Underwear Talk

By beenduta

I am in a matatu, seated between two young girls, who are talking to each other. I might as well have been a chair or (personal favourite) a ball of air. I wondered why one of them couldn’t move so that they could say whatever they wanted to comfortably, instead of shifting words to and fro, right in front of my face. Their weaves had a shine, made worse by the neon lights in the jav. They had very tiny tops (barely covering their derrieres) and these sheer stockings that would tear at the slightest touch. How they pulled off keeping them intact was beyond me, considering the appearance of the matatu, but I digress…

After singing along to every riddim playing on the stereo, the conversation kicked in.

You know, I need new underwear,” One (let’s call her Joy- she laughed a lot) says.

Me too. I no longer have going-out underwear,” replies Mariah (Pronounced Mrs. Cannon’s way)

She had me at going-out underwear. The urge to interrupt was profound: What do you mean by going-out underwear? And who is your mother?

Before you judge me, my mother taught me to always have clean and presentable underwear every day- whether you are in the house, or you are going to the market, or worse, when you are going to the hospital for an injection. No one knows what will happen along the way. To use her words ‘you may fall down right in front of your future father-in-law, with the hem of your skirt over your head.

So here I am in a jav, listening to two youngins (they looked nothing above 22) talking –no, shouting over the music- of going-out underwear. In my mind, I am rummaging through my underwear drawer: check, check and definitely check! Then I am reminded of one Crazy Nairobian’s Types of Underwear and I understand the ‘going-out’ underwear.

When I am back to reality, Joy is saying something about buying a number of thongs and cotton boxers. Mariah is busy nodding her head, swishing her perfumed weave over her bare shoulders. At this juncture, I have just about had it. And as if the universe hears me, a passenger some seats in front alights- see what wearing good underwear does to you, girls (insert diva snap) – I run and ‘grab’ that seat before someone else does.

As the matatu moves, and an old guy gets in; I look at the girls, look at him and I feel a sense of profound pity.

About the Author: Beenduta is a writer and a poet. You can find some of her work at Bee Illustrated


Chasing Cars

By Wendy

You know what I am? I’m a dog chasing cars. I wouldn’t know what to do with one if I caught it!” ~ The Joker

Greatrnk told me I could write about anything! I could rant about the MPs and their greed but who wants to talk about that? Unrequited love is a universal experience – let’s talk about that.

Did you ever hear about how David and Victoria Beckham first met? She was watching a football game at a pub and noticed him on the pitch. He was watching the Spice Girls perform and she caught his attention, and then a common friend introduced them. That was in 1996. Fast forward, 16 years, four children and life on two continents later. Sigh.

I met a man over the internet. He was giving a commencement speech to the 2012 graduating class of his alma mater. Soon after, I found out about the website and the short-film franchise that he and his friends co-founded and run. And then I met all his other friends, and learned a little bit more about the work that they do. And I felt like I was part of the circle – yes, the new girl, who’s still struggling to keep everyone’s names straight, but nonetheless included. You know, the usual dating sequence.

Then I learned something that should have been obvious from the get-go — I was not the only one going gaga over him. You don’t get to doing awesome things without creating a following – of several million! Somewhere someplace, there’s a 14 year-old girl, or twenty, with several posters of him on her wall. I can see the little pink hearts all over the damn thing. It makes me sick – in a way-to-mess-my-fantasy kind of way. Reality bites. I don’t like it.

In light of this realisation, I’ve started questioning myself and my achievements. He has been out of school for six years. Yes, he may be trying to figure out the future, but it’s a different kind of figuring out. He has six years of watching an experiment flourish. He’s very well-traveled. He’s smart. He’s cultured. Oh and he’s sorta kinda like a big deal (remember, a following of millions). I, on the other hand, just graduated. I’m working as an intern and not even in the industry I hope to be in! I get a modest survivable stipend, but definitely not that kind that allows for travel or cultural activities. I’m still trying to figure out the difference between a side hustle, a 9-5, a hobby and a career. Not to mention how indecisive I am about everything. Oh and I’m sorta kinda like a nobody.

In the beginning I’d used the Victoria/Beckham example to console myself. “You know, all I need is to put my work out there and he’ll find it, fall in love with me, and just like David and Victoria we’ll walk into the sunset. (Yes, if only life was that easily engineered.) And then, even if that happened, what would I do with him? Like I said, he’s brilliant; I’m still discovering my brilliance. He’s established; I’m as established as a dandelion that landed on a fast-flowing river. Really, what would I bring to this relationship?!

