Girls, stop this twerking nonsense, let's just dance

You notice, like I recently did, that you are fat, when you find a simple and light activity like bathing so strenuous that you sweat — and even take breaks to rest — while at it! One strange aspect about gaining weight is that you hardly notice it.

And if you do, you are always in denial. “At least, I’m not as bulky as so and so,” you always reassure yourself. Meanwhile, friends, especially women, always console you by using cool and nice-sounding phrases like ‘plus-size’ to describe you.

However, folks, let’s get real. Thing is, you need to panic and hit the gym pronto when you discover that all of a sudden; chairs squeak each time you sit in them; you find clapping in church such a Herculean task because getting your hands together is a struggle; you can’t cross your legs while seated anymore; friends no longer complement your tents, sorry, clothes because there is nothing fashionable about them anyway, or you start criticising towel manufacturers, scoffing that they no longer make them as big as they used to (never mind the one you use is as big as a blanket!).

When some of the above pointers begin to manifest themselves, my friend, there is nothing ‘plus size’ about you. Thing is you’re pretty much a fat person. Besides the aforementioned bathing incident, I confirmed the other day that I have grown fat when I went to a house party and embarrassingly discovered I can no longer dance.

My woes began when I paired up with this young girl, in her mid-twenties or thereabouts, complete with a wasp-like waist and a backside I found ‘too much for one man to handle’. I attempted to bust moves but wapi! Because of my weight, it felt like I had two left feet. For a moment all was well, as we slow jammed to mellow and mid-tempo music. However, all hell broke loose when the DJ increased the tempo, and began playing fast-paced genge jams.

When the “Leo tunadandia tu kama mathree...leo tunadandia tu kama mathree...na tuko tu pacho kwani boss iko nene,” chorus rented the air, my companion shot to life, got thrown into delirium and completely messed up my flow. Before I knew it, she began invitingly twerking and recklessly shoving her big backside in my groin. I am lucky I didn’t dislocate my hip joint. The moves were so dangerous that I almost yelled, “Chick, go easy on those nuts. Easy does it! They are delicate and have no spare parts!”

She kept dropping to the ground and, like the proverbial phoenix, rising up, writhing her body and wiggling her chubby bottom, which oscillated so flexibly you would think it were an independent body part. She would momentarily turn back and give me that come-hither look, as if to lure me to go down with her. But because of —damn it! — my weight, I couldn’t risk doing that chini-kwa-chini thing, lest I remained there or collapsed in a heap. Instead, I turned myself into a spectator and a pole of sorts for her to dance against.

“Eish! Kwanini hauendi down na mimi?” she asked, chuckling. “Wewe tingisha tu mpaka chini me nko sawa hapa juu, ukirudi utanipata tu” I whispered, leaving her all giggly. Is this dancing or foreplay? I was tempted to ask. Good Lord, is this what dance has evolved into? I mused. The moves could have been anything, but dancing. 99 percent of the time, she was twerking. Whatever happened to the classy moves of the good old days? I wondered. Since then, I have been very reluctant each time a young woman challenges me to dance.