B for Breastfeeding

December 2016, I am struggling to get to terms with the unevenly placed body fat around my waist, acid reflux is gobbling my guts, and my head is splitting into bits with thoughts of an uncertain future, I am also trying to mend a broken heart and my insecurities are surging. At this point, I am forming ideas on how to transform and create a different version of myself; cutting my hair tops the list, what follows is a gothic-inspired look and a heart of steel. I want to transform so badly that even my name begins to sound and feel strange to me. My flabby tummy bothers me and I wish I can pinch just a few pounds of flesh off my waist but first, I have a breast emergency to deal with, as I am fighting the reality of the threefold weight gain on my chest.

Bearing two full double D's on a lean chest was choking. Mainly because they were heavy and engorged with breast milk. They had been fine when they just sat there on my chest, without necessarily being a food bank to my poor baby, who had to endure hours apart due to my school schedule. I had loved the duo when I was expectant and the milk ducts had no duties yet. They felt sizeable enough and the fact that for the first time, they could peep out of my tank tops and send a beautiful stare, made me feel proud. The feeling changed when the bun was out of the oven and I began to rethink my whole physical structure. I felt guilty every time I had to endure the tight, nipping pain from the nerves of my breast; guilty for not having the courage to excuse myself to go feed my baby, guilty for craving for my original size of breasts, guilty for not knowing and appreciating the dynamics of motherhood and guilty for wanting to suppress what nature itself had carved. 

I was always looking for ways to hide. No one else among my peers was in my kind of situation and to endure their curious, intrusive questions about the changes in my body was adding to my list of 100-things-I-hate-about-human-beings. Yes, I had several lists, one of them even came with a wiggly red line at the edges and hideous calligraphy that read, 'tears from my broken heart' followed by a chronology of pitiful events that led to my distress. 

I was bitter and not safe in my own body. Every mode of dressing I chose was meant to particularly hide something; one time it could be the stretch marks on my belly, the next day, a protruding flesh from my underarm caused by the tight straps of my bras, the following day it could have been the scars on my leg but every day I could go through the trouble of hiding and shying away from my ample breasts. It was during this moment that I chose to embrace the cowboy neck scarf, thank the universe for mitumba nation because half my troubles were generously erased with just a budget of eighty shillings, which guaranteed me a powerful touch of four cute scarfs. They came in handy even though I had to adjust them to make them more extensive towards the chest. 

The necessity to make my breasts a little less conspicuous made me realize that it was a fashion statement that could be likable and the fact that they were not limited by weather made them a fantastic choice for me. They boosted my confidence a notch higher and unlike the other days before them, I gained the voice of asking for my pictures to be taken. I even began to appreciate the general look on my chest because of the way the scarves could hang from my neck, spread effortlessly steady on my chest then create a hanging sharp, pointed tip at the end, releasing a triumphant sensation. I was quickly diving into Stockholm syndrome, a hostage falling in love with what I had earlier thought was an invasive captor.

The tiny scarves raised my spirits but if the universe had narrated to me a story of how the bosoms I looked down upon were the lifeline to the most precious being, I could have created more outstanding and creative photographs. The universe knew that my bosom was nurturing a warm soul, one that is lovable, systematic, strategic, and sensitive. If I knew then that the little boy I fed from my chest would grow into such a respectable, neat kid here by side now, I could have treated my breasts with more care and felt no shame. 

He brought in me a strength I did not know I possessed and if I could ask for anything, it would be that he becomes fulfilled and his love forever stays. That our self-made 'dragon kisses' persist and that my forehead, left cheek, right cheek, chin, and neck still attract those kisses even when I am old and weak.

I hope I never have to struggle to get one of those cute nose rubs he normally looks forward to with a soft, cute smile on his face. I also hope the universe favors our connection and that I would never have to be forced to become little miss Wanda. And even though sometimes he gets to my nerves and I choose to act with a spank and unleash an ugly tone, I hope we never reach a conflict that tears us apart.

So to the good times I lost struggling to restrict the laws of nature and veiling what was supposed to be set free, I come seeking peace. To the sad tears that fell from my eyes when breast milk gushed from my nipples, I trade them with happy ones, and to the brassieres that held on tight, I appreciate the effort. Also, here's to the mother that is fighting and struggling to accept the abrupt changes, the universe is by your side, never fear, nurture with confidence and take time to capture what is important.