Now I have to break up with someone who doesn’t even know I exist because he’s just too good for me. Maybe in some 6 years, I’ll have a better grasp of my life. Maybe then we’ll be perfect together. Right? Argh, bad-fudging-timing!

About the Author: Wendy aka Karendi_ is an otherwise focused young person, she promises. But her mother warned her about the one man who’d cause her to do things that she’d be ashamed of. Maybe this is the one.


By ascofu

Okay? I am attempting to write another word, there! I have just done it. So, I was busy asking God why my DM (inbox on Twitter, FYI) was not functioning anymore. There used to be times when I would have conversations on end with many a tweep on many things, useless and useful (yes I also talk about useless stuff, don’t let the specks fool you), but of late there was a drought of sorts on the DM front. So, as I was saying, I was ranting about it, then I get a DM from the one and only Greatrnk, who, I guess everyone needs to know, I first thought he was a snob in 2007 ( but I guess that’s just first impressions, he is lucky it did not last, LQTM). He asked me, like the great bloggers before me to write about anything. I tell you that has got to be the hardest thing you can ever tell someone. In your mind you debate whether to write about relationships (which I can comfortably say, I can be a marriage therapist) or about politics in Kenya (where I am so pissed at characters such as the Minister for Medical Services, and his pathetic responses to the plight of the average Joe) or even US politics (not that I am an expert, but me thinks that Donald Trump with his daily tweets about how bad Obama is should have been the GOP candidate).

Well, I guess here goes nothing, right?

2005 is the year in question. I was in Form 4 (please stop calculating my age). Form 4 West is the class I was in. Our class was considered the waste of the school and being a provincial school in Rift Valley Province meant a lot was at a stake. 4pm, February 16th was a Wednesday. Wednesday was our day for letters to be read at the assembly ground. We would all gather, just before being dismissed to go to our different clubs to have letters read out.

I just heard my name being read out, and I see a few eyes look my way as I go to pick the letter from the Entertainment Prefect. I looked at the stamp, it had been stamped Eldoret. “Eldy, sasa nani ni wa Eldy?” I thought. Then as I am walking back to the end of the line, where the rest of my classmates are, I hear my name being called out again. I hear a few whistles, and I am now getting stares from a few guys, I am not exactly sure whether they are jealous or if it’s just something else. This one has a familiar handwriting; it’s the girl from across. I am smiling on my way back to my friends.

The letter from Eldy gets opened first. Its Ruth. She is the Organizing secretary of YCS in Hill School Eldoret. I met her when we were at the YCS rally (of course I am the CU Organizing Secretary, but Gilbert, the YCS Chairman and my close friend, and I are always in the same events). Ruth is tall, lissome is the word I know better describes her look. She wears specks like me (at first I thought that it was a coincidence, but I think chicks who wear classy specks look hot) and then we are so alike, she is very outspoken (not talkative, there is a big difference, Okay, my OCD is showing) and of course, which boy does not want the girl from Hill School who has the best English accent.

At the rally, we are “put” in the same group (of course because Gilbert and I are organizing guys into groups). Okinyo, Miss Okinyo (as she preferred to be called), the YCS patron comes up to me and says in her high pitched voice, “Wambua, I am glad you came for our rally. I am so lucky to have you around here. Come closer so that I can give you a kiss.” She probably did not exactly say that, but who cares, she is quite a catch, I do not care what guys say about her being the Deputy Principal’s side dish. I digress, so me and Ruth. We presented on behalf of our group of why prostitution is justified in our society. We looked like we were finishing each other’s sentences. We get to Q and A time and we get a boy from our rival school ask, a very stupid question and we (Ruth and I) zima him like the presidential ambitions of Pastor Pius Muiru.

As she leaves, I give her our P. O. Box hoping that she writes back, and well, I am holding the letter in my hands. I am feeling so extremely confident that she even calligraphed hapo juu ya envelope. It’s like me name, only its Chinese. My girl from across is probably delivering the missives from across. Sijui who says what to who in my class, kwanza the dedix to Form Threes won’t even fikia them. Why would we encourage those kids in Form 3 to start hitting on our women? I hope she has written a long letter like Ruth. Its not that I am comparing the two chicks, why would I even do that?. I just want to see if she still scented the letter like she used to when we first met (btw Ruth has scented hers). I scroll quickly down to the end of the letter to see the dedix to me, she put Mariah Carey- We belong Together, Aaliyah- I Miss You and Soledad- Westlife. Si she knows me in and out!

