It started as a joke. “What if I lived like a 17th-century peasant for a day?” I told my friends. They laughed. I laughed. But now, standing in the Lagos sun with sweat pouring down my face, clothes that smelled like an old history textbook, and skin that had officially filed for divorce, I realized—this joke had gone too far.
Peasant life was no joke. And I was about to learn that the hard way.

Hour 1: Say Goodbye to Soft Life
The first thing to go? Technology. My phone was off, Wi-Fi disabled, and my power bank hidden to prevent temptation. No running water, no electricity, and definitely no Uber.
By now, I should have been tending to a farm or something, but since I don’t own a farm (or basic gardening skills), I had to improvise. I fetched a bucket of water from the compound well, carrying it on my head like a proper villager. Five steps in, my neck cracked like cheap Chinaware. Lagos gym bros, come and see your mate.
At this point, even my guardian angel was shaking their head like “who send you message?”
Hour 4: The Food Crisis Begins
17th-century peasants didn’t have Indomie or peppered turkey. What did they eat? Gruel. What is gruel? Depression in food form.
I attempted to make my own version. Some horrific mix of cornmeal and water that looked like cement and tasted like regret. I took one spoonful and my tongue threatened to resign.

At this point, I had two options: continue suffering or cheat. I chose a third—beg my neighbor for real food. The problem? I had to stay in character.
“Good maiden,” I said, knocking on her door. “Might you spare some rice for a humble servant of fate?”
She slammed the door in my face. Lagos people don’t have time for nonsense.
Hour 8: The Clothing Struggle
Peasants in the 1600s wore layers. Long tunics, rough wool, and fabrics that felt like sandpaper. I wrapped myself in something similar (read: my old ankara and a curtain I repurposed as a cloak). Within minutes, I was sweating more than a BBNaija finalist on eviction night.
Then, the real horror struck: NO DEODORANT.
Let’s just say… the air around me became a personal hostage situation.
Hour 12: The Social Experiment Goes Wrong
Deciding to take my peasant experience to the streets, I walked into a supermarket in full medieval attire. My goal? Buy food using 17th-century negotiation skills.
“Good sir,” I said to the cashier. “Wouldst thou accepteth a trade of service for this fine loaf of bread?”
He blinked twice. “Oga, you go pay or not?”
Lagos is not ready for time travelers.
Hour 18: My Skin Has Given Up
Without soap, my skin had officially entered its villain origin story. My pores? Clogged. My sweat? Marinating like party jollof. The mosquitoes in my room? Treating me like an all-you-can-eat buffet. I looked in the mirror and saw a face that had seen war.
I tried to self-care the medieval way, washing with just water. My skin laughed in “Ehn? You think say you fit play me?” and gifted me two fresh pimples for the plot.
Hour 24: The Unexpected Plot Twist
Just when I thought I had survived the worst, my Nigerian mother walked into my room, took one sniff, and said, “So na like this you wan live life?”
I tried to explain my peasant experiment. She didn’t care. Before I could blink, I was holding a broom. “Go and sweep this compound, medieval peasant.”
Final boss level unlocked. Experiment officially OVER.
Outro: What I Learned from This Madness
By the time the 24th hour struck, I ran back to my phone, hugged my Wi-Fi router, and bathed like I was trying to erase my past mistakes. The smell? Unforgivable. The trauma? Generational.
Lesson learned: our ancestors were built DIFFERENT.
Would I do this again? No. Should you try it? Also no. But if you do, let me know in the comments so I can laugh at your pain.
Hey Luv, Waitttttttt. Feel More Crackko Vibe:
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