It all started when my rich cousin, Kwame, invited me to spend the weekend at his new apartment in East Legon. Now, if you know anything about East Legon, you know that place is not for people like me who think fan milk is a luxury. But I was excited. A weekend away from the heat, the mosquitoes, and the neighbors who blast gospel music at 4am? Count me in.
When I arrived, Kwame was waiting for me in front of a tall building that had a gate so big, I thought it was a small airport. He hugged me, clapped my back like I owed him money, and took me upstairs. As soon as I entered his room, I felt something strange. The air was cool. Too cool. It wasn’t breeze from a fan. This was something else. Something... powerful.
I looked up and there it was. The thing I had only seen in banks and rich people’s churches. An air conditioner. It was blowing cold air like it was personal. I stood there, arms open, eyes closed, just enjoying it. Kwame laughed and said, "Bro, that one diɛ is AC. Relax."
Relax? Me? How can I relax when cold air is blowing from the sky like blessings?
We chilled, we talked, we ate pizza (my first time, by the way — I didn’t know how to hold it so I used a fork), and then bedtime came. Kwame said goodnight and left me in the guest room.
And there it was again — another AC, standing proud on the wall like a king. I smiled like I just saw my crush. I was ready for this. Or so I thought.
I jumped on the bed, pulled the blanket over me, and faced the AC. I wanted to enjoy every second. I even took a selfie with it. I set the remote to 16 degrees because I thought the lower the number, the more enjoyment.
Biggest mistake of my life.
At first, it was lovely. The room was cool. My body felt relaxed. I even started dreaming about being on a beach drinking coconut. But then, somewhere around 2am, I woke up.
My teeth were dancing. My fingers were frozen. My lips were blue.
I looked around and saw mist coming from my mouth. I thought I had died and was now a ghost.
I jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror. My eyes were red. My nose was running like Usain Bolt. I tried to cover myself with the blanket but even the blanket was cold.
I crawled to the AC remote. My fingers were shaking like I had malaria. I pressed all the buttons. Nothing changed. I even tried to talk to the AC: "Please, I beg, I’m not your enemy. Off yourself."
Still nothing.
I finally pulled the plug from the wall. The room became quiet. No breeze. Just me and my frozen soul.
I put on all my clothes — jeans, hoodie, socks, even a woolen hat I found in Kwame’s drawer. I looked like I was going to Canada. Then I wrapped myself in the blanket and lay back down.
Morning came. Kwame knocked on the door and came in.
He saw me dressed like a polar bear and screamed, "Ei! What happened to you?"
I said, "The AC tried to kill me."
He laughed so hard he nearly fell.
He showed me how to use the remote properly. Apparently, you don’t need to set it to 16 degrees. 24 or 25 is okay. Also, there’s something called a "sleep mode."
Sleep mode? Where was that when I was dying?
That day, I learned a very big lesson: AC is not fan. It’s not play. It’s not small boy thing.
Respect the AC or the AC will humble you.
From that day, anytime I go somewhere with AC, I sit far from it. I cross my arms. I act like I don’t even like cold air.
Because me, I’ve been there. I’ve fought with the AC and I lost.
But it was still the best sleep of my life — after I wore three trousers and a winter jacket. 😀😂
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