Okay, now which letter should I read first? It matter, you know.

About the Author:Ascofu is in the process of writing a novel and a motivational book to be launched soon. He is a photographer at Higher Heights Pictures, an artist and a businessman all rolled into one. Do read his awesome blog at Ascofu At Work

Phase II

By SamKitots


It was hot outside, really hot, when he got in the house that Saturday afternoon the first thing he thought of getting was a tall glass of ice cold water. It was awkward to have a visitor in the house, let alone a girl. This was Kevin’s first time to have someone other than the boys to come over. Sweaty palms and flustered from the walk from the matatu stage to the house, he opened the door and quite gentlemanly let her walk in first, then it hit him she doesn’t know where to leave her shoes and which door led to the sitting room. She stood there awkwardly for about a minute as he undid his laces and showed her to the living room. Open windows decked with blue flowered curtains, a well worn blue sofa set, and a cream-blue patterned carpet the living room was his abode. This was the preamble to a lovely afternoon they had together.

Kevin had been trying for quite a while to woo Suzie. It begun with the fear to talk to her and then they finally started talking as friends, but he was afraid of saying how he felt. The long and short of it was that she felt the same way and still they had a hard time talking about it. Kevin was a simple guy, brought up like most kids in a two family home, his dad came home late every night but somehow he had time to be home on Saturday afternoons and Sunday all day. Kevin doesn’t remember a day when he heard or saw his parents fight but neither does he remember seeing them go out, kiss, or express love in any form, holding hands, hugging, or whispering sweet nothings. They might have as well been brother and sister. Being the first born he didn’t have anyone to tell him how to approach a dating scenario. Getting to this point was purely by guesswork and self-teaching/peer-teaching.

He still remembers how he felt that first day she came over. 13 months later, he is sitting at the table in the small coffee house that they enjoyed visiting. He was quite antsy about this. She had asked that they meet up to “talk”

Suzie walked into the coffee shop and walked around, she didn’t see Kevin, so she reached into her handbag to get her phone and call him to ask him where he was. And just then she saw him. The last two months had been hard for her. She didn’t know how they got here, it had been lovely and rosy until about four months ago and she didn’t know what was causing him to be distant or what was causing her to worry so much.

Suzie was brought up by her single mother and she didn’t know her father. Mum was hard working but life had just dealt her a bad hand, maybe in her next life he will make it much better. Suzie had tried hard to keep pre-concieved notions of men because of her absentee father, she was now getting to the end of herself and just needed to know if Kevin was in for real or if it was all a farce to him. As they talked, she struggled and choked as she searched for the words to express how she felt. The fear, the anxiety, and emotional hole that was growing in her heart. “Will he ever get it?” she asked herself as she listened to her voice drone along.

Kevin was her man, and she didn’t want to lose him, but the time had come for a decision to be made. They had reached a fork in the road and didn’t know how this would pan out. As she finished, Kevin sat there and looked straight in her eyes. She was scared. Opening up wasn’t easy and she was afraid that she had let him in, and this last act of talking about her past was leaving her totally exposed. Now Kevin had two options as he saw it. This is where he realised he had found a friend. He needed to pull up his socks .

Now here’s the thing, he didn’t know how to be the best man for her. Suzie had just expressed her self so well and he didn’t get any of this growing up as a young man into and out of his teens. His dad in as much as he was there, wasn’t the best man at teaching “love languages”. Kevin opted to be equally open. Something that he had never done before. He chose to share equally his fears, he didn’t know how to love her as she expected but all he could do was what he knows and feels is the right way. And thus they entered the second phase of their relationship. It would be months before they had another talk like this, making it a great foundation for them to base their decisions on being together or not.


About the Author: SamKitots is a married man. He has known his wife (CateKits) for 9 years, dated for 5 and married for 4. For the past 5 years they have been involved in couples counseling, for both dating and married. They use real life experiences to mentor/counsel those that come their way. Follow @SamKitots for tips on spicing up your relationship to make it last (dating and marriage). Also check out his blog here.

When I Grow Up…..

