I was there, in the death trap called a swimming pool. Playing around with my cousins. I knew full well that I couldn’t swim to save my life, even if there had been a crocodile in the water. But the fear of missing out gripped me like leopard print leggings. I just had to partake in the fun. They say sink or swim, but not me, I held on to the pool edges and went around the whole pool.
When I arrived to the deep end, my favourite aunt Noma-Kay decided to crack one of her many jokes. I laughed so hard I let go of the wall. I started sinking faster than non-performing Ministers in Zimbabwe. Reflex said, “Fight the water! Fight for your life!” I struggled. The epitome of futility. I decided I wouldn’t go out with a bang, I stopped struggling and made peace with the Creator. I was dying and I knew it. I could feel the joy continuing all around me hoping they would miss me when I’m gone. Then I felt the wall with my feet. I grabbed it tightly like a free t-shirt at a political rally.
Haven’t been in a swimming pool ever since.
When I was in high school, I had the body that was chiselled by a plastic surgeon. I’d wear my swimming costume and frolic around the pool but when the time for my age group to get into the water I’d disappear like weed around Miley Cyrus. Now, at 25, after reading an article in the INDUNA MAGAZINE, I realised that swimming is a life skill. (Yes, I waited for an article to tell me that.)
But there’s new extenuating circumstances that circumvent this from happening. Firstly, I weigh a whole lot more than 54kgs now and I have like 4-5 different skin tones on my body. Outchea looking like I’m wearing camouflage. The problem areas for NORMAL black girls, you know, the knees, the elbows and the butt. And to top it all off, I have a tummy that’s debatably as big as my butt. To be fair my butt isn’t that big. With all the airbrushed images of all the girls in the media you’d also think twice before stripping into the bare minimum.
So, swimming is officially getting a no from me.