I sighed and stepped outside, trying to catch the smallest hint of evening breeze. The heat in my apartment was unbearable. Suddenly, an uproar of cheers and cackles erupted from below. Irritated, I leaned over the railing, ready to scold everyone responsible – until I saw it.
Bubbles.
Just like that, I was eight years old again. That day, I threw a tantrum in front of my mother’s guests after she ordered me to wash the dishes everyone had used. She scolded me and insisted that as the last
born, I would still wash the plates whether I liked it or not. My elder sister Mofe – who had just returned from university and was ever the peacemaker – took my arm and marched me to the kitchen to help.
I filled a bowl, grabbed the detergent, and attempted to pour half of it in. Sister Mofe stopped me, pulled out a white bottle with green markings, and added just a little of the green liquid.
“It’s not enough,” I grunted, still smarting from the scolding. She chuckled and told me to prepare another bowl for rinsing.
“Why are you still frowning when I’m already helping you?” she asked. When she saw I wasn’t budging, she set down the plate and said, “come, let me show you
something.”
She took the dishwashing liquid, poured a little into her palm, rubbed her hands
together, then slowly pulled them apart. A perfect bubble floated between them. “Wowwww,” I exclaimed, my eyeballs nearly popping out of their sockets. “How did
you do that?” Sister Mofe just chuckled and said, “Let’s finish washing.”
Just then, Mother called out to her and she left. I side-eyed the two oily takeaway plates left to wash. With a heavy sigh, I lazily started scrubbing one, but to my surprise, the oil actually came off. I couldn’t believe it. I hurriedly finished and brought it to my nose; lemon fresh scent, not egusi. I rinsed off the suds, and just then, Sister Mofe returned.
I showed her the plate with excitement. “See! It’s not oily anymore.” She took it from me and inspected it carefully. “You’re right,” she said. “Powerful enough for the toughest grease, that’s Morning Fresh for you.” After the dishes, we made enough bubbles to last a lifetime.
Now, standing at the railing, watching kids giggle over bubbles of their own, a wave of nostalgia hit me. I sorely missed those days when I had my sister to share the care with me, and I didn’t have to deal with bills and adult responsibilities. I returned to my kitchen, faced the pile of dishes, and reached for the familiar bottle.
As the bubbles rose, I smiled and dialed my sister who now lived abroad.
“Bobo?” she answered, surprised but warm. “Long time!”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I’m doing dishes and… I remembered. The bubbles. That day you helped me.”
She laughed, that same light chuckle. “You mean the day you threw a tantrum and I had to bribe you with soap bubbles?”
“Exactly,” I said, already feeling lighter. “You made it easier. Less lonely.” There was a pause. Then she said, “Put me on video call.” I did. And there she was, smiling at me from across the ocean.
“Alright,” she said, dramatically rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s do this together. You
wash, I’ll supervise. Just like old times.” I laughed, really laughed, for the first time in weeks. As I poured the Morning Fresh onto the bowl of water and watched the bubbles rise, I realized something: care
wasn’t lost. It could still be shared, even from a distance.
“See?” Sister Mofe said, watching me work. “You’re not alone. You never were.”
And she was right. Because some things, like care, are always better when they’re shared. As Morning Fresh rolls out The Care We Share movement, I’m inviting you too. Show us the moments – big or small – where care is shared in your home. Share your stories, your bubbles, your memories. Follow @MorningfreshNG and join the conversations with the hashtag #TheCareWeShare
Because some things, like care, truly shine brighter when we do them together.
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