By MakOmondi


“When I grow up I want to be a pilot”. Probably that was the first statement I ever made that had to do with careers and aspirations. If my memory serves me right, this day back in 1995, dad had gathered all of us and asked us what we wanted to be in life. Everyone was grown, only my brother and I wouldn’t know what we were saying and to prove this he said he wanted to be a shopkeeper. I look at him today and wonder whether he still would want to be a shopkeeper with his studies in Actuarial Science. I kept growing and all the while I told everyone how much I would grow to be a pilot. One book I read while a class three student “Anna the Air Hostess by Cynthia E. Hunter” made the urge even stronger. I feel nostalgic as I remember the book.

“When I grow up I want to be an Aeronautical Engineer”. This was in class six, it was a Sunday I remember so well, the reader I am had just gone through the lifestyle pages of the Sunday Nation and there I was, I had discovered something new. There was this story about a lady whose unique career I developed interest in. In addition to the flying I always wished I could do, I realized there was a career that would let me understand the aeroplanes even much better and with it would come the title “Eng.” Just before my name. Who wouldn’t want to be an engineer after all the stories we heard of engineers making it big?

“When I grow up I want to attend Mang’u High school” I had my way well planned out and I knew which avenues would get me to being the Aeronautical Engineer I wanted to be. This was a year later, in boarding school and thinking I only had a year before I get to high school. This morning my classmates and I were talking of what schools would work best for the dreams we had for the future. I walked towards Mang’u for a year before my dad came when we were doing school selection and convinced me Starehe Boys Centre would work best for me. I ended up going to neither of the two, refused to attend the school I was invited to attend and ended up at St. Mary’s School Yala.

“When I grow up I want to study at the University of Leeds”. My dream of becoming an Aeronautical Engineer never died when I went to Yala and through the four years I kept it alive. I worked hard and insisted on pursuing Physics despite it being a bit too tough on me. Don’t get me wrong, I passed, I managed a B+ in Physics and this saw me get admission to Leeds and hence started a rat race, trying to find scholarships if I was to ever get a visa to the UK. Came August 2007 and my dream was crushed, I couldn’t raise enough for my study at Leeds, out the window went the Aeronautical Engineer and I fixed my hopes to what the Joint Admission Board back home would see best for me. I always thought they would offer me an Engineering course, then the letter came and it read:

“We are pleased to offer you admission for a B.Sc. in Communication and Public Relations, at Moi University”

I never got to pursue engineering, and worse still I went to the last university I ever wanted to attend.

“When I grow up I want to be the Public Relations Manager at “Blue Chip”. It rang in my head through and through the four years I was in Eldoret. I had finally fallen in love with Public Relations and for some reason I thanked God that I had not gone through with the engineering dream. Here I was finally done with undergraduate studies and got employment in a firm. One of those whose name you mention and you have to explain everything about it. You realize that it is only known to you, your colleagues and your suppliers, not even your clients remember your name after you are done with your projects.

“When I grow up I want to remember the lesson that lies in life”. This is me today, and I know in life lies a lot of lessons, from the good and the bad, from the successful plans to the failed expectations, there always lies a lesson that makes you strong and better. I never will be a pilot but I learnt there could be an Aeronautical Engineer out of my passion for planes. I never went to Mang’u as I had wanted but Yala made me the man I am today, I grew from a soft boy into a hardened young man as a result of the experiences I had there. I never made it to Leeds but you wouldn’t imagine how much I fell in love with Public Relations, Eldoret was an amazing place, today I sit and wish someone gave me four more years down there. I haven’t gotten the job at a blue chip company yet, but I know the small firm is moulding in me an experienced future PR guru.

When I grow up I know I will be a better person, I know that my destiny is not pegged to a situation or an occurrence. I am sure that despite all disappointments and failed expectations that I meet along the way there is always a way of making it work. Life is a race, on whose track there are hurdles, some we go over easily, some trip us and we fall. When we take the fall positively and get back to the track them tomorrow is bound to be a better day and I will have more strong and seasoned people enjoying life with me, when I grow up.


About the Author: MakOmondi is the guy you need for your next voice over. Public Relations is his passion. He is a blogger and you can find his life experiences and the lessons that lie therein in his blog Insight.

Registrars’ Strike vs Threats – Whose Fault is it?

