ADEABA

I never thought I’d hate myself this much, my worth flaying and soul petals peeling. I’d always peer into the mirror and feel like a stark reflection of my past. I honestly couldn’t seem to fathom and accept the damage of the bloat to the body and soul, the way it could unravel and knife at stability. When you’re fat; all anybody sees is your flaw of bloatedness. No one sees you for you. You are just a blob in space, a mud-speckled worm, vermin. Nobody wants to engage you for you. You’d be taking yourself out on a treat when all of a sudden, a group of boys would circle around and guffaw. They’d take a strong look at you and spit you out like poison. Other times, they’d see you in your football jersey and sing, “Messi Obolobo^[1]”. Sometimes, when you get to the bookshop and notice your favorite novel on the shelf, some god-forsaken bullshitter would giggle past you. Or smirk. Or wind up muttering, “Fat ass”. Volleyball games at the beach would be triggering when a friend would bellow as he latched onto the ball, “Fatso, come and get it.” Then oh, those weddings and funerals when aunties and uncles would look you up and down, this way and that and poke, “Enti w’ontwe kakraa? Kεseε aa na wobεyε?^[2]” Oh, the woes of the bloat.

Today, I jump out of bed and get ready. It is around 5:00 am and the swollen dawn air is bristling bodies in the comfort of beds. I peer into the mirror. Flabs of skin I desperately want to slash off peer back. I cringe. Swallow quick and hard. Then grab a cake of soap and walk to the public bathroom. I have to make it in early. Don’t want anyone noticing my man boobs. At dawn, no one jumping out of bed would think to care. But in my head, they do. They always do. They never stop yelling that I suck; that the lumped-out buns on my chest hint at femininity cloaked in pseudo-suave air.

Joojo the high-jumper is up already. His angular features stick out in the light as I carry my bucket to an empty stall. I scrub hard, rinse soft and traipse quick to my single room. I have made sure to live alone on campus. Made sure to be alone. In this cold world full of fatphobic bigots, I deserve to shelter myself.

I make sure to pick out a shirt that doesn’t accentuate my man boobs. I wear ugly, loose jeans that make my legs appear proportional to my gut. My car keys jingle in my palms as the cold winds tease my scalp. The porter curtly nods as I walk to my Toyota Corolla and drive off.

I get to see Yemi again, after two painful years of silence. The path to the homeless shelter is steep. But first, I have to get Yemi a hot meal. I stop at Nando’s and give the attendant 2 crisp 50-cedi notes, 70 for the English breakfast, 30 for the tip, as usual. A smile traces her lips as she wraps the omelettes and toast with pineapple juice in a brown paper bag. “Minaanyo, oyiwaladɔŋŋ.^[3]”

Terror still clouds my memory banks. I want to see Yemi but oh, those painful memories. The last time, he scratched a piece of my face off as he lunged at me. Yemi’s hatred for me lingered the day he overheard mum and dad saying I was their favorite. He was broken because he had expected to be their favorite as the baby brother. After all, mum and dad had always showered him with gifts when they were alive. They’d always attended to him like the golden son. When he found out about their preference, the veins on his temples pulsated with full-bloodied envy. “They said I was high maintenance and needed all the help I could get. That all the while, you proved to them that you were the stable and reliable child. That you were their gold. That you would be the worthy heir to their estate. Fuck you Adeaba.” I cried myself to sleep that night when I saw the pure hatred lacing Yemi’s pupils. But I didn’t hold it against him. He was prolly strung out on drugs again, emotions heightened.

The minute I walk into the homeless shelter, rooted to the same spot where Yemi’s sharp nails dug into me and scarred my left cheek two years ago, I am reminded that on the alleyway of life, blood and fat should never mix, that when inner demons and brotherly hate bubbled in a boiling pot, all you got were three witches stirring violently, yelling:

“Here is where love and loss come to ruin

Here is where bleak futures come adawning”

Yemi walks in. His clothes are tattered, skin flaky, body darkened into shadows. He smiles; teeth chapped even further along his gums.

“I got you some food. We didn’t end on a good note the last time I was here.”

“Fucking fatso.”

“We’re brothers! Why are you still talking to me like that?”

“You’re dead to me. Leave me alone.”

“Please, if it’s about the inheritance; you know I can’t. You’re unstable.”

“Wow. After all these years, you come back to tell me what I already know. Fuck you!”

“Yemi!”

“Choke on your good fortune. When you were busy trying out all your concoctions in the name of weight loss, I held the family down. When dad got sick, I held the family down. I emotionally held mum down. I freaking gave you workout advice. But when by some strange loop, I start hanging with the wrong crowd, you suddenly step up. You suddenly remember you’re the first son.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Get the hell –”

“You know I freaking love you. And appreciate all you’ve done for our family. But you have to get better. And not for the inheritance, which I’ll gladly share. But for you.”

“Get the hell out of here!”

“I tried, Yemi. I really tried. I’ll leave the food here, even if you don’t want it.”

A man walks in as I take a second step. He has on a nose mask.  “It’s you. Bastard.” He charges at me, full force.

“Hei, Victor,” Yemi yells.

I narrowly escape his grip. Not Victor, our family friend. Not today!

“He slipped drugs in your drink at your birthday party four years ago. I saw it all but he paid me to keep quiet. No more!” Victor screamed.

“You.” Yemi’s eyes sear into me, vicious.

I pelt away and hear faintly behind me, “Yeah, run away. Freaking coward! I’m coming hard for you. You will pay for this!” 

I reach my Corolla, breath labored; sweat, a full river dunking me in. You don’t understand, Yemi. When you’re the black sheep of the family, you’ll do anything to prove yourself. I was shit when you were gold. I’m so sorry. I fucked up. And I’ve been paying for my sins since.

I sink onto the floor; palms reaching for my face and then wail till I am empty of tears. I came to confess and make true amends. Victor just beat me to it. After all this time, it still works against me – my past, haunting me down and pounding me to smithereens.

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[1] Obolobo – A slur for fat people in Ghana

[2] Won’t you lose weight a bit? Are you going to keep being overweight?

[3] Thank you, friend