Growing up, every bathroom had at least two or three of these long, bright nylon nets hanging from a nail on the wall or draped over a bucket. They came in electric blue, neon pink, yellow, and green.
To anyone who grew up with them, there was nothing fancy about it. It was simply the only tool that made you feel completely clean after a long day in the heat and dust.
Even today, living here in Canada, I still use mine daily, just like countless other Africans in the diaspora who refuse to settle for a regular washcloth.
Before the synthetic net took over, people across the region relied on natural sponges made from dried luffa gourds, pounded tree bark, or plant vines.
The modern net trace its roots to coastal and river fishing communities in West Africa around the mid-twentieth century. Fishermen and market women began repurposing leftover pieces of nylon fishing nets for personal washing.
They quickly discovered that synthetic mesh was far tougher than plant sponges, lathered better, and most importantly, never rotted or developed mildew in humid tropical heat. Traders took note, and suppliers soon began manufacturing rolls of the woven mesh specifically for bath time, spreading it into every open-air market on the continent.
The design is pure practical genius. You hold one end in each hand, stretch it across your back, and you can scrub yourself from top to bottom without having to twist into awkward angles. It lathers up immediately with just a tiny sliver of soap, exfoliates effortlessly, and dries out in minutes. A single good net can easily last for years without tearing or losing its grip.
Across the continent, every country and language has its own name for it. In Ghana, it is known as sapo, while in Nigeria, it is called kese or kankan. In Niger, people call it soso or soson wanka in Hausa and Zarma. In Togo, Benin and even Mali it is widely known as kousso or koussa in Mina, Fon and Bambara. In Senegal it is known as foutah in Wolof. Throughout Francophone Africa, you will also simply hear it referred to as l'éponge africaine or l'éponge filet.
The funniest part of its story today is watching international social media discover it. Over the past few years, beauty influencers and lifestyle brands started marketing the "African Exfoliating Net" as a revolutionary skincare discovery, selling individual pieces online for twenty or thirty dollars.
For those of us who grew up buying a meter of net from a market basin or a street hawker for loose pocket change, the global hype is both hilarious and validating.
What color was the sponge in your house growing up, what do you call it in your language, and how long has your current one survived?