By the Secretary General, University of Nairobi Medical Students

We have seen lecturers, teachers, nurses and now doctors in all levels (interns, registrars, MOs, and doctors themselves) strike for better working conditions and better pay. But why do doctors have to fight for their pay yet no one can work for free? Has society and culture made us feel that wanting to earn a living should dictate our choice of profession? The so called “noble” professions are seemingly not so any more. They more than most are repeatedly taking to the streets demanding better pay and improved working conditions. “Who is to blame?” we ask; and then we quickly point fingers at each other. The Ministry of Medical Services wants Kenyans to perceive it as immoral and selfish for doctors to go on strike. In my point of view, there are two ways to look at it:

  1. Either our society had become so materialistic that it reflects clearly on these professions OR

  2. . The leadership of our country is becoming questionable in its priorities regarding public interest.


So maybe doctors are being immoral and selfish. But if doctors are as we judge them, could it not be that it is because of what our leaders expose us to as a nation: Kshs. 400 million vice-presidential mansions, gas guzzlers whose weekly fuel needs could power a small village for a day or twenty, exotic vacations at the sunniest sandiest resorts at the coast, Kshs. 200,000 seats – that are used for only a few hours every week… And as if to mock our collective intelligence, the speaker of the National Assembly goes ahead to say that MPs should receive a salary increment because they are “…paid peanuts…” Such extravagance is not just limited to the August house. At the recently concluded London Olympics, Kenya sent 32 world-class Olympians – whose glory was then watered down by a whopping 200 officials in the name of support. Said supporters were nowhere to be seen when our sportsmen and women needed a much needed morale boost. In fact, the officials apparently travelled earlier to Bristol leaving a part of the team behind training. If provided with this evidence, and that of the countless scandals through which our leaders have siphoned off billions of taxpayer money, the average Kenyan would infer that there is in fact more than enough money to cater for the needs of this country, or that the little that should get the job done is being stolen as they watch.

In light of the government’s extravagance I am forced to ask myself whether the priorities of the government are in the right place.


Currently the longest undergraduate degree to qualify for in Kenya is the medical one. It takes 6 years for one to become a general practitioner, who while very capable of addressing a majority of ordinary health concerns, has no capacity to deliver specialized care. For one to acquire specialist skills takes another 4 – 5 years of post-graduate training (compare with 3 – 4 years undergraduate degree training and 2 years post graduate training in most other disciplines- with the option of working, since most of these programs are evening classes).

In Kenya, admission to a post-graduate program in medicine requires at the very least, an impressive academic record and excellent clinical skills. In Kenya, one must either be government or self-sponsored. To receive government sponsorship, one must work for at least 2 years in the public sector before being considered eligible.

After having spent 6 years in undergraduate training, a 2 year hiatus followed by 5 more years of intensive full-time training might appear too great a sacrifice. This, together with the competitiveness of earning government sponsorship (and the demand for specialists) leads many a student to choose to fund their postgraduate training. Once admitted, the registrar- as the post-graduate student is now called; begins a journey of apprenticeship and ceaseless practice. Inasmuch as they are taught through instruction and demonstration, a large part of the learning experience at this level is practice. In simple terms, registrars perform most of the procedures in teaching hospitals. In spite of the patient being charged for these procedures, the registrars receive no pay for the service they render.

In total, one will spend between 11 and 13 years between beginning medical school and becoming a specialist in a medical field in Kenya. During this time, one – who might be married and have started a family- will not have earned a single cent from applying their skills.

But enough of all this immorality and selfishness – wherever it may come from. Something is a-festering somewhere methinks, and someone should attend it soon.


In the recent months, we have seen how much more it would cost us if Kenya failed as a nation. In Mombasa, the youth – turned mercenaries – resorted to treasonous acts and hurled grenades at their countrymen. The very fabric of patriotism unravelled as they kissed the foreign hand that fed them, and bit the cruel hand that bred them. It is said that their thirty pieces of silver were a paltry ten dollars per grenade. Everywhere in Kenya these past two weeks, doctors, teachers and lecturers have abandoned their posts in actions that popular opinion would call heretical. Apparently, the care of the sick and the education of a nation’s youth cannot be abandoned at any cost. Apparently also, patriotism and all things black, red and green are immutable, blood-borne and forever. Why then are our young people so easily sold to the enemy? Why then are the most noble of our public servants so ready to leave their posts? If the government will not respect a (self) empowered group such as lecturers, doctors and teachers- in terms of education level, work ethic in building the society and appreciation by the society; how much less can they care about as vulnerable a group as the youth who unfortunately may not have the same opportunities? It goes beyond just immoral and selfish medics Mr. Nyong’o. It goes down to the fundamentals of the government that you represent to protect the rights of its honourable citizens. And so we are frustrated and angry and abandon principle.

