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There was a brief period in time when I was in was always in the nude. This was, however, very many years after my babyhood, when I was on the brink of manhood. Statements like this, of course, warrant explanation. When my brother and I were growing up, he was the clever, athletic, silver-tongued philanderer, who was perpetually in the spotlight, while I was always the clumsy, quiet, dark-haired one that shied away from attention of any sort. I was so shy, even in my own company that I’d never take my boxers off in the shower. It wasn’t until I hit puberty and my biological clock got the better of me that I felt it was time to investigate my private affairs. But even so, I was still shy and would have probably chosen to be on death row rather than take my shirt off in public. This was why the sudden change was not anticipated by anyone, myself included.

What I’m about to tell you might make a liar of me at best, and a delirious madcap at worst. I cannot ascertain the exact moment in time when this bizarre series of events began, but I’ve given it much thought ever since and I believe it all started when I grew into the clothes that were handed down to me by my brother. This included three shirts and two pairs of trousers, and not to forget the worn out black leather belt with half a buckle that would pitifully try to keep the belt fastened around my waist.

On this particular day, I believe I was wearing the khaki trousers and faded white tee with a distasteful brown stain on the front, which I usually concealed by tucking the tee as far down as I could into the trousers. As I was hastily shoving the white tee into my trousers, I heard what sounded like a yelp, like that of a puppy in pain. Convinced I was mistaken, I continued to tuck in the last bit of the tee that still hung out over the waistband of the trousers. That’s when I heard it again. I checked to see if my brother was hiding under my bed, although he hadn’t tried to scare me in that manner in very many years now. Puzzled, I plonked myself down on the bed, when a soft voice said, “Be gentler next time.” The voice seemed to come from inside my trousers. Could it be that my manhood was getting back at me for the years of neglect? I could’ve sworn I heard a snigger as I undid my zipper. I surely must be losing my mind but I didn’t want this to end badly. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to my crotch. “Don’t fret, love,” it replied.

What on earth was going on?! I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out, so I did the bravest thing my 15-year old self could do. I ran to my mother with my trousers around my legs, crying in her arms as I explained the conversation I’d had with my crotch. My mother’s eyes were full of worry and fear that her youngest son was insane, but she reassured me - although I suspect she was just trying to convince herself – that the hormones rushing through my lean teenage body were playing tricks on my mind. I wasn’t persuaded but I learnt quickly that I couldn’t tell anybody about what had transpired or what transpired thereafter.

I could distinctly identify at least five different voices that would make passing remarks every now and then, like “I don’t approve of your choice of cologne” and “Jesus Christ, you still need a bib! Stop dribbling sauce down your front.” Initially I thought the voices I was hearing were in my head. I reluctantly sought help, more for my mother’s sake than my own, but no amount of therapy and counselling seemed to help. Later I believed that weary ghosts were haunting me. One day, I even shouted out – Reveal yourselves, which was promptly answered with a chorus of laughter.

My sanity was restored a week later, in the strangest way imaginable, when my collared indigo shirt actually spoke to me. “Call me Regg,” he said. When at first he broke the news about my limited wardrobe being able to talk, I refused to believe a word of it. These words, after all, were being spoken by a collared indigo shirt, with mismatched buttons where the original ones had fallen off. Where I come from, we don’t really take their word for anything.

Regg, who had expected this reaction, was very patient and kind. Eventually, after I was past denial, the entire wardrobe had introduced themselves to me – Jiggens, the khaki trousers which rose up to a stark three inches above my ankles; Alfy, the once-solid blue pair of denims that had faded unevenly over the years and were actually in vogue now, which was more than I could say about the rest of my clothes; the white round-necked tee with the brown stain, Konew; and Dewer, the faded blue tee with a Space Invaders rubber print on the front that was peeling off around the edges. They apologized for having had fun at my expense all the while.

Regg, Jiggens, Alfy, Konew, and Dewer (who were now my gang), each had a personality of their own and they became the closest friends I’d ever had. Nobody else seemed to be able to hear them, and I’m glad they couldn’t because they could be mean at times. For instance, Konew once remarked that it was a good thing Big Stan’s trousers weren’t sentient because they would be screaming in agony every time he sat down. It was always a pleasure getting dressed for school in the morning and I was never lonely. They did worry about me a lot, like close friends would, when they realized that I hadn’t actually made any human friends at school by the age of 17, leave alone landed myself a girlfriend. They were the ones who encouraged me to talk to and eventually ask out my first girlfriend, Katy.

