Always The Bigger Man...

In an oversized khaki short exposing dusty, scarred knees, I am sat on the third last desk of the middle row in class 5 West. Waist up I'm in a blue sweater covering a sky-blue shirt. The sweater is holed on the elbows, worn out by contact with my wooden desk, necessitated by the constant need to hold up my head to stay awake for each forty-minute lesson. Madam Irene is in class today but I was 'mtu wa mjengo', busy laying brick and mortar for my golden castle in the air. Every new brick sent me further away from class that I failed to realise my blank gaze had been spotted and Teacher Irene was stealthily walking towards me, armed with a hot slap. Pah! "Come back to class!" I'm not sure which my brain registered first, the pain or the words, but I was instantly brought back to reality. 

Lower Primary School felt like being stuck in an unending cycle, I never grasped the necessity to read and understand, cramming was how I passed exams. The cycle begun early morning when the cockerel called, a cold shower followed suit before I doned coloured fabric representing my school. In school, it was class then playing in the turf-less pitch that got soupy when it rained. After work and play, it was time to walk home with my cheeky friends who once led me to the DO's compound to 'borrow' raw mangoes; I was reaching for the fruit when the District Officer drove in, there was no time to climb down, everyone else took off and I was left trying to hide behind leaves. 

"Young man, come down. You are now a criminal and you are going to prison where you belong... pick your belongings and follow me!" a pot-bellied middle-aged officer ordered. 

As I picked my shoes, I couldn't help but feel betrayed. I failed to understand why they boys I called friends, took off only with their bags, carrying mangoes I plucked for them, and leaving my bag and shoes behind. 

"Sir, I'm new in this side of town, those kids lied to me that this was their uncle's home, please forgive me" an attempt to save my skin."Sit down, criminals don't speak to authority while standing. Wait here as I go get handcuffs" He disregarded my bluff as he left me seated on neatly cut paspalum blades. 

Big as I was, I felt small and powerless. I was going to prison; What will I tell mum? A criminal at this age, my future is ruined, a mango thief? No gangster points in that... Then, suddenly the proverbial light bulb moment struck. I analysed the situation; wait, I am technically free. My legs will have to save me from this situation. Fear had made my knees weak but the idea of freedom pumped adrenaline back in them. Still seated on the grass, I turned to face a strategic escape route. My bag and shoes, which I had placed down a metre away from me, had to be picked in one scoop or the mission would fail. Head, shoulders, knees and toes were ready, I sprung up, scooped and sprinted away like a gold medal Olympian. Freedom at last. 

In retrospect, I think the DO knew he had scared me enough and gave me the chance to bolt. In his shoes I'd watch this hilarious act from a window - I bet he had a good laugh, so good that he grabbed his belly. 

I met my friends the next day and narrated part of the ordeal they had missed. They found it amusing and brave, but no one showed remorse for disloyalty. I didn't hold a grudge, I was bigger than that.

Like a sore thumb, I've always stuck out in most social circles of my life. Picture Melman, the giraffe in Madagascar animation movies. I wasn't the tallest or chubbiest kid in school, but being the only one in my class made me the joke. The woke generation was yet to have a voice so body shaming wasn't a thing back then. However, it was never that serious, until someone brought it up during a jibe exchange [mchongoano] and I wouldn't have an immediate come back. The only way I could get them was in exams. I was smart, and that made all the difference; I focused on what I was good at.

At home, my physique was highly utilised, this blessed me with handy life skills. I was married to the plot beside our compound where we farmed. I took care of her in all the seasons and she never let me go hungry. After every harvest, I was her masseur. I would turn her, breaking the big tough chunks of hardened soil into small and softer grains. Then I'd spread her evenly, for enough relaxation before the next season when she'll meet my jembe again, just before I put some seeds in her. 

On the ground things were not so different, my work was equally admired. Although I was a lazy groundsman, who took about a week and a half to slash the compound and trim the fence, my skills with a slasher and hedge sheers were never below average. 

A special mention should go to me dealing with rats in our store room.

The journey to knowing myself begun in campus. It was the first place where size didn't matter and I didn't feel out of place because people from all over the country came in all shapes and sizes. Not looking like a first year was surprisingly advantageous; I remember a goon once tried to snatch my phone, during a Mr and Mrs University contest, but I held on to it and looked him straight in the eyes that he couldn't tell I was a freshman with a fierce facade but trembling inside; another advantage, and probably the most important one of all, was that older girls started checking me out.

In campus I was appreciated for being big, big on my ability to create meaningful friendships, big on telling dry jokes, big on experimenting and venturing, and big enough to cook ugali for about ten people when we gathered for house parties.

At the moment I am grounded by the need to get bigger so I can lead a comfortable life. 

The End.