for my next trick, I'll turn fat

Those who know me best, like really really know me, like know me in bed, know for a fact that the initials SP don’t mean Shyaka Patrick, but rather, Skinny Patrick. Just keep that in mind as we partake the journey towards the end.

-)

The genetic implications involved in creating and landing a person in this world have, for a long time, been overlooked. This caused, of course, a surge of manipulative comments and remarks on everyone’s body size and type.

See, growing up in Rwanda is pretty simple. Judge, and be judged. Everyone grows up with a weird body. No one is safe. If you’re skinny, you’re made fun of, and if you’re fat, oh my god, you’re so screwed. We live in a body-shaming masterclass.

It has been embedded in us like a virus that with time has become a form of greeting. Questions like “ko utarya sha?” or “warabyibushye?” roam the walls of Rwandan houses as if they’re the food you need to eat to gain weight.

Whilst your family turns your cousin’s story into an example of how amazing one can become if they study hard, their family is using you as an example of what happens if someone doesn’t eat regularly.

Despite the many attempts to stop the spread, however, we have not been able to eradicate this disease. Because frankly speaking, or in this case frankly writing, somehow we love it. I hated when someone tried to hold my whole arm in their fist, but when the roles reversed, oh I enjoyed it.

All my life I’ve been called ridiculous names that are supposed to mean I’m skinny. “Tree branch”, “paper boy”, “agatirigongo”, and more.

With time, these became more than just names, they became reasons to suggest my body wasn’t right. That I am not right.

And no, I didn’t spiral down into some drilling depression, I just thought they were right. After all, you become skinny by eluding eating, and you become fat by eating extensively.

At times, the little drop-ins of suggestions from people such as “Go to the gym”, “eat more proteins”, and “I’ve got some pills that will instantly grow your dick”; sickened me instead of inspiring me. Except for the last point, of course.

Because all it suggested was that there was a 'right' body and size to be, and even though I already believed that from all the bullying days back in high school, somehow, I still had a glimpse of hope that I could accept myself. I could love myself.

I did go to the gym. Not once, not twice. No, Actually just twice. However, the motivations weren’t perfectly fitting. Whereas others went there to improve their health, I signed up to hopefully be able to be attractive to ladies.

It wasn’t about improving my physic or feeling better in my skin, it was all deliriously planned to fight against the feeble remarks on my “skinny body”. Safe to say, nothing worked. Some muscles came in, but then, as if the universe was against me, a belly announced itself.

Can you imagine that? A belly on a one-wind-breeze away to fly body? Skinny fat? I couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t I been through enough shame? The funny thing was every day, I would meet girls who disliked their bodies too, and I would do a lot to make them feel good about themselves, and here I was, completely and utterly disgusted.

It was only when I looked back at the motivations and goals that led me to the gym that I realised something was wrong. Erroneous even. For after spending countless days with my belly and many failed attempts to press delete on this wonky abdomen, I came to love it.

Some lucky women who’ve had the chance to lay on it will testify of its comfortability effect. And my haters will say it looks good on me. Yes, I hear what my haters have to say now. However, no hater has come out yet and told me they hate me, so I’m waiting.

Insane as it sounds, no one believed I was okay with my belly flopping around like a fat pig. For the same reason, I came to find that people recommend others to stop drinking alcohol. They are concerned.

Some people will let go of any control directed toward counting their calories instead of just eating. Others will eat when it suits them. Others will become gym nuts. But in the end, whatever you decide, someone somewhere will be concerned for you. And I believe that is the problem with the whole body shaming human error.

Everyone has a right or wrong metre inside them. That’s how we know we are eating a lot and need to tone it down. That’s how some people I won’t mention, choose surgery to better themselves.

Knowing that, it’s unfair for anyone to be the judge of what the other should be unless they are out of control. Even then, slapping the shit out of them might be a better solution. It’s like Dave Chappelle's situation with transgender people, he might be right, but they will still get offended.

Let everyone choose what’s best for them instead of speaking for them, and in the process, corrupt them into remedying their cases with the wrong goal in mind. It never lasts. It is not even the question of hurting someone with your words, it is merely about what those words might instigate.

Like people on the brink of baldness deciding to shave everything off before it’s too late, I decided there was one last straw to feed off to complete the process of loving myself. I had to turn fat. All strings led there. I had seen my life on the skinny side, but now I had to fully experience what it was like to be on the other side of the fence.

If meticulously analysed, it was what all the people in my life actually told me. They never specified that I get fit, just that I don't be skinny anymore.

Frankly, it might never happen. But I am going to be fat with the sake that your mouths shut up, relax and refrain from the urge to ever ask about my body and its ability to live under major wind breezes. Anything to get you off my back. Because as you often chuckle about, “it doesn’t seem strong enough to carry anything.”

I don’t have the details written up already as to how I will become fat. But how hard can it be? Morning runs towards the supermarket for bread, and afternoons stretches with pizza and burgers. It sounds like I have it figured out.

You might have to wait for a while though. But it’s nothing you can’t do since you’ve accepted me skinny all my life, and well, you haven’t lost hope in a new Rihanna album.

However, and this is very serious, if someone dares to open their mouth on how fat I have become, understand now that I have binge-watched “The Blacklist” so many times, I know how to dissolve a body whilst its owner is still alive.

My point is, you unsatisfied bloodthirsty wankers won't ruin this for me when you’re the ones that wrecked being skinny for me in the first place.

Being fat is probably my second childhood dream after that one sex fantasy with Angelina Jolie. Don’t even ask me about it.

But picture this, a big belly, the tremendous exhaustion whenever I’ll try to walk, the ass so wobbly that every man and woman will crave to spank it anytime I pass by, I mean, who wouldn’t want that? It’s about to be a good life.

Body shaming is overrated. No body size is perfect, except the one whose owner feels good being in and not forced to have. I hope all Rwandans outgrow this and let us be as fat or skinny as we want, just as we will be the ones facing the consequences too.

As Lizzo, the queen of body positivity once said, “It’s bad bitch O’clock!”

I’m the Bad bitch now.