Japan Is Trying to Cook Me Alive!

I always believed I understood hot weather.

I grew up in Cameroon, so I have spent plenty of time under an unforgiving sun. I know what heat feels like. I know what sweat feels like. I know what it means to stand outside and immediately regret wearing clothes that require ironing.

So when I moved to Japan, I wasn't particularly worried about summer.

How bad could it be?

Very bad?

Apparently, Japan looked at me, looked at my previous experience with hot weather, and said:

“Cute. You think you know heat.”

My first mistake was leaving the house one afternoon thinking, I'll only be out for a little while.

That sentence has probably ruined more lives than we realize.

I stepped outside.

The heat hit me immediately.

Not gently or politely though.

It felt very personal.

The air wasn't simply hot. It was thick, heavy and wet.

It felt like someone had wrapped the entire neighborhood in a warm, damp blanket and then decided nobody was allowed to remove it.

I stood there for a few seconds, reconsidering every decision that had brought me outside.

Then I started walking.

Five minutes later, I was sweating terribly.

Ten minutes later, my back and face was dripping hot sweaty water!

Fifteen minutes later, I had stopped pretending I was okay.

I wasn't walking anymore.

I was surviving.

At some point, I passed a person riding a bicycle.

They looked completely normal.

I stared at them.

How?

How are you cycling?

Why are you smiling?

Are you even human?

I wanted to stop them and ask for their secret.

Instead, I continued walking while my body slowly turned into soup.

Then came the sun.

Japanese summer sun doesn't simply shine.

It seems to watche and wait.

It finds the one tiny patch of exposed skin between your sleeve and your umbrella and attacks it fiercely.

I began carrying an umbrella everywhere.

It wasn't because it was raining.

Simply put, I had entered a new phase of my life where an umbrella was no longer a rain accessory.

It was survival equipment.

People would see me walking around with an umbrella under a perfectly clear sky.

I didn't care.

Let them judge me.

They were not the ones being roasted.

At this point, I had also developed a new relationship with air conditioning.

Before Japan, air conditioning was something I appreciated.

Now?

Air conditioning was family.

Air conditioning understood me.

Air conditioning had never disappointed me.

I started planning my day around places with air conditioning.

Need to buy something?

Convenience store.

Need to think?

Convenience store.

Need to emotionally recover from walking outside?

Convenience store.

Sometimes, I would walk into a convenience store without even knowing what I wanted.

I just needed to feel the cold air hit my face.

The automatic doors would open.

Cold air.

Instant relief.

I would stand there for a few seconds pretending to browse drinks while my body returned to its original temperature.

Then I'd walk out and immediately regret leaving.

At some point, I realized I had started doing something completely ridiculous.

I would check the weather app before deciding whether to leave my apartment.

Not just the temperature.

Everything.

Humidity.

Feels-like temperature.

UV index.

Wind.

Chance of rain.

At this point, I wasn't checking the weather.

I was conducting a risk assessment.

If the temperature was 32°C, I would say:

“Okay. I can manage.”

If it said 34°C:

“Maybe later.”

35°C:

“Absolutely not.”

And then I discovered the phrase “feels like.”

Whoever invented that feature was both helpful and cruel because 33°C is one thing.

But when your phone says it feels like 39°C, you suddenly feel betrayed.

Feels like?

Feels like what?

Feels like the inside of an oven.

Feels like I should be baked with vegetables.

Feels like I need to apologize to my ancestors for leaving the house.

Eventually, I stopped asking whether I could go outside.

I started asking whether what I needed outside was worth dying for.

This became especially difficult when I had errands.

I would sit on my bed thinking:

“I need to go to the supermarket.”

Then I'd look outside.

No.

I didn't need food that badly.

I could survive.

Maybe.

I started doing mental calculations.

If I leave at 7 p.m., will the sun still be angry?

If I wait until 8 p.m., will it be cooler?

If I go at 9 p.m., will the supermarket still be open?

If I order everything online, will I ever have to leave the apartment again?

These were no longer ordinary life decisions.

This was strategy.

One evening, I finally decided to go outside because I had something important to do.

I showered, put on clean clothes, fixed my hair and looked in the mirror and thought:

Okay. You look good.

I left my apartment.

Seven minutes later, I looked like I'd just completed a three-hour workout.

My hair had surrendered.

My clothes were sticking to me.

My face was shining.

The person who had left the apartment seven minutes earlier was gone.

I had been replaced by a tired, sweaty version of myself who was simply trying to reach civilization.

Then I made the mistake of looking at my reflection in a shop window.

I stopped.

Who was that woman?

She looked exhausted and betrayed.

She looked like she had personally been involved in a disagreement with the sun.

I almost went back home.

But I had already walked too far.

So I continued and this is where the heat began affecting my judgment because when you're hot enough, you start making questionable decisions.

For example, you start believing that buying another cold drink will solve your problems.

So you buy one.

You drink it and feel better.

Then, you see another cold drink and buy that one too.

Soon you have become financially irresponsible in the beverage aisle.

At one point, I seriously considered buying one of those tiny portable fans.

Not because I needed one but because I had reached the stage where anything producing air seemed like a good investment.

Fan?

Yes.

Ice pack?

Absolutely.

Cold towel?

Give me two.

Portable air conditioner?

How much?

Air-conditioned helmet?

Take my money.

I was becoming desperate.

Then came the evening when I finally accepted the truth.

I could not defeat summer.

I had been approaching this all wrong.

I had been trying to beat the heat.

The heat did not want to be beaten.

It wanted respect.

So I gave it respect.

I stopped fighting.

I went home.

I turned on the air conditioner.

I closed the curtains.

I drank something cold.

I sat down.

And I did absolutely nothing.

For the first time all day, I felt human again.

Then I made one final mistake.

I opened my phone and checked tomorrow's forecast.

36°C.

I stared at the screen.

Then I checked the “feels like” temperature.

41°C.

I slowly put my phone down, sad.

There are moments in life when words fail you.

This was one of them.

I looked at my air conditioner.

It looked back at me.

We both knew what tomorrow meant.

I was staying inside.

Whatever happened outside could happen without me.

Earthquakes?

Good luck.

Traffic?

Not my problem.

Unexpected social interaction?

Even better.

If the apocalypse arrived tomorrow, I would consider watching it through the window because at this point, I had learned an important lesson:

There is a difference between being brave and being unnecessarily available to the weather.

I came to Japan thinking I was experienced with heat.

I was wrong.

Cameroon taught me how to live with heat.

Japan taught me how to respect it.

Now every summer, when I step outside and immediately feel my soul leave my body, I remind myself:

I don't need to prove anything.

I don't need to be strong.

I don't need to “push through.”

Sometimes the smartest thing a person can do is to simply turn on the air conditioner, close the curtains, grab a cold drink and whisper:

“Not today, Satan. Not today...” because honestly?

It's too hot for this.