After our first date, the gang and I decided that she was the one. She was the complete opposite of me in that she was loud, funny, and confident. After much persuasion from the gang, I mustered the courage to ask her out on a few more follow-up dates and eventually asked her to be my girlfriend. That night there was a private party in my room, where the gang and I celebrated our collective victory. The first few weeks were blissful, but as is it goes with all stories, this is the part where everything begins to fall apart.

I was spending most of my time with her now and my clothes were seemingly starting to get a tad jealous. They weren’t the tiniest bit happy when I started shedding them and leaving them tangled up and unattended on the floor, every time I was alone with her in my bedroom. They couldn’t fathom why I paid them so little attention all of a sudden, why I didn’t confide in them as much, and why on earth I didn’t wish to be clothed in her presence. They felt like they were being replaced. In no time, their approval turned to distaste, which was then distilled into a potent concoction that comprised of two parts fury and three parts absolute hatred.

My relationship with them was perched precariously on thin ice as it was, but things definitely took a plunge when she decided that I didn’t have enough clothes and bought me a brand new Led Zep tee. She had officially declared war on them. They hated sharing the tiny wardrobe space with the tee. The first time I wore it would also be the last time I’d ever wear it because Alfy, my pair of denims, refused to co-operate. She made sure she was uncomfortably tight while I was seated in class and while walking down the hallway in school, I would find my jeans unbuttoned and they would drop down all of a sudden. I didn’t mind that I was ridiculed in school for weeks after that, but Katy sure did. She didn’t want to be seen with me in public anymore.

The solution to at least part of the problem was to get rid of the newcomer, so I threw the tee away against my will and with much loud cheering from the gang. It broke my heart because she’d given it to me and also because it was the coolest tee I’d ever owned (although I didn’t tell them this). What I didn’t foresee though, was that she would actually ask me to wear it for her a month later. She knew something was wrong when I was evasive and noncommittal about the whole situation. She took my evasiveness as a sign of my dying love for her. The mind of a teenage girl works in mysterious ways and I daresay that it carries on well into womanhood.

At this point, our relationship was already in jeopardy, but it still hadn’t hit rock bottom. To make it up to her, I asked her to spend an entire evening with me. After school that day, we went out for ice cream, took a leisurely stroll through the picturesque neighbourhood park, and got some coursework done before heading back to her place. Her folks weren’t home and such opportunities were never to be laid to waste. I remember her fumbling for her keys and the next thing we knew, we had crashed through the door and ended up making out madly on the floor. She then steered me to her room on the second floor landing, where we didn’t lose any time in getting undressed. It had been a great day and it could have ended on a perfect note, but it didn’t.

Livid and downright furious that I had shed them once again, Jiggens and Dewer started to wail unstoppably. She couldn’t hear them, of course, and I steadily ignored them. The wailing then turned to shrieking. ‘Shut up!’ I cried out, before stuffing them under the sheets. But this only incited them further. The howling soon became unbearable and in a moment of blind rage, I tossed them out of the window and watched with satisfaction as they landed with a muffled thump. By this time, my girlfriend was quite alarmed. Before she could say anything though, we heard voices in the living room and footsteps on the stairs. Terrified, she looked at me, then at the window, and mouthed that I should climb out. It wasn’t long before the neighbour’s four-year old son noticed that there was a boy climbing down the side of a house butt-naked, and his parents duly phoned the police.

That was the last time I ever saw Katy and after that entire fiasco, I definitely needed a break from verbose fabric of any kind. My parents worried about me when I refused to go to school for more than two weeks and lay naked in bed all day instead. Eventually, things started to look up and the gang and I could have normal conversations again without interminably awkward silences. We decided to put the past behind us and agreed that we had all acted rather immaturely. They joked about how I had outgrown them and that I’d need new ones soon, so I’d better hurry and find more girls. We were almost where we’d left off pre-girlfiend when all of a sudden, one day, I discovered that they talked no more. Nothing I said or did brought them back to life, so to speak. They just lay there, silent and lifeless. I might have outgrown my clothes but I never could and never did outgrow my best friends. For many months to come, I was as lonely and depressed as I’d ever been. I was forced to buy new clothes and needed space for them. My brother was with me when it was finally time to say goodbye. ‘They were good clothes,’ I said as I stifled a sob. ‘This isn’t goodbye,’ he said as he winked, ‘Just hand them down.’