way to down the hill to wash by the ravine.  One pleasant morning, I overheard her talking to herself, which she tended to do whenever she was upset. From the top bunk of the double-decker bed which I shared with my older brother by two years, she called three times. “Nigel.” “Nigel.” “Nigel.” I pretended to be asleep, avoiding the inevitable interrogation that was to come. Then before I could move a muscle there came a landslide of cuffs and donkey