God did not make me, He molded me. My hair was long and black like Uganda, my hairdresser would trim and tend to it with care. My eyes were set beautifully on my face, not too far from my hair line for my forehead to be five and not too close either for my face to appear longer than my neck.
My cheeks stood firm and full on each side, every time I smiled they would make me a Chinese descendant. My lips were generous and smooth like butter. My teeth gave a sense that I came from the Masai tribe but my height would betray me. My front gap was awed upon every time I would smile or talk gleefully which was rare.
My arms were to the fullest, like those women who prepare the best chapattis and tasty ugali. My bosom was stretched far and wide, I had complications if I skipped bra day. My tummy echoed the capacity of my behind, it would wobble each time I ran and I would feel it touch my boobs whenever I picked up pace. It had its companions to the side which made me perfect to hold.
I was well endowed like the women from the lake, I could feel my right cheek slap the left one whenever I walked and the passersby would ogle at their tenderness. My thighs were like thunder and would often get heat burns when I walked for a long distance. I loved how my body occupied space in a matatu, making the adjacent seat unbearable to incoming passengers.
I started getting a little thick when I was in class 8; my butt could not fit in the hipsters my mother bought for me and I started slipping in my older sister’s clothes. My confidence was always on steroids from the time I was very young, this is probably because I was generally smart or perhaps I watched too many Beyonce videos.
I might have been the most obnoxious in the class of ’08 but I couldn’t give two hoots. I remember my best friend (at the time) and I had boyfriends from the class ahead of us; I would deny each time I was prompted so as to encourage more suitors from that year. Life huh! I wonder how they turned out. I broke up with my boyfriend who was in class eight then through a note written Sanaipei’s lyrics of ‘kwaheri’. The savagery started early huh. I digress.
My hormones were raging and no scale could stop me. I graduated to high school and in a year, I had gone from 50kg to 68kg. I was thick, thick. I loved all my clothes round and all my food fried and the only green I knew was dollars. If I wasn’t busy eating, I was busy cooking. In high school all we fed on was junk food and food that was junk. My best friend Pingu and I were not short of high gluten, high cholesterol and high ‘you are two minutes from thinking about a gastric bypass’ kind of foods.
We would snack in the morning, snack at 10am, eat at lunch, eat at 5pm, snack at 6:30pm then eat again during prep time and again before bed. Every single day of our school life. Being in high school and weighing a little over 70kg is definitely a task but if your personality is thriving like your brains, no one can put you down perhaps a tsumo wrestler.
I did not like the way they looked at me. The high school girls. My fashion was impeccable. My face was well rounded. My hips were for the gods. They sneered, perhaps to make themselves feel better or to feel that sense of belonging we all crave for. To be part of something that inflicted pain onto others and avoid their own demise.
It did not quite bother me at first that they saw me through this negative lens, in fact it elevated me. I loved making females mad, I reveled. My confidence did not make sense to them and my whole demeanor was elusive to their hate.
I believed I was beautiful. It was enough. My arrogance was just as bloated as my body and I had no apologies. I mean why should I apologize for doing exactly what I loved at that point? Eat! I never gave anyone power to alter my self esteem, not even for a second. I would have one think twice about their ugly face before they stepped into my royal zone to call me ugly because I was thicker.
Upon reaching university, I went from Vera Saidika to Buda Monroe real quick. I never liked being small bodied, I loved how my clothes embraced my curves, I lived for my pillow thighs and wide chest, I loved how both my cheeks would dance each time I walked or made slight movements. I loved my body big, I loved my body wide and I loved it juicy. A true form of an African woman.
I was called ugly behind my back; I came to learn of this way after I had left high school. I wasn’t particularly bothered by it or by the people who uttered such negative words. More so because they were weak and couldn’t say it to my face and also they knew I would smack them like the slim pancakes.
Karma started showing up when thickness was glamorized, the same people who used such vile words against me started going to the gym. God is definitely hilarious, they posted pictures at an angle to implore they had that Vera Sidika effect but we all know you cannot walk in that angle on the streets. Their mat sized behinds did not take any form.
I didn’t mock them simply because there was no point but I watched their efforts, gave unsolicited advice as well. Whether I call you fat, ugly or skinny doesn’t add or subtract anything to my life aside from pain and resentment. I later on unfollowed each one of them, Karma had already b*tched.
The shape of your body really doesn’t matter one bit, I am not saying this because I have abs now (I don’t hehe). But looking back, I was confident more so arrogant when I was big bodied probably because I knew I would do well in a South African market. I am much more confident right now and less arrogant and spiteful.
Having lived on both sides of the scale, i learnt there is no point of being size 2, when your sins outweigh you and there is no point of being a size 10 if you will buy your own car, tesa kidogo. Your physical attributes are 2% of who you really are and there is so much more you can offer other than a pretty face and a tight body. Be happy with who you are, scale or no scale.