My form is wrought in steel, encased in iron, 
Unbreakable, as only you can know.
All my days, I hide my silent fear.
From mountains, I yell my pain.
But inside, nobody knows, nobody sees.
When the moon is out, I pray.
I long for my love whose heart is strong,
whose hands are firm,
whose shoulders are broad enough
to hold my tears
and not be afraid when I cry.
Yesterday, I was standing on Ngong Road waiting for a City Shuttle that would take me to Ambassaduer. I don’t like to drop at Railways because the noise there is confusing and I find crowds scary unless I’m on a high podium with a microphone … and a stick. Several matatus went by, trying to convince me to get in. One matatu was large, black, and beautifully painted. I heard it before I saw it, so I didn’t pay much attention. Call me old fashioned, but I can’t handle noisy boof-twaf matatus.
Since I wasn’t planning to get in, I didn’t look at the makanga while he made his ‘climb on’ pitch. I guess the fact that I wouldn’t look at him pissed him off, because as the vehicle roared off, he told me I was ugly. His exact words were, ‘Na vile unakaa mbaya…‘ Any other words were masked by the noise.
I’m used to this kind off treatment, but it still stings. I had a bunch of border thugs try to grope me once, and when I resisted, they called me a filthy cinder girl. Verbatim, ‘Wewe ni mweusi kama makaa na hutaki kuguswa?’ It stung that time too.
I feel a bit like that today. I’m dealing with somebody who has taken advantage of me, and he has done it in the worst possible way, because he has abused my mind.
For me, my talent and my intellect are my greatest skills, so it stings me really hard when a person misuses them. I stood up to this bully, and instead of backing down, he abused me even further. It’s like he put his huge foot on my neck and said ‘Utado?‘
I feel helpless to fight this person, because every weapon I use is turned against me. The argument is being arbitrated, and I might still get my happy ending, but right now, I feel pretty bummed.
I’ve heard lots of stories of a man who pursued a woman, and when she rejected him, he called her ugly and worthless and squashed her self esteem. This way, she was free of him, but she doubted herself in all future relationships. It mostly happens to nice, polite girls who are likely to believe it. The tougher ones would bite you if you tried.
And girls do it too. You break up with a man, or he decides he doesn’t want 
you, and you retaliate by talking lots of ish about his man-size. I suppose all this is simply human nature, but you know what? Human nature sucks.
At work, a supervisor may harass you, sexually or otherwise. You may be victimized for your taste, style, orientation or religion. You may take the guy to court, report him to the authorities, talk to the disciplinary board, maybe even get him fired. But then the rest of management may label you a saboteur, a troublemaker, or an inciter. You might keep your job, but you may face a lot of subtle hostility. Colleagues may suddenly refuse to work with you because they’re afraid you’ll tattle. Managers may not want you on their team. You won, but you still lost.
I suppose it’s a bit like monolization. There was a #MonoTasks trend on Twitter a few days back. It detailed the types of ‘exercise’ that Form One students get from older kids. The idea behind monolization is to haze the new kids. They allegedly leave primary school with illusions of grandeur after being the biggest kids on the block. Monolization is meant to cut them down to size.
Sometimes, it becomes an excuse for torture and abuse, and First Formers are often raped, robbed, sodomized and even killed in the name of monolizaion. How it works is that a senior assigns you an impossible task, such as fetching a cup of darkness or spelling a whistled tune. When you fail, you have a pay a fine which could be monetary … or otherwise. You may have to part with your food or goodies, be forced to wash an entire team’s rugby socks, or they could just beat you to death … or worse.
Once you have passed through monolization, several thinsg happen.
I don’t want my baby in boarding school, and one reason I didn’t mention is that I don’t want to imagine people sticking test tubes and bananas where they shouldn’t, and all in the name of teaching my baby about ‘life in the real world’. The school I attended didn’t have monolization, so some may say I’m not qualified to comment on the matter. But coping as I am with the worst form of adult bullying, I wouldn’t want anyone else to live through it. It feels like looking at a man who has raped you, and then hearing him whine about how bad you are in bed.
A few months ago, I got the bright idea to lose weight. I don’t look half bad … I actually look pretty good. But the BMI chart online says I’m overweight. At 5 foot 5 and a half inches and weighing 73 kilos, there’s some work that needs doing. It’s kind of annoying, because unless you’re in my bathtub, you can’t really see where those 73 kilos are!
