Skinny Privilege? Really?

Photo from Unsplash by Dion Martins

I come from a picturesque village nestled in the heart of Kisumu County, a region renowned for its black soil that sustains thriving rice paddies and bountiful sugarcane fields. The air is perpetually infused with the invigorating scent of freshwater fish, creating an atmosphere that is both familiar and comforting. My village people boast of rich, dark skin tones and possess a unique linguistic trait—they confidently eschew the "sh" sound from their speech, replacing it with sound "s" and unapologetically rendering words like "shut" and "shield" powerless.

Here, amongst a community of people with a lot of stamina and vitality, there is a profound appreciation for curvaceous figures, with an emphasis on the allure of a substantial body mass adorning a woman's bosom and backside. This aesthetic preference is deeply ingrained in the local culture and is celebrated as the epitome of femininity and grace so much so that a woman's level of prestige is often evaluated based on the captivating rhythm and fluidity her body movements can evoke.

My people highly value the accentuated curvy body type, unfortunately, I didn't fit that mould. From a young age, I was constantly told that I needed to eat more. My aunt, who also acted as my guardian, even went as far as giving me the nickname "piere tindo," which loosely translates to "owner of small buttocks." The nickname was a banter that served as a constant reminder that I needed to put in the work and grow bigger bums. Despite being healthy with a normal BMI and a great physique, she insisted that I needed to gain more weight. She would make me add ghee to my meals until my food was glistening, and she was satisfied that the amount added was good enough to make me at least a milligram heavier. During avocado season, she would make me harvest mature raw avocados and ripen them in pots, so I could mix them into my food along with the ghee. Peanut butter was like a daily dosage; I had to spread at least two layers on my bread every evening before supper, and she made sure of it. 

She exhausted every method: force-feeding, late-night snacking, and serving me enormous portions of food. She persisted until I couldn't bear it anymore and ended up vomiting with every elevated effort. Eventually, she gave up and concluded that perhaps my mother's breast milk had not been sufficient, leading to irreversible emaciation. At one point, I even entertained the thought that I might have been the cause of my mother's demise, as I was informed that she passed away when I was barely a year old; it crossed my mind that maybe she did not have enough in her body to cater for two and that she might have breastfed me to her death.

I often found myself cursing in low tones whenever people talked about body sizes in terms of beauty and desirability. They made it known that people with slender figures had some inadequacy and that plumpness was rich and robust. Even though Aunty Supa was not so gentle with her approach to feeding me, I knew her efforts stemmed from a place of concern; what I did not understand was my cousin Auma's approach to getting me to eat more. Her aggressive behaviour had been apparent since our childhood days. 

One time, she elicited a theatrical performance when I accidentally wore her blouse, and she managed to summon nearly the entire village to our boma. Aunty Supa had bought us identical blouses a few days before. Hers was a tad bigger than mine but I couldn't tell because I was eight and eager to go pet the newborn lamb that Uncle Omollo had helped deliver that morning, so I jumped off the bed, grabbed the closest blouse, which happened to be Auma's, and rushed to the animal shed, hopping cheerfully and anticipating a lovely sight only for me to be dramatically halted with screams and loud cries. She accused me of having an agenda to tear her new blouse with my protruding shoulder blades. She wept and cursed and told me to fatten up so I couldn't threaten every piece of clothing I wore with my prickly bones. She even said I looked ghostly in the blouse and almost ripped it off my body but Uncle Omollo intervened just in time.

I could have remained calm, taken it all in silence and endured every talk but Auma made it unbearable. She spewed insults and nurtured them into brutal, condescending remarks. It did not help my case that she was well-endowed and attractive, leaving me with no comebacks whenever she started a battle of body parts. 

I was elated when she went to college because that to me meant a much-needed break from her continuous mean comments. I was in my final year of Secondary school, and the peace her absence brought with it helped me concentrate on my academics. I could stomach other people's judgements since they did not rub it in as she did and, suffice it to say, they were less injurious. Little did I know that my little break would soon end unexpectedly. 

She arrived back home for her first holiday period and couldn't wait to show me pictures of the numerous men, both young and old, whom she had by the throttle. She told me how her body attracted all the good things men could offer and how she could never lack. Aside from the erotic pictures she took with those men, which I had a hard time looking at, there were pictures of her in a version I was not familiar with. She looked sassy and dressed in tiny deep-necked blouses and other things that Aunty Supa would have considered demonic. She especially appeared in several of those pictures wearing small, tight shorts, which she promptly told me were called booty shorts, that slightly exposed her butt cheeks and she seemed to want to show the exposed parts more than she wanted to show her face. 

"College seems fun, I can't wait to get there," I said as I scrolled through more of her pictures, noticing how vibrant and carefree she looked in most of them.

"You know what, Amondi, I don't think you could even have half of the fun I'm having when you can't even get any man's attention. If I were you, I'd be desperately searching for ways to build an attractive figure. Pop a pill or something if food won't work for you. Trust me, men will line up on their knees for you if your ass is big enough to block their front view."

Her remarks made me cower into silence. I sat in deep thought, and as she tried to make her way out of the room, a weird thought struck me, and at that moment, I knew I was about to do something drastic. I lifted myself so fast that I painfully bumped my head on the rim of the bunk bed, then I quickly beat her to the door, locked it, and stood face-to-face with her. I immediately felt disgusted by her face, her attitude, and everything that was her, and I felt obliged to do something about it. So, I did what anyone who had been bottling up feelings of resentment could have done: I went wild. I don't know how I managed to get her to the floor but I was aware of how much pain I wanted to inflict. I squeezed her head between my hands until a vein popped on her forehead then told her, between deep breaths, what I thought she needed to understand.

"I am not a whore like you, Auma! (One deep breath) If looking good solely for the attraction of men is your potion then die with it. It's been years, and still, you won't let me be. (Another deep breath) It is enough for me that I like what I see in the mirror every day and if you or anyone else does not approve, I don't care! You hear me, Auma? I don't!" (One last deep breathe followed by a stream of tears)

We struggled to outdo each other, both of us trying to win against the other. She put up a good one but my blows and grips were stronger. We broke a few things, screamed at each other and almost tore the walls of our shared bedroom. Our screams alarmed Aunty Supa who was in the kitchen preparing dinner.  She was helpless and could not stop us since there was no access and her shrill voice was powerless against the sounds of our duel. She hurriedly called Uncle Omollo and forced him to cut short his rendezvous with his friends and rush back home. His mighty kick at the door could not have come at a better time since Auma had just secured herself a broken piece of the dressing mirror and was threatening to stab me with it. 

The events of that fateful night were filled with tension and emotion. Uncle's stern admonishments, my desperate pleas, Aunty's heated words, and Auma's fervent attempts to justify her actions created a charged atmosphere. The night was filled with unrest. While recounting the altercation, I made the mistake of mentioning Auma's pictures and immediately regretted it. Her parents did not take it lightly and went into a frenzy trying to redeem their daughter. Her phone was confiscated, most of her belongings were destroyed, Aunty fervently prayed and covered her in Holy water, and she was sternly warned about her interactions with men. In addition to the humiliation, she was required to apologize to me for the hurtful comments about my body and ensure my protection from bullies. Although I ended up with a bump on my head and a cracked lip, it paled in comparison to what Auma had to endure. I wasn't proud of my actions, but the aftermath was a change for the better: Auma never uttered a harsh word to me again and refrained from her hurtful behaviour. Word about how I had put her in her place spread throughout the village and everyone began to be cautious about belittling my physique. I have since grown up, twenty-six looks good on me and I am very much in love with this skinny mould of mine.