Is there a country in the world that doesn’t pay its registrars? In Malawi, interns are given free housing. Hasn’t Rwanda, a country that is yet two decades old from being war torn, ensured that they treat the healthcare industry much better? Aren’t there on going, serious violations of rights to health (especially maternal and child health) in Kenya due to its policies- perhaps the reason why the country’s maternal and under 5s mortality rates are barely improving? Of poor policies, hadn’t our current National health policy become outdated in 2002? It is the job of the government to spearhead these policies. There are not enough paediatricians and obstetricians (both post graduate degrees) at rural levels yet Mr. Nyong’o can’t help but fire those in training. Instead, isn’t it only rational to motivate Kenyans to empower themselves into taking up these responsibilities? They want it to seem that healthcare practitioners issue threats, yet, it is them who passively threaten everyone.

Private Doctors are concentrated in major cities of Kenya. There is a siege of highly qualified doctors in the environs around Kenyatta National Hospital (still a result of poor government policies). They are operational. Maybe this is the reason why Mr. Nyong’o is not shaken. He either visits these doctors or flies off to America for treatment. Never the government hospitals he represents. What does that say of his faith in a Ministry he heads? Can it be he asks himself for what reason is there to educate our own if the policies the Ministry made aren’t meant to function? Leaders lead by example- it is implicit. Can we really afford to be led to follow considering the evidence that the government’s priorities are not in its people’s welfare?

No matter which way one looks at it Mr. Nyong’o, governance is to blame. I only have two questions for you Mr. Minister: If you had the choice of picking any government profession in the current situation of our country (on condition that you are not to pick your current one). Which one would you? Would you then be ecstatic and thrilled to build the nation for free?

About the Author: The Secretary General, University of Nairobi Medical Students

Big Girls Don’t Cry

By jaber3000

So I had an altercation with Mr.greatrnk (what does the R,N and K mean btw?) and I swore I’ll never talk to him till I push daises. Then out of the blue he allows me to guest blog on his space and I’m like he is the bestest friend in the whole wide world. Instead of replying, I ran around telling anybody who would listen. When they asked what happened to me never talking to him again, I told them it was not this greatrnk but another one. But I guess the blog description will sell me out! The cool thing is that he told me to write about anything under the sun. Here goes nothing…

Big Girls Don’t Cry

You have always been corpulent (they do not say fat anymore) for as long as you can remember. When you were young you were considered cute by people around you. Then you grew up and quickly discovered how others have a lofty disdain for people who are fat. They associate it with gluttony, laziness or less intelligence than the average person.

You see how they look at you when you go out for pizza. Some even make hurtful remarks behind your back knowing full well you can her them.

Kwani she is still buying food na vile amenona?”

You quickly realize that you can no longer eat out like you used to. It’s even worse when the media bombards you every day with images of skinny women. They use them to advertise everything from toothpaste to car batteries. You have to contend with people making fun of you at school, at work and yes even church. You can’t remember the last time you used the mirror as you are afraid to witness how much pounds have piled on. You have since thrown away all the scales in the house because they don’t read what you want to see.

But nothing hurts as much as when your own family members who are supposed to be your support system inadvertently tell you hurtful things about your weight. Some even go to the extent of trying to ration food for you in the house which makes you crave for even more. They even offer unsolicited advice on how to lose weight. If only they knew how many times you have tried without success to lose the extra pounds.

They do not know about the weight loss pills you are hiding in your closet. They do not know about the magazine cut outs you have in your wallet claiming to have found a sure fire way on how to quickly lose weight. You even promise yourself the next time your doctor proffers you another brochure on how your weight is unhealthy you will cut his heart out with a rusty knife. It’s not like you are not already filled with angst over your ever increasing weight without being reminded left right and center.

You cannot even go to the gym because you can’t bear the looks you will get in the changing rooms. You love swimming but can’t go anymore because of all the looks you will get at the pool. They do not know how many times you have tried to make yourself throw up and sometimes starve yourself if only to lose even an eight of a pound. They don’t know how you feel like a failure for being unable to resist junk food and shed off the extra pounds.