The last time I consciously weighed myself, my baby was 2 years old, I weighed 55kg, and I had just shaved my dreads to be an air hostess. Luckily, the interview didn’t work out, so I grew my locks back. A few years later, I moved to Dar. Between kisamvu, Morocco burgers, and cheap ice cream, I eased up to 60kg in six months. Then my baby came over. We moved to a house five minutes from the office, and we also got a mboch. I didn’t notice the difference until the landlord’s kid said how lovely I was getting. In Dar, beauty is proportionate to weight, so I got a weighing scale. I was up to 69!
I kept meaning to do something about it, and when we moved back to Kenya, I launched into Operation Lose 1okg. I joined the gym next door for maybe three months before life and depression happened. I’d stockpiled exercise videos and I figured I was fine, since I still looked great and I weighed the same. I’ve been at 70 for a year.
But a few days ago, I weighed myself. The point was to goad my princess into eating more, since she hates food and she’s all ribs. She gets that from me, unfortunately. I was 5 inches high and weighed 2 kilos until high school, then I morphed right up to 5 foot 80kg. Still, she needs to gain some weight before she turns 18, so we often have this food debate.
The idea was for her to see how light she was so I could bully her into eating more. At 4 feet 6 inches, she weighs just below 30 kilos. The doctor says that’s fine, but I want to see some flesh on those bones, so out came the bathroom scales. Instead, she made me mount the scales, and I saw … *gasp* … 73!! I was sure the thing was broken, so I picked it up, turned it over, shook it, and tweaked the dial. Nothing doing. Still 73. Aw crud.
I’ve been saying I’ll save up to rejoin the gym, but in the meantime, I could probably use my exercise videos. So this morning, as soon as princess got on the bus, I popped in the DVD. I lingered at the belly dance section then decided to skip it and go right into Billy Blanks. It was pretty much like the last time. I had fun until they reached the cross-kick-punch combination, then I ended up on the floor. It’s like playing Twister by yourself … and losing.
The video was 45 minutes long, and I made it through to minute 30. I really feel that girl in the Easy FM advert, since I have trouble coordinating, but I did sweat, so I know I did something right.
The video showed off different kinds of beauty. The main girl, Shellie, wears a stylish burgundy gym thingie. Her legs are in loose fitting capris, and her top is a halter neck. She has the most awesome six pack, has barely any chest, and is rather on the slim side, but she has this thing going that is hot hot hot! I’m guessing it’s the X factor.
There’s a second girl behind Billy who’s older. She’s curvy, though well built, and she looks beautifully feminine. The camera has a habit of zoning into her … um … the bits that support bras can’t hide. You know, the bits that stick out sometimes? Yeah.
Then there’s the Amazonian woman in black. Her body is kind of … square … and I bet you any mugger would see her and run the other way. She’s kind of beefy, but she exudes a power that says, ‘I’m still sexy.’ Or maybe what it means is, ‘Don’t wink at me, I’m Butch.’
There was this one guy on the video whose shirt was soaked. His skin was all wet and shiny and if you ask me, that’s brilliant video editing. They must have stopped the tape to dunk him in some water, but I can’t detect the splice. Me, after 30 minutes, only my face was sweating, and I had a stitch in my chest. Yes, it’s possible to have a stitch in your chest. I sat through the last fifteen minutes, then watched the opening sequence of the salsa section. Interesting.
The ladies in the tae-bo video made me think of girls in Kenya. No matter how … large … we are, we almost always have good shape. I’ve seen women that weigh 120kg but they still look like an hour galss. Or a five litre coke bottle. It must be African genes.
And I still say a Kenyan-themed video would rock. Just think of a workout based on Isikuti, Chuka drums, Kamba footwork, Ramogi backbends, Mijikenda hipwork, Kisii shoulder moves, and Maasai jumping. We could do it to a genge soundtrack, burn more calories than three hours in Lewa, and have a lot of fun too.
Tomorrow, I try again. Hopefully I can make it through all 45 minutes without tripping. As for bellydance, I’m sure that I can do it … as long as I hide from the mirror. Ever since I watched the dance of the seven veils on Lois and Clark, I’ve wanted to learn it myself. It comes in handy as a birthday present … or something.
I’ll just wait until my abs are set. By the time I’ve gathered washboards, I should have picked some grace as well. If nothing else, I’ll be able to do the camel without giggling myself to death.