At first you pretend that you do not care that people see you as an overweight person. In your circle of friends you are the funniest person; always making them laugh so that they do not notice how miserable you are in your own skin. You have hid it so well that no one knows you are struggling with losing weight. In fact you make fat jokes about yourself so that others don’t have to. You beat them to the punch so that it doesn’t hurt as much.

You are nice to people and let them walk all over you because you believe it’s the only way you can make friends. When you go out with your gaggle of girlfriends, you are the bag lady or designated driver since you are afraid of interacting with the men. Your work is to hold your girlfriends hair at the back while they puke and make sure they are not whisked away by dubious characters from the dance floor and their kidneys sold in the black market.

Most of the time you hide behind over-sized clothes to try and cover your curves. The clothes available in your size are not age appropriate, are ugly and most of the time not really flattering. You then continue to eat more food for comfort as it the only thing that is always there for you. Food has seen you through break ups, heart breaks, pain and rejection from people you thought cared about you.

Your boudoir is the busiest conveyor belt of all kinds of strange men. You offer sex to men who love your sugar shack but have no time for your feelings all the time as you have convinced yourself there is nothing about you worth loving. At least, you reason, the empty and meaningless sex will help you keep them coming back for a little while longer. You know, seeing as you rarely get attention from the opposite sex. And when you do, they offer lame ass compliments like “you are cute for a fat girl” or “you are beautiful on the inside” and you are like wtf? But it doesn’t really matter because even if they did offer you a compliment that is appropriate you wouldn’t believe them either.

Slowly you begin to hate your self and find new ways to self destruct. If you are not sleeping with anyone who is offering, you are gorging yourself with more unhealthy food swathed in artery-clogging cholesterol and saturated fats. I mean life can’t get any worse than it already is. It takes all energy inside of you to just to get up in the morning. You have even resigned yourself to a life of loneliness and pain. Why even bother? You say!

Do not let all these lies ruin your life baby girl. You are beautiful both on the inside and outside no matter what size you are. If only you could stop believing all the lies that you have been fed throughout your whole life. There is nothing wrong with you and in God’s eyes you are perfect. Do not let men use you to empty their balls. You will meet Mr. Right if only you will stop wasting your time with these people who love your pink Cadillac but have no time for your beautiful heart. Your dream man will come along and he will love you just the way you are.

Mr. Too-damn-good will love how you tuck your legs under you on the couch when you are reading your favorite books. He will love how you lift your skirt when you are walking to stop it from dragging on the floor. He will love how you put your hands on your hips when you are asking a question. He will think its cute how you wipe your wet hands on your leso after washing the dishes. He will laugh at the funny face you make when you are putting on make up. He will think it is cute how you smack your lips when you put on lipstick and pat your hair (read weave) before leaving the house. He will love how your voluptuous yansh sways when you are wearing your sexy heels. He will love how you smooth your skirt when you sit down or how you cross your arms when you are grilling him.

In the mean time love yourself so much, that others can’t help but love you too. Tell yourself positive things even if you do not believe it yourself. Keeping doing it over and over, do it until you start to actually believe them. Associate with people who inspire and challenge you. Stay away for the pessimists who are miserable and project on you for no apparent reason to make themselves feel better. Now square your shoulders and keep your head up. Wipe your tears because big girls don’t cry.

Lose weight if you must; but do it for you and no one else. Do all the things that you have on your bucket list. Work on your character and on improving your self so that when he comes he will find a whole person not someone needing rescuing. Let others complement you and be the icing on your cake but not the whole damn unga. And baby girl you are enough and don’t let anyone tell you different.

If anyone puts you down call me and I will beat the lumps out them. Alright…I kid…I joke… I’m a lover not a fighter. Lol.

About the Author: Jaber3000 is a teacher by profession, a great writer and blogger with a big heart like a water melon. She is crazy in a good way. Proof that she is crazy and awesome all in one can be found on her blog Telling it like it is, not like it was.

Read the first paragraph then run back here … So back in the day jaber3000 and I were bffs. Then things just went to the dogs. Half a year later, I asked her to be a guest here. A week after I asked, there was still no reply and I knew it was never going to happen. One day when I was busy doing nothing but basically minding my own business, she replied, sounded excited and sent me a post that same day. And happy I was. The busy person that I am in nothing-doing, I took a whole week before reading the post. Imagine the shock on my face when I read the first paragraph I asked you to go read.